Hero Born

by Andy Livingstone

  Automatically reaching for any sort of weapon, Konall started to crouch, his right hand stretching for the broken shaft. Fortunately, he had been trained well. He never moved his gaze from the beast so, when the bear resumed its enraged momentum with a rapid series of swipes, he was able to stumble back, leaving the piece of spear, until he was out of the creature’s reach and he could regain his balance.

  The previous pattern re-emerged: the bear, now relentlessly pressing forward in fury at the pain the spearpoint had inflicted, swinging its massive paws at its now apparently harmless foe.

  Over and over, Konall swayed and stepped barely out of the bear’s reach, his face a blank mask – surprisingly, filled not so much with intense concentration as a serene calm. After a few long seconds, Brann realised that, this time, there was direction to his movements. Where, before, his focus had been on avoiding the bear’s flailing forelegs to seek an opening for a strike of his own, now he was moving the encounter towards the half-spear that had landed point-first in the snow.

  As Konall neared the broken weapon, Brann admired his efforts, but wondered what use they would be. Even if Konall reached the spear – as he appeared to be achieving, slowly but surely – he would be left with a spear roughly the length of a longsword. To inflict any wound of consequence, he would have to be well within the grasp of the bear: an unsurvivable action. Perhaps, faced with such dire danger, Konall was merely grasping for any weapon as a comfort, as perhaps a means to retreat without being run down. With Konall’s only option to move back to the others to allow the warriors to give him another spear, Brann guessed that the weapon, in its reduced state, would merely be used as a deterrent to allow him to reach help.

  Whether through rage and frustration, or emboldened by his obviously harmless opponent, the bear’s swipes were becoming wilder and larger; Brann felt that a single blow could decapitate Konall like a child flicking a stick at a flower. Surely it was only a matter of time before a misjudgement from the boy would be his last living action.

  But Konall had reached the upright section of spear. He stretched his hand out but, still staring at the bear, he missed the wooden shaft and had to step back from yet another wild swipe of a paw.

  The weapon was now within the edge of his vision, and this time he made no mistake. His hand closed around the shaft and, in one smooth movement, he was upright and armed.

  The bear swung wildly again, not realising yet that its foe was no longer harmless. Before it could adjust to the change, Konall acted.

  A flailing foreleg swung again. Konall slipped under the strike, so close to the bear’s body that its fur must have been almost brushing his face. In a single flowing movement so graceful that it appeared to be in slow motion, although in reality it was over in a blink, he ducked and spun away from the beast to a safe distance once more.

  The bear bellowed, and Brann looked anxiously at Konall. The boy, however, stood stock-still, impassively watching the bear. His hands were empty.

  Brann jerked his gaze back to the bear. The spearshaft was protruding from its chest, a clean strike directly into its heart.

  The huge animal tried to roar once more, but this time it was a hoarse, rasping sound. It fell at Konall’s feet, and lay still.

  The watchers ran from the trees to gather round the two protagonists. Konall swayed, and one of the warriors stepped forward to steady him. A withering glance from the boy stopped him abruptly.

  Konall steadied himself. He knelt beside the bear and drew a long hunting knife from his belt. A few expert cuts, both into the hide and inside the carcass, and he was able to breach in and underneath the ribcage and pull the heart from the beast that, only moments before, had come close to tearing him apart. He cut a chunk from the still-warm heart, and lifted it to his mouth.

  As he chewed it, he slowly wiped his blood-smeared hands across his brow and down his cheeks. In silence, he opened his tunic, and cupping more blood from the heart in the palm of his hand, he smeared it on his chest over his own heart in a design alien to Brann.

  He stood, breathing heavily, and tossed the remainder of the heart into the trees.

  The warriors bowed their heads. The most senior, who had quietened Brann and Gerens the previous night, said simply, ‘Your father will be proud that his son is now a man.’

  Konall nodded to two of the warriors. ‘You two, skin it and take the meat.’ He led the rest of the group to an area of the clearing where they would make camp. ‘Pages and servants, unpack and gather firewood.’

  As they moved to start, Konall pointed to Grakk. ‘Not you,’ he snapped. He gestured to the two remaining warriors. ‘One of you has first sentry duty. Organise the shifts between you. The other, take him,’ he glared at Grakk, ‘and secure him in the trees. The gods only know how he did not alert my bear. He does not deserve our fire, our food or our company tonight.

  ‘Give him bread and water, and a blanket. And he’s lucky to get that.’

  Stunned, Brann looked aghast at Grakk, standing with no show of emotion, waiting to be led away. Why did no one tell Konall that Grakk was innocent, that he deserved the punishment less than anyone? He had tried to catch the falling page, after all.

  Brann looked across at the page, who was a picture of misery. Wracked with guilt, but with fifteen years of upbringing preventing him from questioning a noble’s judgement at a time when it would have been humiliating for Konall to back down, he looked as if he would scream with the dilemma. His conscience appeared to win. He started to blurt an explanation, but one of the warriors who, like Brann, had noticed the internal torture he was suffering, was ready. He ‘accidentally’ bumped into the boy, knocking him headlong into the snow, and silencing him.

  ‘Apologies, youngster,’ he said, picking up the boy and brushing the show from him. ‘A slippy bit of ground, that.’

  Konall returned to the bear to retrieve his half-spear from the ground beside the carcass, where it had been carefully placed by the men working on the animal. They knew it would be as much a prized memento as the skin they were working so hard to strip from the dead creature.

  The warrior beside Brann fetched a length of rope and a blanket and walked over to Grakk. The wiry slave stood calmly and nodded, following the larger man into the trees.

  Brann grabbed Gerens’s arm. ‘What is going on here?’ he hissed. ‘Why are they all going along with something so wrong?’

  Gerens shrugged. ‘I do not know the people, I do not know the country, but I do know that you do not question a nobleman. Especially one who has just stuck a blade between a bear’s ribs from a range of about one inch.’

  Brann was getting more agitated, however. ‘It does not matter, it is not right that Grakk is punished when he is not to blame. Most people could not even have reacted quickly enough to do what he did.’

  The final warrior was stowing his pack with the other supplies before heading for his sentry duty. ‘The servant is right,’ he said, without looking up from the ties he was tightening in case the weather worsened. ‘In this land, especially up here in the mountains, your life can be easily snatched away by man or beast – more easily than you can realise. We must have discipline, within ourselves and as a group. It is the only way to have everyone working in such a way that each is used for the good and safety of the party.

  ‘To question any decision throws all of that in doubt. We cannot afford doubt – it leads to hesitation, hesitation leads to death. Sometimes that is hard on individuals, like now. But it is the way that life is, and the way that my people have survived.’ He nodded towards the trees. ‘He knows that, and he knows it could have been worse. He could have been put to death at a nobleman’s whim, but he was not. He will have a hard night, but he will be brought back in the morning and it will be over. We are a hard people, but mostly we do not bear grudges.’

  He stood up, towering over Brann, and looked directly at him for the first time. ‘It would be wise to remember that you are not in your own country now. You will
learn more, and survive better, if you listen, watch and do not argue. We have got it right for many hundreds of years. Maybe it is different in your land, but you are not there now. This is what works here.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing: I do not know how things are in your home, but here it would be seen as strange to ask advice from a slave. It is not the sort of attention you want to attract.’ He started towards his sentry post.

  Brann coloured. ‘I would not know about that,’ he blurted. ‘We do not have slaves where I come from.’

  The warrior wheeled round, his face hard. ‘Listen, boy,’ he snapped. ‘I am only giving you this advice because, at your age, I was sent away from the only village I had known to learn my craft at Ravensrest. I found it hard, so the gods only know what you are going through, so far from your home.

  ‘But do not ever answer me, or any other man here, like that again. That is the only warning you will get on that score, and you are lucky to get it.’

  Brann paled, and the warrior started away again. ‘And we do not have slaves here either. I just know rank and position, and I know how your actions appeared to others. You are a fool if you do not realise that.’

  Brann sank down onto a pack, his situation crashing down upon him. He felt faint, and close to tears. Talk of his own land had brought back the pain of images of his family and the helpless loneliness of being so far from home in such unfamiliar surroundings. And the talk of slavery, while he was pretending to be a page, reminded him of his own demeaning and terrifying reality. These were all thoughts that he thought he had buried by concentrating on each task that came before him, large or small, second by second and minute by minute, but now it threatened to sweep up and overwhelm him once more.

  Gerens started to attend to a pack that was conveniently behind the visibly trembling Brann. He nudged his friend in the back with his shoulder. ‘He is right,’ he murmured. ‘It is hard, but we have just got to get on with it. And do not worry, there will be plenty of time to mix with the likes of me when we take our boat out for a bit of a row again.’

  Brann found himself smiling, and took a deep breath. He reached behind him and squeezed Gerens’s shoulder in thanks. In spite of all that had been said, he did not care if anyone saw – he knew how much he owed to Gerens and his constantly practical spirit. But no one saw, and he stood and got back to work.

  Camp was set up quickly, and they ate well, thanks to Konall’s triumph. Even without Grakk’s newly discovered culinary expertise, the dinner was superb – it did not require much skill, after all, to roast a steak of bear meat over a fire. Despite feeling guilty at the thought of Grakk tethered to a tree while they feasted, Brann was overpowered by the smell of the cooking meat. He assuaged his conscience by secreting a large chunk of roasted meat for Grakk, and tucked into his own portion.

  After feeding so well on top of the day’s exertions and motions, sleep came quickly and deeply to those clustered around the fire, the silence broken only by the soft crackling of the burning wood and the occasional snore or grunt from the slumbering figures.

  They were wakened by the roaring of the sentry. ‘Defend yourselves! Defend yourselves!’ he cried between bellows of rage and the ringing of weapon on weapon. Disorientated, Brann staggered to his feet, still groggy from sleep and unsure if he was dreaming, and frantically rubbed his eyes to clear them.

  This was no dream. The three warriors who had been sleeping by the fire were already on their feet, weapons to hand, staring into the darkness to spot any attackers. They were moving away from the glowing fire, into the relative safety of the darkness, where their eyes would adjust to the gloom and they would not be such easy targets. They were not quick enough. An arrow whirred from the trees, hammering into the chest of one of them, knocking him from his feet. A guttural cry rasped harshly from the darkness. Presumably it was an order to stop shooting, although Brann was not sure why that would be so. Maybe their foes surrounded the site, and they were worried that an arrow may miss its target and fly through to hit them in the trees in the far side of the clearing.

  Brann did not pause to ponder the point. Terrified, he grabbed a hunting spear and whirled round and back again, not knowing which way to face. The trees offered the obvious cover and the few opportunities they had to hide – but that was where the danger was coming from. And it was coming closer, rapidly. With the chance of surprise now gone, the attackers were making no attempt to remain silent, and were crashing through the undergrowth, howling and bawling their eagerness.

  What must have been the scouts for the attacking party were still battling with the sentry as the main force rampaged closer from all sides. The sentry roared more in rage or frustration than pain or fear, and then the noise of his fight fell silent. Those who had fought him did not appear immediately, preferring to wait the few moments before the rest arrived.

  Brann sensed movement to his left. His heart lurching, he jerked around to face it. It was Konall, who had been sleeping close to him.

  ‘Easy, easy,’ the tall boy said, a nightmarish figure in the glow of the fire with the bear’s blood still smeared across his face. His sword was in his hand, held ready and easily. ‘Stand back-to-back with me, and stick that thing in anyone who appears. Just make sure you pull it out again quickly, or the next one will get you. And try not to soil yourself: it makes the footing a bit tricky.’

  Brann guessed that the last comment was the closest Konall got to humour, and that it was an attempt to calm his nerves. It did not. But, strangely, the feel of Konall’s back against his – even if his shoulders did reach only halfway up the other’s torso – was reassuring, although hearing the attackers approach was still filling him with so much fear that tears were streaming down his face. It had only been a few seconds since they had been awakened, but the time seemed to pass so slowly.

  The three warriors were on the other side of the fire with Gerens and Konall’s page. They had spotted Konall, and were moving around to protect the noble boy. Before they could reach him, however, figures burst from the trees and hurled themselves at the little band. The three warriors formed a loose triangle around the two boys who were with them, and Brann and Konall pushed back against each other as if bracing themselves against the onslaught.

  Most of the howling mob descended upon the group on the other side of the fire, not noticing Brann and Konall, but five or six – it was all too much for Brann to count properly – emerged from the trees beside them and fell upon the pair.

  Konall’s blade flicked out, slicing into one man’s arm, and their attackers fell back slightly, surrounding them and snarling as they sized up their opponents – especially the one with the blood-smeared face. Brann gripped the spearshaft tightly, trying to look as if he knew what he was doing – he knew that any sign of weakness would be seized upon in an instant.

  And, in an instant, it started. Brann realised that his tears had stopped and he was filled with an unexpected calm, taking note of all around and his options and opportunities. It was exactly at that moment that their attackers leapt at them, and his surprise at his demeanour almost allowed them to catch him with his attention slightly distracted. Without a word, but as if some silent command had passed between them, the snickering men around them sprang forwards as one.

  Brann had barely enough time to swat a sword away with a desperate swipe of his spear and stab forward with the point at a screaming man with an axe. It caught him just below his shoulder, not deep enough to seriously incapacitate him, but enough to provoke a bestial squeal of pain.

  The third man facing him had been too cramped by his two companions to attack with his broad, rusty, ragged-edged sword – more like an oversized cleaver than a military weapon, but all the more fearsome for it – and took a step back with the other two. Noticing the space clear in front of him, however, he seized his chance and, blade held high above his head, ready for a swing that he knew would be unstoppable by a mere spear, he charged forward.

  Brann pressed agains
t the strong back of Konall as the other boy twisted and turned in his own battle and pushed back against his larger companion to let him take a sudden step forward himself. His attacker, expecting Brann to fold in terror before his fearsome onslaught, came upon the spearpoint a full yard before he had expected. He ran onto it without a chance to pause and before he even realised it was there. It pierced his rags and pressed on into his chest with such force that Brann was knocked backwards. Before he could lose his balance, he struck Konall’s back.

  ‘Glad to be of service,’ the white-haired boy said dryly over his shoulder as the clanging of metal-on-metal and the occasional cry of pain attested to his own efforts. Brann marvelled at Konall’s calm, but realised as he did so that, from the onset of the action, his nerves had left him. He felt cold and automatic, assured of movement and logical of thought, acting and reacting as if every move were simple and obvious – which they were. At this most basic level of combat, there was no subtlety involved: it was just a matter of knocking away weapons as they came at him and trying to stick the point of his spear into any part of a body that presented itself.

  His victim had grunted once – more in surprise than pain – and fell backwards, freeing the spear just as the other two re-launched themselves at him. Brann steadied himself, expecting them to be more cautious after seeing their companion’s death, but that had only seemed to have enraged them further. Weapons swinging, spittle flying and guttural curses filling the air, they vented their fury at the boy with the spear standing before them.

  The next few moments became a whirl of axe, sword and spear. Unable to duck or dodge in case the blow passed him and hit Konall, Brann fended and struck out with a cold precision, knowing that to let his concentration waver for even an instant from what was in front of him would be fatal. It seemed like an eternity of effort, but it was over in a matter of seconds. By chance, as he tried to deflect an axe swing (if he had met it full on, his spear, even with its thick shaft designed for hunting, would have been shattered) the speartip slipped under the ribs of the axe-wielding bandit. His face contorted in pain and, dropping the axe, he reached with both hands for the spear. The other man glanced across, saw the spear embedded in his companion, and, with a howl of glee, smashed his heavy sword down on the shaft. The wood cracked in two, snapping the point upwards into the chest of his companion, making his already impending death instantaneous.