Power is all. Power: ever born of knowledge and influence. The right knowledge, and the right influence, and seldom the brand of each that was visible to the many. Knowledge and influence – when combined by one with the ken to use them, in the right way, at the right time – bred power.
They had knelt to him once.
They would again.
****
Dusk was draining the light from the day when, after what seemed like a lifetime of running, the citadel came into sight. Brann stumbled up to the landward gate and stood unsteadily as Konall spoke in low tones to the warrior in charge of the guard. A runner had already been sent to alert Lord Ragnarr, and Konall was issuing further instructions that Loku should not be allowed to leave.
The warrior was in an uncomfortable quandary. ‘He is the ambassador of a warlord, sir. I do not have the authority to detain him without Lord Ragnarr’s express order.’
‘Then do not detain him,’ Konall snapped. ‘Delay him. Be inventive: tell him the gates have been closed because bandits are raiding nearby, tell him that my father has an urgent message for him before he sets off; I don’t care, just stop him.’ He glanced over at the swaying, white-faced Brann. ‘And see to the boy.’
As if that had been a signal, Brann’s eyes rolled upwards and he slumped into the arms of an approaching, and surprised, guard.
He woke – or, rather, was wakened – at dawn for the second time in two days. He had a vague recollection of having been roused from his exhausted slumber at some point the previous evening to have soup of a forgotten flavour administered by that nice girl from the kitchens. He wondered if it had been a dream rather than a memory, but the discovery of dried remnants of the food staining one corner of his mouth confirmed not only that it had been real, but also the flavour: vegetable. The information seemed trivial as memories of the previous day’s horrors surged back over him, but Konall interrupted his thoughts with another rough shake of his shoulder.
‘Hurry,’ he said, his tone as urgent as the command. ‘We do not have much time.’
Brann swung his legs around to sit up. ‘Time for what? What are you talking about?’
Konall tossed over a light undershirt, tunic, breeches and a thick pair of socks. All seemed hardy, and of good quality, and all were of a pale grey hue.
‘It is the best colour for concealment when you hunt among snow and rocks in these mountains,’ Konall said, noticing Brann’s quizzical look, although his tone exposed his irritation at having to explain such a basic fact. ‘Clothe yourself quickly – they will serve you better than those you had.’ He pointed to the foot of the bed. ‘There are boots, also.’ Brann looked and, predictably, found them to be the same shade of grey. ‘I took your own ones to the store as a guide, so these should be a good fit.’
Brann began to suspect that there was intrigue as well as haste involved here – even in his sleep-befuddled state, he had noticed that Konall had taken the boots to the store himself rather than have a servant do so, and the only reason he could envisage for this was that the boy had not wanted anyone else to know what he was up to… whatever that was. His urge to stop and ask what was happening was over-ridden by the natural authority in the young noble’s voice, and he was almost dressed before his curiosity became too much to resist.
Konall merely handed him the boots and said, ‘We do not have time to waste chatting in this room, and I cannot tell you in the corridors in case we draw attention to ourselves. I will explain once we are on our way.’
The instant that Brann finished pulling on his boots, Konall opened the door and peered up and down the corridor.
‘There will be only the occasional servant about at this time,’ he murmured. ‘But if we meet anyone of consequence, I am taking you to the market at setting-up time so we can be undisturbed as you get yourself new clothes to replace these that I have lent you.’
Brann grinned. ‘Which also explains why we are dressed identically,’ he suggested.
‘Exactly,’ Konall agreed solemnly. Brann groaned inwardly. When was he going to encounter someone cheerful? Between Konall and Gerens, he had barely been treated to a ghost of a smile, let alone anything more open. But, at the memory of Gerens’s predicament, his own spirits darkened also, and his grin faded.
As it was, they encountered no one who would have started a conversation with the lord’s son, either in the corridors or on the streets of the town. They reached the gate by which they had entered the previous night where a guard nodded to Konall at their approach and fetched a pair of bundles from the gatehouse, handing one to each of them.
Following Konall’s lead, Brann unwrapped his to find a pack and a belt bearing a sword, a long knife and two shorter knives. The short knives were ideal for throwing if one had the skill to do so rather than, as in Brann’s case, if one had only watched such activity as a side-show at the travelling fairs that occasionally visited Millhaven.
He hefted the sword, feeling its weight, and looked questioningly at Konall. ‘Considering I have never used one of these before, would a light one not have been more suitable?’
Without pausing as he strapped on his accoutrements, the tall boy shook his head. ‘If you have not used one before, a slightly heavier one is easier for you to do some damage with, especially against those with the minimal abilities that we witnessed yesterday. You need a degree of skill to be dangerous with a light blade. Having seen you with the spear, I thought a heavier one would be better for you.’
Brann ignored the barb; it wasn’t meant as an insult, merely a considered statement of fact. He weighed the sword in his hand again. ‘Slightly heavier?’
Konall shrugged. ‘Among my people, yes.’
Brann grunted. ‘If I swing it at someone, I will have to make sure I hit them to get it to stop moving.’
He buckled on the belt and, lifting the pack onto his back, he adjusted the straps to let it sit comfortably. An upbringing helping his father lift sacks in the mill had given him strong shoulders and legs, a foundation that had been built upon by his recent intensive rowing, so the weight of the burden presented him with no real problems. He looked up to find Konall holding a bow and a broad quiver with a flap tied down over the top to protect the arrows as they travelled.
‘Do you know how to use one of these?’ Konall asked. ‘There’s no point in taking one if you do not.’
Brann smiled broadly. ‘This, I can use. Where I come from, we hunt smaller, faster prey than boar and bears: more rabbits, deer and suchlike. They may not do you as much harm, but they do not let you get close enough to stick a spear in them, so this,’ he took the bow, ‘is the best option. I am no expert, but I can hit a few.’
‘If you can hit a rabbit, you can hit a man.’ Konall looped the quiver over Brann’s head, ensuring it sat neatly alongside the pack, and used straps on the side of the pack itself to secure the unstrung bow. ‘There are three strings in a pouch on the quiver.’ He slapped Brann on his laden back with enough force to make him take a step forward. ‘Let’s go.’
He slung on his own quiver – he had strapped on his bow before donning his pack – nodded to the guard to open the gate and, without further comment, started towards the foothills.
In the stronghold above, Ragnarr burst, unannounced and cheerful, into Einarr’s room. ‘Good morning, nephew! Come, breakfast awaits. We have much to do in the wake of Loku’s departure and Konall’s news. I feel much better when we have action to take and would value discussing our next move with you.’
Einarr was standing at the window, surveying the snow-gilded plain stretching away from the town. ‘It seems that your son and my page have already decided their next move.’
The hulking lord moved to the window with a speed that belied his size. He saw the two figures, indistinct in their grey garb, heading steadily for the hills. ‘The fools! Thanks be to the gods that you noticed them. There is still time enough for riders to bring them back.’ He wheeled around and headed for the door.
‘Uncle.’ Einarr’s voice stopped him. ‘You may wish to consider letting them go.’
‘Are you mad, boy?’ Ragnarr thundered. ‘Why in this or any other world would I do that?’
Einarr shrugged. ‘Because they are the only ones to have faced those madmen, so they are not heading off under any illusions – they have made their decision despite the truth. Because they feel guilt, and they have a debt to repay. Because we all eventually reach an age where we have to, and are able to, respond to our sense of duty. Your son killed his bear yesterday and became a man, and just because he was not able to enjoy the celebrations that there should have been, it does not mean that he cannot start making a man’s decisions.’
He turned to face his uncle and stared straight into his eyes. ‘And, most of all, because you, now or at Konall’s age, would have done exactly the same thing.’
Ragnarr stared at the distant figures. ‘That’s what I am scared of. The boy is smarter than me – takes after his mother that way. He should know better than to blunder off on a fool’s mission that will more likely than not end in his death.’
Einarr smiled. ‘He also takes after you, uncle,’ he said softly. ‘He knows the right thing to do, and he must do it, or he could not hold his head high as a man. And we both know that if we want a life where death does not ever confront us, we would have to move to a land I have not discovered yet. And, if he has half of your ability to deal with unsavoury characters, I would not bet against seeing him again before long. If he is to lead your people when you are gone, he must be the sort of man who would do exactly what he is now doing – and the sort of man who would survive it.’
‘If he doesn’t survive it, I’ll kill him!’ Ragnarr snorted in laughter thick with nerves. ‘Don’t mind me, Einarr. When you are a parent, you’ll understand.’
Einarr became very still. For a long moment, he seemed not to breathe. Only a hand moved – up to his face to briefly trail his fingertips along the line of his scar. Before his uncle turned round, he sucked in air abruptly as if to drag in strength along with it. ‘Regardless, politics may make this decision for us. Where Bekan’s ambassador is concerned, it may have awkward consequences if the warlord’s brother becomes involved. However, two young boys…’
Again Ragnarr grunted. ‘Damn you, you make sense, I suppose. At least he has a friend with him.’
His nephew looked at him, his eyes wide with surprise. ‘Brann? His friend?’
‘Believe me. This is the closest Konall has got to anyone. He has always had a strong sense of duty towards the position he will one day inherit. He is diligent to the point of obsession with every aspect, from weapons training and fitness, to languages and letters. He is better educated than I would be if I lived twice, but I am not so blind as to ignore his character. I believe the kind expression is “aloof”. He does not suffer others of his age easily; he finds them frivolous. The good of Ravensrest is his only consideration. That does not leave much room for friends. And his bluntness of speech – his rudeness, if you will – does not exactly invite friends, either.’
He grinned mischievously. ‘Mind you, it reminds me of another noble youth, and you did not turn out too badly.’
Einarr’s expression darkened. ‘Pray he does not turn out like me.’
‘Well, he has one advantage over you.’ Ragnarr’s grin grew more malicious in its glee. ‘Better a friend, than a girl. Far less trouble.’ He nudged Einarr roughly. ‘What do you think about that, nephew?’ he bellowed with laughter.
Einarr’s expression turned even darker for a few moments before his uncle’s infectious good humour overwhelmed him.
Enveloping the younger man in an inescapable bear hug, the huge lord led him from the room. ‘Come. Let us leave the heroic quests to idealistic youngsters. We will plan like grown men: over a hearty breakfast.’ Still with his arm around his nephew, he growled, ‘But I will still be increasing the patrols in that general area.’
He glanced down at Einarr. ‘Do not worry, not close enough to alert the people they are after. It is a small gesture, but I am a father. I have to do something, after all. Their fate may be their fate, but there is nothing to stop me trying to weight it slightly in his favour.’
Einarr smiled. In a country where life was harsh and men – and, for that matter, women – were routinely expected to make decisions and follow the consequences to their conclusion without presuming upon others, it was more than a small gesture. Nonetheless, he was glad of it – for both boys’ sake.
Below them, and now approaching the foothills, the boys’ thoughts were also turning to food. Brann had settled into a comfortable stride: with the need for speed not so frantic this time, Konall had set a more manageable pace. At his suggestion, Konall consented to produce a small amount of bread and cheese.
‘We will eat while we walk,’ the tall boy said flatly. ‘There is no point in wasting time just because we are not going at the pace we descended.’
Brann looked dubiously at his meagre portion. ‘I know we have to ration ourselves, but…’
Konall did not even turn around. ‘Eat more if you want to be sick and find yourself dragging along a heavy stomach. If you want to keep your strength up and be able to handle the pace, eat a little, often. We have enough to last us, trust me.’
Brann glared at his laden back, but he understood the logic of Konall’s words. In these circumstances, he would have to trust to the boy’s greater knowledge.
As the terrain steepened, Konall refused to slacken the pace, but Brann found that, by settling into a steady rhythm, the initial weariness left his legs and he was able to stay with Konall’s now familiar long lope. The sky was clear, however, and, as the sun reached higher, the heat grew and their exertions negated the slight chill in the air in the foothills. They stopped for lunch in the shade of a large rock, mostly silent as they caught their breath apart from Konall’s urging to start moving again to avoid any stiffening in the muscles of their tired legs.
It was not until they stopped to make camp for the evening that any sort of conservation was possible. Konall had chosen a spot at the foot of an outcrop of rocks, where the small cliff-face formed a corner, allowing them to shelter. The angle it formed afforded cover from the wind that periodically blew and meant that the ground, with the snow cover sparse there, was bare and dry. And, Brann thought, remembering the previous day, it was far more desirable than an open clearing.
He started to collect firewood, but Konall stopped him. ‘No fire tonight. The cloaks are warm enough, and none of the food needs cooking. It is a different game hunting men than bears, and we will not be giving them any help at all this time.’
Brann shrugged and dropped the sticks in a pile. He paused as he started to walk back to the rockface, then picked up the wood once more and scattered it back among the trees. Konall watched silently, a flicker of a smile twitching the corner of his mouth. When Brann returned, the noble boy made sure that he was busy unpacking food from his pack, ostensibly having noticed nothing.
Konall handed him bread and dried meat, and sat a water flask between them.
‘I thought a good warrior would tend to his weapons first, and then eat,’ Brann said, more with curiosity than criticism or sarcasm.
Konall chewed on the meat. ‘Only in stories. My weapons were fine this morning, and have never been used since. I will check them tonight but, more importantly, there is no use having sparkling weapons if you are too weak from hunger to use them.’ He reached for the water. ‘Anyway, for your information, a good warrior is more than just his weapons: he must take care of himself as well – diet, cleanliness, fitness, strength, ability. These are more important than the tools you use. You can break a sword and pick up another. Swapping your paunch for someone else’s flat belly is not so possible.’
Brann took the flask from him and bowed his head in mock humility. ‘I stand corrected. Or, at least, I slump corrected.’
A slight narrowing of Konall’s eyes indicated
that, on some level, the humour appealed to him. Brann counted that as a major advance.
They ate in silence for a while before Brann broached the obvious subject, one that had bothered him from the start, but which breathlessness as they travelled had prevented him from bringing up until now.
‘So, it is clear where we are going, but why? When we left the scene of the attack, you were quite happy to leave the others to their fate. Especially when two of them, as slaves, were of little consequence to you. What is so different now?’
Konall stared hard at the ground between his feet, as if struggling to find the words to explain his thoughts and feelings. It struck Brann as he watched him that there was no ‘as if’ about it: it was an unusual – or unknown – experience for Konall to have to do so, even to himself.
Brann had resigned himself so much to receiving no explanation that he jumped when Konall did speak. ‘I was not happy about leaving them. But in my position, my happiness is not a luxury I have when considering my options. And if I had the choice again, of course I would do the same thing.’ He sighed, and picked absently at a stone caught in the sole of his boot. ‘But several things formed my decision for this. The first was hearing that Loku had left before we arrived.’
Brann started. ‘But the guard at the gate thought he was still there.’
Konall nodded. ‘As far as he knew, that was correct. But the snake had left by boat that afternoon. Which gives us one advantage – on foot, going directly, we have a chance of beating him to their lair, if we can find it in time. He will travel along the coast a distance under the pretence of his stated mission to my uncle’s court, then he will put ashore secretly to visit his vermin comrades.’ He spat and rubbed the small damp patch on the ground with the toe of his boot.
Brann started to take off his own boots to ease his aching feet, but Konall stopped him. ‘Keep them on. On this sort of journey, you must always be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. So boots stay on, weapons are always within reach, and if you open your pack to take anything out, you fasten it back up immediately. And, if what you took out was not for eating, you replace it as soon as you have used it.’
Hero Born Page 23