Hero Born

by Andy Livingstone

  As they were about to discover, the sharp corners of the trail also appeared to mask sound, even from a close stretch of path. Perhaps it was the scuff of footsteps echoing softly from the opposite wall; perhaps it was some sort of sixth sense for danger: even Konall did not know or, at that moment, care. His arm shot out to halt Brann as they were about to round a right-hand corner, and the pair froze, arrows nocked to bowstrings, straining every sense for an indication of others present.

  Hearing nothing more, they had to resort to eyesight. Konall crept to the corner and eased his head around. Brann heard his companion’s breathing quicken and watched as he, equally slowly, moved his head back. Brann’s initial thought was that he would have darted his head around the corner and back to minimise the time he would be visible to anyone on the other side but, watching Konall’s method, he realised that a sudden movement like that would be more likely to attract attention.

  If I live long enough, I could learn quite a lot about not dying, he thought with half a smile.

  Konall’s hand signals brought him back to serious reality, and he chided himself for losing concentration. The older boy indicated that there were seven bandits, and gestured to Brann to move his head closer. ‘They are on a long stretch with only one boulder on it, which they are about to pass, and there is no other cover,’ he whispered urgently. They both, simultaneously, glanced back down the path. There was no cover for them either; nowhere to go.

  ‘I know,’ whispered Brann. ‘We have to take them on.’

  Konall nodded but, to Brann’s surprise, there was no glee about him, just business-like efficiency. ‘We will take as many as we can with the bows. We will step out and let fly – with luck, the surprise should let us get most of them. If the survivors come at us, or go to ground, we finish it with swords. If they run, we go after them, and if we could use the bows, it would involve the least running and greater chance of success.

  ‘Whatever happens, none must survive. If even one gets away, we are dead.’

  They finished their preparations, which were not many – mainly ridding themselves of cumbersome packs and cloaks, and settling quivers and swordbelts securely on themselves.

  Konall glanced down at Brann. ‘Ready?’ Brann nodded, trying to hide – from himself as well as from Konall – his almost paralysing nerves. ‘In a few moments, they will be in range. We will give it a few moments more; we do not want them too close, but we do not want them on the edge of where we can reach in case any of them make a break away from us. When I nod, step around the corner. I will go first, so you will not have so far to go. Aim for the chest – they have no armour, and it is the biggest target. And start at the right and work your way towards the centre. I will do the same, from the left, which will reduce the chances of us going for the same target.’

  He fell silent. Brann grew even more nervous – something he had not thought possible – and wished he could just turn and run away from it all. Then, all too soon, Konall nodded and, without a pause to draw breath, stepped calmly around the corner and several paces across the path.

  Brann followed, less assuredly but there all the same. He had drawn three arrows from his quiver: one was already being drawn back to his cheek while the other two were held in his left hand, along the length of the bow in the manner Konall had told him not to adopt earlier. This time, however, he knew what he was about.

  He loosed his first arrow at almost the same instant as Konall did but, as the taller boy reached in a smooth practised movement for another from his quiver, a flick of Brann’s fingers swivelled one of the two arrows into position and he let fly just before his first arrow struck home. He barely registered that it had, like Konall’s first shaft, struck resoundingly into the centre of a bandit’s chest, flipping him backwards before he had even registered that danger was present. Brann’s second arrow speared into a bandit’s stomach just after he had loosed his third and, as he reached to his quiver for another shaft, he had a fraction of a moment to glance across to see how they were faring. His third target was struck also, the arrow slicing through the man’s arm and into the side of his chest as he turned to draw his weapon.

  Konall was working with fluid rapidity, but was aiming more deliberately and had been slower than Brann to obtain arrows for each shot. His accuracy was astounding and devastating, however. He would stare down the long shaft, eyes narrowed, breathe out softly and let fly – and in each case, his target was down with a shaft protruding from the exact centre of his chest. His third victim was put down in the same way, just as Brann struck home with his fourth arrow at the final man, at the back of the group.

  He knew, however, that this shot was not as true. He had taken more time over his aim and was annoyed at himself, for he knew that whenever he had time to think about a shot, he was never as accurate. So it proved on this occasion.

  The bandit had started running backwards and to the side, aiming for the cover of the boulder Konall had mentioned, unslinging a heavy crossbow as he moved. By chance, Brann’s slightly skewed shot hit him as he lurched in that direction, but it was anything but a successful kill, striking him in the calf, and, by a strange chance, passing by half its length through that leg and embedding itself in his other. With a savage roar, he fell sideways as his legs were flipped out from beneath him, and he crashed to the ground and lay writhing, trying in vain to separate his legs.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s going nowhere,’ Konall said evenly, dropping his bow and racing forward, his sword appearing in his right hand and his knife in his left. Brann followed suit, but drawing only the knife – the sword seemed too cumbersome under the circumstances.

  Konall reached the bodies, and started cutting their throats methodically and coldly with his knife, whether they appeared dead or, in the case of the man hit in the stomach by Brann, heading there.

  As he did so, the man that Brann had hit in the legs roared in a mixture of pain and fury and slammed his hand down on the shaft restraining him, snapping the wood. He leapt to his feet and, a bizarre apparition with lengths of arrow protruding from both calves, he moved with scarcely believable speed back up the path.

  Konall reached for an arrow but realised at the same time as Brann that they had left their bows back at their original position. Brann grabbed one of the short knives from his belt and, trying to remember the style used by the showmen in the fairs that had visited his village, gripped it by the blade and hurled it spinning after the fleeing man. Never a natural thrower, he was amazed to see it strike the man on the back of his head… with the hilt. The man fell to his knees, dazed, and Konall was on him in an instant to finish the job with his knife.

  The older boy handed Brann’s knife back to him. ‘Novel approach, opting to stun him,’ he observed, his face a deadpan mask.

  Brann took the blade and slotted it back into its sheath with brisk efficiency. ‘I thought I had caused enough mess,’ he said haughtily, and turned back to the corpse-strewn path. He knew that they would have to retrieve any arrows that were still serviceable because of their limited supply. But knowledge of the fact did not make it any less distasteful. Konall saw his expression.

  ‘It is never easy the first few times. Just pretend that they are animals and you are just out hunting,’ he said. ‘I brought arrows with no barbs – they do not cause as much harm, but at least you do not have to push them all the way through to get them back out. We may have to retrieve them in a hurry at some point.’

  Brann felt the same and, taking a deep breath to keep down the nausea, he managed to pull out two of his arrows intact. The man he had hit in the stomach had fallen forward, breaking the shaft, and his final arrow had, of course, been snapped by the bandit whose legs it had pierced.

  He followed Konall’s example of wiping the gore from the arrows, and returned them to his quiver. All three of Konall’s arrows were fine for re-use: his pinpoint accuracy had knocked each man flat onto his back, killing him outright, so the shafts were standing, indicating their pr
esence like small flagpoles, waiting to be retrieved.

  Grunting with the effort, Konall started rolling corpses to the lip of the ravine and tipping them over the edge. Brann did likewise, and was surprised at how heavy a dead body could be.

  As he reached the edge, Konall – breathless also from the effort – said, ‘Make sure you are not caught on any part of his clothing or equipment. If the body starts dragging you over the edge, you will be gone before you realise it.’ Brann did not need to peer into the ravine to remind himself of the danger. He checked three full times that nothing on the dead bandit was snagging on his clothes. And then a fourth time, just to make sure. Still, when he rolled the man over the edge, his stomach lurched with nerves until the man disappeared without taking him on the journey as well.

  The second man was easier to manage – mentally, if not physically – but the third swept away his self-control in an instant. The man – the one that Brann had hit in the stomach – was slumped forward, almost on all fours. When Brann started to roll him onto his back, his head lolled back and the wound that Konall had sliced across his throat gaped wide. Brann vomited violently. Twice.

  Konall leapt across and dragged him upright. ‘Take deep breaths and get yourself under control,’ he commanded sharply, holding Brann steady.

  Brann gulped and forced himself not to retch again. He gasped, ‘Apologies for the mess. The vomit will be a tell-tale sign.’

  Konall made sure that he could stand without swaying and started heaving at the corpse that was the problem. ‘I am not concerned about the mess you have made. We have enough blood to clear up anyway – a touch of puke on top of that is nothing. I just do not want you weakening yourself. If you throw up any more, you will not have enough strength to walk far, never mind fight if need be.’ He started rolling the corpse towards the precipice. ‘Walk around to clear your head. I will see to this one, and the only other one left is the one I was about to push over the edge when you interrupted us.’

  Brann did as he was told, happy to let Konall finish the gruesome task. The tall noble boy walked over to him carrying a typically grubby tunic. ‘You do not want to know what the body underneath it was like,’ he said in disgust. ‘Hygiene does not seem to be a great factor among them if this one was anything to go by. Perhaps we should just leave them all alone and let them die of one disease or another.’

  He started to sweep as much of the mess – including Brann’s lunch – over the edge. He then used a dry portion of the tunic to brush what little dirt and dust was available over the bloodstains, and scuffed the patches with his boots so that they did not look too unnaturally tidy. Brann was impressed by his attention to detail, but one thing was still nagging at him.

  ‘Should we not have gone through their clothes to see if there would be anything of use to us?’

  Konall shook his head. ‘Their weapons could hardly be described as quality in any way, and as for their food, I would not eat any of it if you held a knife to my throat. Would you?’

  ‘Point taken.’

  Konall surveyed his work. ‘It will have to suffice. It is still visible, but we have to hope that the low level of intelligence these scumbags seem to possess and a few days of weathering will mean that, if any more of them pass this way, they will not notice. In any case, we do not have time to do any more.’

  They returned to the corner to collect their packs, cloaks and bows. Konall replaced the string on his bow with the spare one.

  Brann said, ‘Is that good military practice, or have you damaged the one you were using?’

  Konall had finished the task already. ‘Neither. Just personal preference. I feel that, if I alternate the strings every time I use the bow, they will last longer as a result.’

  It made sense to Brann. He nodded, and replaced his string also. It took only a few seconds and they were soon on their way again. This time, however, they each kept an arrow nocked to their bowstrings, ready to draw in an instant. Before rounding any corner, in particular, they were much more cautious than they had been. Aware, however, that the longer they were on this trail, the more likely they were to come across other groups of bandits, they increased the pace between corners or on stretches where they could see well ahead.

  It was on one of these stretches, as they scuttled along, that Brann asked, ‘Do you think that was a patrol that we came across?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, if it was, then we have a chance of getting past this area before another patrol is due to come along. If, on the other hand, this is in general just a route used by random, ordinary bands of lunatic bandits, we are much more likely to come across more of them.’

  Konall glanced over, approval in his expression. ‘A good point. Also, if they were a patrol, they may be expected to be out for a while, and will not be missed for several days at least – which would be good.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I think they were a patrol. They were all male, and – to judge from the one that tried to get away – fanatical, and they carried very little apart from weapons and food, so I can think of little else that they would be doing other than patrolling. Unless they were a raiding party, which would give us even more time before they were due back.’

  ‘In any case,’ Brann suggested, ‘I think we should keep moving as fast as we can.’

  Konall nodded his agreement, realising that they had slowed as they talked, and they resumed their stop–start progress.

  As they rounded a right-hand corner in their usual fashion – with Konall easing his head around to check the safety of the next stretch, and Brann waiting with bow half-drawn in case anyone appeared unexpectedly as he did so – Konall stopped.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I have never been so glad to see the end of a path in my life.’

  Both sides of the ravine came together around half-a-mile ahead, where a towering but slender waterfall fell gracefully, sparkling in the sunshine like a glistening silver pillar. Unnoticed by the pair, the top of the cliff above them had been gradually dropping lower, and in the last stretch it took a steeper dip to meet the lower level of the land beyond the ravine. The path was visible for the rest of its length, curving lazily in a long sweep from right to left, and rising in its last third to exit the ravine to the right of the waterfall. It was empty. For the time being.

  The two boys looked at each other as if to check the other’s thoughts, returned their arrows that they had been holding ready to their quivers, and broke into a run. Brann grinned with exhilaration, and Konall’s eyes narrowed and one corner of his mouth turned slightly – which equated to much the same thing.

  Brann stared at the end of the path, willing it closer and expecting, at any moment, to see figures appear from the area beyond. Much to his relief, they made it unaccosted. The thundering of the falling water as it landed too far below to ponder, was too loud to allow conversation, and they continued their run into the edge of a wooded area, where they slid, feet first, and lay breathing heavily as they recovered in the shade of the trees. The tension of the last few hours flowed from Brann with each breath, and he suspected Konall felt the same – although he expected that his companion would never admit it.

  He rolled onto his stomach to look out over the countryside they had entered. It was the most beautiful area they had come across in their journey so far.

  A river flowed gently through a shallow green valley that undulated further than he could see. Where the river was funnelled to slip over the edge into the waterfall, it broadened into what was almost a small lake, its glassy surface providing a near-perfect mirror for the bold green and blue of the hillsides and sky beyond it. On their side of the river, woodland covered the valley floor and stretched up and over the hillsides bounding it whereas, on the far side – whether by accident or human design – trees were sparse, being dotted here and there, singly or in groups of no more than three or four. Also on that side, a wide dirt track, more a road of sorts, had been worn into the grass by frequent use. Shortly befo
re the river widened, it split: one fork heading beyond that side of the ravine and the other leading over the most basic bridge that Brann had ever seen – uneven planks fastened together and resting on thick posts driven into the riverbed.

  ‘It is so beautiful. How can it be, such green life so high in the mountains?’

  Konall had raised himself onto his elbows ‘You’re right, it is,’ he said softly. ‘I have heard of areas like this. Inside these mountains, there once was heat. Maybe still is, but it doesn’t spill out now the way the legends say it did. But some remains, in the form of hot springs, like rivers and streams and pools under the ground. Sometimes they reach the surface, and sometimes, like here, they must run close enough under the surface that they fool the ground into thinking it is not high on a mountain.’ He grunted. ‘But we did not come up here to admire the view like a couple of lovers. Unless you are trying to tell me something, that is.’

  ‘Well, now that you mention it,’ Brann grinned, ‘you do have lovely hair.’

  The look Konall gave was not one of adoration.

  However, as they rose to leave, Konall turned to Brann. ‘You did well with the bow back there.’

  Brann shrugged off the compliment, but was quietly as pleased as he was surprised at hearing it. ‘You mean the thing with holding the arrows?’ Konall nodded. ‘It is just a trick I developed with someone at home.’ He paused, catching his breath as he remembered the trips with Callan into the woods, an image from another, idyllic life that seemed so far away it was almost as if it had been experienced by someone else. He forced himself to carry on, using a comparatively mundane explanation to stave off the emotion that threatened to swamp him. ‘It is handy when hunting small, fast animals that it may take several shots to hit, or if you want to try to hit a few targets before they bolt.’

  Konall regarded him evenly. ‘It was more than just a trick. It is one thing shooting fast – it is another hitting the target. The only time you were wayward was when you took time over aiming.’