Hero Born

by Andy Livingstone

  Brann smiled slightly, noticing that over-verbose speech was not just the preserve of Konall. Olvir sniggered, but his amusement was directed at the fact that Konall should be in such black humour. Irritated, Hakon flicked a chicken leg across the table to catch Olvir square on his swollen jaw. Even in country where table manners seemed perfunctory at best, the move caught Olvir by surprise and gave him no time to flinch out of the way. Admirably, Brann had to concede, he made no sound of pain despite the accuracy of the flying drumstick, although his eyes did start to water slightly.

  ‘Something in your eye, Olvir?’ Hakon asked innocently. ‘Or are you, the gods forbid, coming over all emotional all of a sudden?’ He smiled gently, a picture of concern.

  Brann smiled again, and Erlandr could not resist a giggle. Olvir glared at him but, Brann noticed curiously, did not direct any anger towards the boy, despite his lack of size, lesser years and – most importantly – his laughter. As the warlord’s page, Brann thought, the boy must hold a position of sufficient magnitude to make Olvir, even in his current state of ire, think twice about directing any unpleasantries his way.

  Instead, he started to say something extremely rude to Hakon, then remembered that there was a woman present and halted his words. Unsure of how to react, he slammed to his feet and stormed up the stairs.

  Hakon noticed the cook’s disapproving stare. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘But there is a fairly unpleasant history to our relationship.’

  ‘And he is not a very nice boy,’ Erlandr piped up helpfully. The two other pages burst into laughter at the unexpected interjection, and the older woman turned away and busied herself with the sink to hide the smile that may just have crept across her austere features.

  Brann tore off a piece of bread. ‘So, Konall took it well, then?’

  Hakon grinned. ‘If I say that there a few dents in the furniture in his room that I am sure were not there when we arrived, and that it took both of us to extract his sword from a chest that it had inexplicably become embedded in, would you get an idea of the sort of reaction we are talking about?’

  Brann made a show of pondering the image. ‘I do believe I would,’ he confirmed.

  ‘What is the matter with him?’ Erlandr asked, and the older pages remembered that the explanation was not one that should be aired at that time.

  Brann stood. ‘It is a long story, young man. We will tell you, but not tonight. I would, however, be obliged if you would show me where my room is. If I am lucky enough to have a room to myself, that is. Knowing my luck, I will have to share with Olvir.’

  Erlandr jumped up, eager to please. ‘No, you get your own room, although it is not very big.’

  ‘That is not a problem,’ Hakon assured him. ‘Brann is not very big either.’

  The boy led the way and Brann followed, giving Hakon a friendly slap on the back as he passed. The large page raised his hand in acknowledgement without turning from his food. They climbed the stairs to the level they had entered upon, and travelled a short way to the side of the building before finding a further stairway. Erlandr showed him to a corridor a flight up, and then let him past into the passageway.

  ‘Go to the end, there, and your room is the first one once you are around the corner.’

  Brann thanked him and resisted the temptation to ruffle his hair. Weariness started to hit him hard and, as he turned the corner, he at first failed to see the figure loitering in the shadows.

  ‘Quite a hero, are you not, just because Konall took you into the mountains to carry his load?’ Olvir’s malice-ridden voice said. Brann looked at him, startled and annoyed at himself for not noticing the other boy.

  He shrugged. ‘I am no hero,’ he said, wanting merely to end the conversation and go to bed. He turned to his door and reached for the latch. Olvir’s hand swung him round, and he found the boy’s face uncomfortably close to his own.

  ‘I know that,’ he growled at him. ‘But, then, I can see through you. You are not one of us; you could not have survived for two minutes up there without someone to hold your hand. You do not belong here, and I am sick of seeing you around.’

  Brann felt strongly that to show any fear would be a grave mistake – despite the churning in his stomach. Forcing his voice to remain even, he replied, ‘If you do not want to see me, do not look at me. I certainly will not be seeking your company, if that is what you want.’

  A malicious leer came over Olvir’s face. ‘Quite the opposite. I will be looking for you. Because sooner or later, you are going to be somewhere, alone, where an accident can happen to you. And, little boy,’ he grabbed Brann’s chin roughly between his fingers, ‘I will make sure that it happens.’

  Brann slapped the hand away, his anger rising suddenly and overwhelmingly and blazing from his face.

  ‘Why not try it now?’ he snapped. His rage, fierce but strangely cold, rose with every word, giving him an unaccustomed confidence. He started shoving Olvir’s chest with both hands to punctuate his words. ‘I am alone now, am I not? You have your chance. Why not take it? What are you going to do?’

  The larger boy, stumbling back with every push, was startled by the aggression from Brann. He had expected to be met by a fearful boy who would cower before his boorish threats; instead he found not only a complete lack of fear, but almost an eagerness for a fight. Unsettled by the unexpected, he had no idea how to react and merely stared, the bullying hostile expression still flushing his cheeks, down at Brann.

  ‘Are you going to do anything?’ Brann demanded, his voice thick with contempt. He turned his back. He wanted to show that he contemplated absolutely no threat from the other boy, but he knew he was taking a risk and tensed with every step, expecting to feel a thunderous blow from behind. Forcing his walk to be casual, he added, ‘Didn’t think so.’

  As he opened his door, Olvir at last found his voice. ‘I will get you when it suits me, and not when you tell me to,’ he snarled, the statement as much for his own self-belief as for Brann’s information.

  Without turning, Brann replied, ‘Of course. Whatever you say,’ and flicked the door shut behind him. He rested his back against the wood and took several long breaths to try to calm himself as Olvir audibly retreated up the corridor with much cursing and stamping. During the exchange, he had felt strangely calm and assured, his senses heightened and his urge to respond eager. Now that it was over, however, he had started to shake and was nervously restless. Eyes staring and cheeks burning, he felt an urge to run and yell to relieve the tension, but had to content himself with pacing furiously around the small room, stopping frequently to pummel his bed.

  Feeling a little foolish, he forced himself to lie on the thin mattress rather than assault it. In the absence of physical movement, his mind raced, deceiving him into thinking he felt wide awake. Sleep was able to creep up on him unnoticed, and took him by surprise.

  He woke the next morning feeling as if he had not rested at all. Despite besting Olvir the previous evening, he felt nervous at the thought of coming face-to-face with the abrasive boy and was relieved to meet Hakon as he hurried down the stairs to the kitchen.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ the tall boy asked cheerfully. ‘You look as tense as a pig in a butcher’s shop. Anything wrong?’

  Where do I start? Brann thought ironically, but he shook his head and merely said, ‘I just slept badly last night.’ He knew that, if he told Hakon of the encounter with Olvir, Konall’s page would immediately accost the other boy, making it appear that Brann preferred him to fight his battles for him and destroying any impression Brann had made the night before.

  Olvir was already at the table as the pair entered the kitchen and fixed them with a malevolent glower that managed to darken still further when Hakon tossed a cheery greeting his way. Brann was thankful for his friend’s presence, which ensured that he was not the sole target of Olvir’s attention as he breakfasted.

  There was more bustle about the kitchen at this time of day than there had been on Br
ann’s previous visit and plenty of young kitchen maids to cast, in equal measure, appraising glances and giggles towards the visiting pages, albeit restricted by the intimidating glare of the cook. They had barely begun to eat, however, before Erlandr shot in, excited to be bearing news. The lords expected to be locked in discussions for at least all of the day, he informed them with the importance of one in the know, and what was to be said was for their ears only. The result, he said delightedly, was that the pages were relieved of any duties.

  Brann raised his eyebrows and looked at Hakon. ‘Not that I am complaining, but do pages in this land have much to do at all?’

  ‘Have no fear, newcomer,’ Hakon reassured him. ‘We are not involved as much when they are discussing things, only when they are putting their decisions into practice. And, believe me, there will be plenty of errands and tasks for you then.’ He grinned. ‘You will not be bored.’

  Brann’s foreign accent had caused no end of interest among the young maids – a fact that had not gone unnoticed by the cook. ‘You pages will certainly not be hanging around this kitchen, bored or otherwise,’ she proclaimed. ‘We have enough to do without tripping over redundant pages while we are at it.’

  ‘Then we shall trouble you no more, kind mistress of all things cookery,’ Hakon declared grandly, performing an exaggerated and sweeping bow. ‘You have treated us royally and we will take our leave, taking with us, if we may, a small reminder of your culinary magnificence.’ Scooping up a handful of bread and cheese, he flashed his most winning smile her way. As startled by the unexpected response as Olvir had been by Brann’s the night before, the buxom cook was struck by the same reaction: speechlessness. Hakon bowed again and strode from the room. Brann, nodding his thanks to the kitchen in general, grabbed a random selection of berries and hurried after him, closely tailed by Erlandr.

  The trio headed into the town and began exploring the streets. Brann, already feeling unsettled as his morning’s malaise persisted, grew more withdrawn and morose as the time passed. Erlandr, conversely, revelled in his role as local expert and, excited at mixing with older boys whom he was clearly beginning to hero-worship, became more garrulous as he scampered around them. Shortly before mid-day, his exuberance grew too much for Brann’s darkening mood and he made an excuse and left Hakon with the young guide. With no money to spend – Einarr had either felt that supplying his ‘page’ with finances was a step too far in the deception or had merely forgotten about such matters – he was glad that he had followed Hakon’s example in bringing food from the breakfast spread. He sat on the edge of a stone water trough and took out the berries, absently gazing on the passers-by as he picked at them.

  At first, watching the local people going about their business served to slightly alleviate the boredom; shortly, however, it began to feed his sense of belonging to another, very distant, culture. His melancholy grew and, his appetite diminishing, he wrapped up the remainder of his lunch in the small cloth he had brought with it. His restlessness growing as his despair deepened, he began to wander the streets, noticing little about him and furiously fighting an overwhelming urge to weep.

  Hours later, the gloom of dusk having fallen, the small figure, lit only by the lamp outside a dockside tavern, was found by Hakon sitting on a broken crate alongside a creaking rope that led out towards the darker shape of Einarr’s ship. Indeed, Hakon would have missed the silent boy, unaware of his presence among the clutter left by sailors and dockers, had it not been for the small, flickering brand that Brann was nursing intently. So intently that he jumped violently when Hakon said, ‘There you are, troublemaker. You have caused quite a stir with your disappearing act.’ Brann looked up sharply. ‘Calm down – only among the pages. Their lordships are still locked in their mighty discussions.’

  Brann shrugged. His voice flat, he said. ‘I felt like some time on my own. And were we not told that the day was ours to do with as we wished?’

  If Hakon was shocked by his tone, so different from the Brann he was accustomed to, he showed no sign other than a concerned narrowing of his eyes. He offered no comment on it, merely pulling over a crate to seat himself beside the boy.

  He sighed, and said, ‘Well, we all need time to ourselves now and again, do we not? But you will understand that we were a little concerned: a young boy, on his first day in a new place, goes missing. And, most worryingly in your case, he misses dinner.’

  The burning brand being twisted slowly in Brann’s hand revealed that his comment had not drawn even a flicker of a smile. There was no reaction at all, as Brann stared at the flame before him, his eyes flitting occasionally to the rope securing the boat while his free hand played with a repaired tear near the hem of his heavy black cloak.

  Choosing his words carefully, Hakon said slowly and evenly, ‘That torch gives off a welcome heat. Fairly takes the edge off the evening chill, does it not?’

  There was still no answer, but he at least had Brann’s attention as the smaller boy’s gaze turned briefly towards him.

  ‘You would need to be careful, though,’ Hakon continued, his tone casual. ‘A stray spark, or even a slip of the hand, and that tarred rope could be alight before you know it.’

  This time Brann did not look up, but he did speak, in the same, low, bleak voice as before. ‘It might.’

  ‘Which would be a grave danger for all on board,’ Hakon said, as if it were nothing more than an idle observation.

  Brann stared at the dark shape of the ship. ‘There is only one person on board, on watch, and if he could not get off in time in the event of a fire, he would not be paying proper attention to his duty.’

  Hakon shrugged. ‘Still, it would be a shame to see a ship such as this destroyed.’

  Brann slowly turned a cold stare upon him. ‘Would it? Would it be a shame?’

  Hakon gazed at the boat, as if oblivious to Brann’s bleak stare, and said casually, ‘Of course it would. It is a finely crafted vessel, and I am sure it sails well. And, most of all, it would be a pity for all those who are far from home who would be stranded without a means of return.’ He turned to lock eyes with Brann. ‘It would be tragedy for those for whom this ship is the only link back to their families, their friends,’ he said in a steady, even voice. ‘It would be a great shame for such as those, would it not, Brann?’

  Brann’s eyes changed. Where they had been cold, bleak and distant, a look of pleading now filled them, a show of confusion and despair that he was unable to disguise or restrain. Tears welled up with force, and he began to tremble. He had the torch in a tight, double-handed grip and Hakon moved smoothly to take hold of his wrists, ostensibly in calming reassurance – but also to steady the flaming brand as it shook uncomfortably close to the rope.

  ‘I know,’ he said, his voice soothing. ‘I understand.’

  Brann swallowed hard. ‘Help me, Hakon,’ he begged, his ragged stuttering contrasting with Hakon’s measured tones. ‘I cannot let go of it. Take it from me.’

  Slowly, Hakon took hold of the shaft of the torch. It was not without some effort that he managed to ease it free of Brann’s fingers but, once he had done so, he casually tossed it into the water where, with a brief hiss, the danger was extinguished.

  Brann put his head in his hands, his fingers grasping his hair. His shoulders jerked spasmodically as he was wracked by silent sobs. Without any awkwardness, Hakon moved to put an arm around his shoulders and, for a few long moments, they sat, an unlikely pair locked in silence.

  Brann gathered his shuddering breath. ‘What do you know, Hakon? What do you understand? Do you know that I saw my brother, born less than a year before me and with me every day of my life, murdered for no reason when we were as close as you and I are now? Do you know that, one minute we were laughing together and the next a crossbow bolt hammered into his head, and he was gone? Do you understand what it feels like to turn from that horror and watch your family cut down and burned in their own home? Do you understand what it is like to be dragged from eve
rything you have known, with no warning, no goodbyes, nothing but the knowledge that you are helpless to change any of it?’ With the breaching of Brann’s barriers, his anguish poured forth in a torrent. ‘Do you know what it is like to be bullied, to be humiliated, to be attacked by a berserk madman, to be brought to the other side of the sea where home is so far away that it seems like a dream, only to face those screaming sub-humans in the mountains when the worst adversary you have had before is another boy in a stupid game with a bundle of rags? Do you know what it is like to have to pretend that you are something you are not, when you are really locked in a reality that you hate and fear?’ He turned and gripped the larger boy’s arms fiercely, his voice rising almost to a ragged shout. ‘Do you know, Hakon? Do you know I am a slave?’

  He stood and stared down into the still water, his breath hissing between clenched teeth and tears smearing across his face. Appearing stunned as much by the passion as by the content of Brann’s outburst, Hakon looked at the anguished figure at the dock’s edge.

  ‘I had guessed the last part, though it wasn’t my place to question the circumstances,’ he said quietly. ‘The rest, I must admit, comes largely as a shock, although it explains much.’

  Brann turned to face him. ‘How long have you known?’ His voice was hoarse, almost a whisper.

  Hakon smiled gently. ‘I first suspected only during this conversation, no earlier than that. No one else knows.’

  Konall’s voice from behind caused them both to jump. ‘Although that is a miracle considering the volume at which you chose to announce it.’

  ‘Oh, by the gods, I am dead,’ Brann gasped. ‘If Sigurr and Ragnarr do not execute me for deceiving them, Einarr will have my head for revealing it.’

  Konall’s eyebrows twitched conspiratorially. ‘Only if I tell them. And why would I? I have suspected it for some time, and have said nothing before.’