Hero Born

by Andy Livingstone

  The fjord was narrower than the one that had led to Ravensrest – it had been more of a wide bay, whereas here, the sides of the cliff were sheer, shining almost blindingly in the sun. Their size, when added to the glassy flatness of the water and the deep blue of the cloudless sky, created a profound stillness that was almost overpowering. Another feeling began to overwhelm him. The size of the cliffs on either side, their proximity and their almost vertical gradient gave a sense of height and – more uncomfortably – of depth, a sensation increased by the dark stillness of the water. He had, he reminded himself, travelled over much greater depths of water when he crossed the sea than there was beneath him here, but that logic made no difference. His stomach churned and his legs felt weak. He moved to the side to grip the rail tightly – it felt better (slightly) to do something physical.

  The Captain moved beside him. ‘You feel the depth of the water? Do not worry: you are not the first, and you will not be the last. It cannot be explained, it just happens to some people.’ He paused. ‘I usually find it helps to look ahead, not up or down, much as you would do on a narrow mountain pass.’

  Brann looked up in surprise. ‘You feel it, too?’

  Einarr nodded. ‘Not as much now as when I was a child, but I have had many years since to become used to it. And I had to hide it more as it was around here that I learned to sail in a small boat. It would not have been the done thing for the warlord’s son to show fear on the water in a nation of sailors.’ He glanced up. ‘If looking ahead does not work, try taking your mind off it with other things: look up, but not at the face of the cliffs. Look instead at their top, at the shapes they make against the sky – anything to make your mind wander. It is unlikely that you will ever be a helmsman or a lookout, so you have the advantage that you can do such things.’

  Brann tried to take his advice, and soon found that something did catch his attention: small figures dotted here and there along the line where the rock walls met the sky. He was about to alert the Captain, when he noticed some of them waving down, with some of those on Sigurr’s boat returning the greeting. His panic eased: if he had not felt so tense, he would have realised sooner that they were only sentries, rather than seeing danger at every turn.

  The warriors on the cliffs were too distant to make out any details, but he was able to discern, on two occasions where the path became narrower, large catapults with what appeared to be – what must be – piles of boulders alongside them, ready for use. Any enemy vessel trying to reach Sigurr’s stronghold would have a hard – if not impossible – task.

  He had been so engrossed in looking up that he had failed to notice that, on rounding the last bend, they had brought their goal in sight.

  He was surprised. He had expected the capital of the warlord’s domain to be a spectacle of sprawling grandeur – a carpet of buildings of imposing design littered with cloud-touching towers and proud banners. Instead, it was merely a larger version of Ravensrest, except that, where Ragnarr’s town had a docking area for ships and boats, with a steep path leading through itself, the fact that here the land rose in a shallower gradient and over a broader area meant that the buildings could extend right to the water’s edge. The cliffs that had towered over them so imposingly during their passage up the fjord had, unnoticed by Brann, decreased slightly in height so that it was not too far inland before the ground rising from the dock area reached the level of the cliff tops. The town – for, disappointingly, Brann could not bring himself to describe it as a city, no matter how much he exercised his imagination – seemed to extend beyond this point, but how far into what he could only guess was a more level plateau was invisible from sea level. What he could make out, however, was that the town and, more importantly, the fortifications, extended back for a distance along the top of the cliffs on either side, like a dragon’s armoured wings folded back alongside its body for protection. Obviously, Brann thought, it was imperative that no enemy should gain control of the cliff tops overlooking the town, from which they could, unthreatened, rain missiles upon the buildings below. Otherwise, it was built to the same design as Ravensrest, with the architecture and street plan making it a murderous place for any enemy to enter – and therefore making control of the cliff tops an even more significant factor.

  Sigurr’s boat had already come to rest against its allotted jetty, and Einarr made sure the helmsman had seen the signal from a warrior on the shore to indicate a berth for them. The ship glided towards the shore and the order was given for a single backstroke to slow their advance to perfection; it was an extremely difficult operation for so many rowers to co-ordinate, but they made it look calmly efficient. He had not even realised it existed as an order, and smiled slightly as he imagined Grakk and his experienced counterparts in the front benches having to school their young companions in an instant as to what was expected of them.

  His amusement was interrupted by the Captain. ‘There it is, boy,’ he murmured, his voice a mixture of pride and excitement – or, at least, as much excitement as Brann had ever heard in him. ‘Yngvarrsharn. In the old tongue of our people, it means “the Anchorage of Yngvarr”, who was my ancestor who discovered this place, and who became the first warlord of this area. It is also known to some as “the Lair of the Wolf”, after my family’s emblem.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose it sounds a bit silly to foreigners but my people always did enjoy their tendency towards the dramatic. Anyway, it is the oldest settlement in this part of the coast, although it has changed greatly since its early days as little more than a harbour, an inn and a hall, as you can see.’ He glanced up at the cliffs. ‘Whoever holds the advantage of the cliff tops, controls the harbour.’ He smiled. ‘There is a story that Yngvarr hurled a boulder from the edge of that cliff, just there,’ he pointed to a part of the cliff top that jutted out just slightly, ‘and crashed it clean through an approaching ship, from deck to hull. The boulder came to rest far down on the seabed – as did the ship and all aboard her, very soon afterwards. It is said that no unwelcome ship has ever tried to enter this harbour since.’

  Brann was not sure what impressed him more: the ability to hurl a boulder at all, or the accuracy to hit a ship, no matter how big, from such a height. ‘Is it true, the story?’ he said in wonder.

  Einarr smiled. ‘Who knows? I would certainly like it to be. In any case, this is still a particularly dangerous place to invade from the sea, although these days we do not throw the rocks ourselves.’

  Remembering the catapults that he had noticed earlier, Brann nodded and turned his attention back to the town ahead of them – or, rather, to the side of them as, with a soft bump that was testament to the skill of those the Captain had entrusted with the approach, the boat came to rest alongside a stone jetty. Einarr leapt ashore with barely concealed eagerness, and Brann scrambled to keep up, moving far less confidently in negotiating the small, but varying, gap between the boat and shore. He landed in an ungainly heap and picked himself up quickly, hoping – without much expectation – that it had passed unnoticed. Muted chuckles from within the ship told him that his lack of expectation had been well founded.

  Feeling the blush burning his cheeks, he hurried after Einarr. He risked a quick glance at the ship as he ran alongside its length, and was greeted by a selection of grinning faces from the rowing bench. He smiled back sheepishly. At least they were amused, rather than mocking. They seemed, in general, to bear him no ill will for his double identity; it was almost as if they were willing on one of their own to succeed. This seemed to calm his nerves, which surprised him, considering he knew only a few of their number – perhaps he was beginning to feel as if he was representing them, which meant in turn that he was, after a matter of weeks, coming to think of himself as belonging among them. He was not sure that was a good thing but, if it helped him get through whatever lay ahead of him in as near to a sane state as he could manage, then he would seize upon it for now.

  His ship having arrived ahead of the Blue Dragon, Sigurr was already, with his pa
rty, well ahead of them and Einarr was striding out in a walk that was only a fraction slower than an ignoble run, in an attempt to gain some ground on them before they reached the warlord’s hall. The shorter-legged Brann was relieved that the lesser standing of a page allowed him to break into a trot, as he would have been unable to keep up otherwise.

  They reached Sigurr’s home and climbed to the main doors. The building had been constructed to exactly the same design as Ragnarr’s, but bigger, to accommodate the greater number of people who would visit, work and live in the place. Or, rather, Brann mused as he climbed the steps up the front of the mound, considering the age of this settlement, it was more likely that Ravensrest’s hall had been built to the same design as this one, but on a smaller scale.

  It is amazing the pointless things you think about when you are tired, he thought. Einarr glanced at him and, perceptive as ever, said, ‘You look exhausted. Just make one last effort to keep going for the short time that you will be needed before this day is over. It will not be long until dinner, which will probably be formal, worse luck.’

  Brann glanced up in alarm. ‘I do not know what to do at dinner. Do I stand behind you and serve you? How will I know the etiquette?’

  Einarr slowed slightly, to allow himself to speak before they reached the guards at the top of the steps. ‘Do not panic, boy,’ he said quickly. ‘We are not as grand as that here. On the odd occasion that we require our pages to be functional and actually get some use out of them, it is only where practicality necessitates it, nothing more. We are perfectly capable of feeding ourselves – too capable sometimes, if you look at my uncle’s belly. You will be dismissed for dinner and, while we have the “pleasure”,’ his tone indicated that he anticipated it being anything but, ‘of dining formally, you will retire to the kitchen as you did at Ragnarr’s hall.’ A slight smile played at one corner of his mouth. ‘You never know, you may even find another nice kitchen maid to run after you.’

  Even if Brann could have overcome his embarrassment enough to reply, he would have had no chance – Einarr had timed his teasing to coincide with their arrival at the doors. Deliberately, Brann was sure.

  The guards at the entrance, each as huge as Brann had come to expect, astonishingly managed to show no sign of surprise at the sight of their lord’s son striding purposefully towards them, despite his ten-year absence. Instead, they merely nodded respectfully and opened the doors for them, showing no sign of any opinion on whether his return boded well or ill for their lord and his people. Einarr nodded his thanks and, without slackening his pace, strode into the building. Brann noticed his face – it was set determinedly firm, betraying none of the myriad of emotions that must be churning within.

  The layout inside appeared, from what little he could see, to follow the pattern set by the exterior: similar to the stronghold at Ravensrest, but bigger, with more corridors leading away from them and a greater sense of space around them. Either the designers of these buildings had little imagination or, more probably, Brann thought, they had evolved a practical and effective format.

  Before he had any further opportunity to ponder the matter, they entered Sigurr’s great hall. Its layout, as expected, was much the same as that of Ragnarr, but there was more evidence of history: ancient banners hung high on the walls, some so faded that their designs were virtually indiscernible. Those that were evident were mostly emblems relating to the wolf, a symbol that had endured through what seemed to be centuries of rule here, though its appearance varied from era to era. Other banners were emblazoned with a range of creatures, some real and some mythical, and were invariably spattered with, presumably, the long-dried blood of those from whose hands they had been prised. They could only be spoils of war, Brann guessed – and some looked uncomfortably fresh and bright. On the other hand, he mused, perhaps it was actually comforting: they were evidence that he was among people accustomed to winning. Scattered around the walls, between or below the banners, were a variety of weapons. None of these looked remotely recent, all had seen some intense and hefty use, and most were either in more than one piece or were missing part of themselves. It was difficult to tell if these were more trophies from vanquished enemies, but he had the feeling – and he did not know why – that they were instead relics of great heroes who had once graced these halls, each of whom had spawned fantastic sagas passed with reverence from each generation to the next. Whatever the true reason for the display, Brann decided that he liked the latter one best and, till proved otherwise, that was what he would stick with. He wondered if any of the men in this room would ever be remembered by their sword or axe in all its battered glory, hanging upon these walls.

  He returned his attention to those men in question – and caught his breath. A broadly built, but not fat, man with oiled, midnight-black hair slicked back to hang to his thick neck, and wearing heavy, ornate clothes, stood talking to Sigurr. He was partially turned away from Brann but he glanced around constantly as he talked, never looking in any direction for more than a moment and seldom at the object of his words, and something about the inestimable craft and calculating guile in those eyes told Brann that he was looking at Loku. His breathing quickened and he felt his senses heighten at finding himself in the presence of the man, and he quickly glanced at Konall, half expecting to see him launch himself, sword and teeth bared, at the object of such intense hatred.

  His expectation seemed to be not far from the truth. Konall’s face was an impassive mask of neutrality, and he stood with a perfect air of nonchalant calm – but it was too perfect a pose to be natural, as confirmed by the fire in his eyes, the exaggerated line of his jaw caused by his tightly clenched teeth, and the white knuckles gripping his sword hilt as he strove, almost successfully, to stop his hand from shaking. It was not immediately obvious to a casual onlooker, but to those who knew him well – including one who had spent several days in his company in the mountains – the signals were clear: Konall, through force of character and a lifetime of training, was managing to control his fury for the sake of duty, but he was only a breath away from crossing a disastrous line.

  Einarr had noticed, too, and from behind Loku managed to catch his father’s eye. Sigurr recognised the danger and, taking Loku’s elbow, steered him around to face Einarr – and away from Konall. ‘You will not have met my son, will you, Loku?’ he said smoothly. ‘I will introduce you but, first, I suggest we allow the pages to retire. It is many hours since they last slept or, indeed, ate and I expect they could do with both. My nephew, also, has had a busy few days recently and deserves some respite from the boring matters to which we must attend, so I will excuse him also until the morrow. Thank you, Konall,’ he said pointedly to the youth.

  Loku inclined his head in their general direction and Brann once again felt the impression of danger from the man. Fortunately, Konall’s stiff bow towards his uncle coincided with Loku’s cursory glance in their direction, masking the boy’s expression from what Brann assumed would be extremely perceptive eyes. The ambassador would have been unable to miss the change in the demeanour of the haughty, emotionally reserved boy that he knew from his visits to Ravensrest.

  Konall stalked from the room and Brann rushed to follow the pages who were slipping away rather more discreetly than the noble boy ahead of them. He stormed up a flight of stairs, presumably towards his quarters, while Erlandr led the way to the kitchens. The boy was still nervous in the presence of the older pages but, being back on home territory, he had gained a little more confidence and was able to use the fact that none of the others had visited Yngvarrsharn before to allow manners to give him a reason to talk – something he had not, as far as Brann knew, managed in the few days prior to this. He politely directed the little party to the kitchen area, which was around three times the size of the facility at Ravensrest. The familiar look made Brann think of Valdis with a sharp pang, a feeling that was reinforced when her brother clapped a large hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I will pop up and see if the
young lord needs anything,’ he murmured. ‘Keep some food for me,’ he added with a grin, pointing to the table that was laden in anticipation of their arrival. ‘I know how you foreigners enjoy your feasting.’ He looked over at the large, foreboding cook waiting at the far side of the table and, undeterred, told her, ‘Do not be put off by his size, madam. I have seen him put away the best part of a cow.’ He excused himself and left the cook staring at Brann with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion that Hakon may not have been entirely serious. Brann contented himself with mumbling awkwardly that one should not believe all that one hears, but that the fare before him looked wonderful nonetheless, and sat quietly beside the others.

  They were, indeed, both tired and hungry as Sigurr had indicated, and the result was that they concentrated on eating rather than talking. With his dining companions being the quiet Erlandr and the surly Olvir, Brann had not expected sparkling conversation, but the silence was heavy nonetheless and made Brann, normally fairly shy himself with strangers until he got to know them, even more self-conscious about saying anything. He concentrated instead on tackling the food before him, and soon found himself attacking it with such gusto the cook was in danger of believing Hakon’s frivolous assertions. He became so absorbed in eating – partly through hunger and partly to take his mind off the overbearing lack of speech – that the time passed quickly and he was surprised enough to visibly jump (as did the others, he was glad to see) when Hakon came bounding back into the room.

  ‘Well, that was fun,’ he greeted them. ‘Now, where is my dinner?’

  Brann moved slightly along the bench to give him room to sit down. ‘How was he?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a happy boy,’ Hakon grunted. ‘Put it this way: I have seen drunks in a less aggressive mood after being sent home early from the inn for being too full of mead and fighting talk, and then arriving home to find their wife with another man.’