Brann hesitated – it had been one thing reacting instinctively as survival instincts took over as had happened with Boar or in the mountains – it was another prospect entirely to cold-bloodedly try to stick a blade into another person with conscious forethought.
But the man taking an enormous back-swing, however, meant that Brann’s hesitation was only momentary. Galvanised into action by the prospect of Hakon’s death – and with the memory of Callan still burning painfully in his mind – he screamed, ‘Not again!’ and thrust the short sword into the man’s unguarded side. The man arched his back in pain and his agonised bellow roared above the din of ringing metal, shouts and grunts that already filled the room.
Brann’s blow stopped the huge man’s arm in mid-swing but, to the boy’s horror, it did not kill him. Moreover, with his rage over-riding the pain, it did not seem to incapacitate him, either, as he swung round to face Brann.
An initial lurch of discomfort and fear at being the object of attention fell away as the man viciously swung the club at him. An almost abstract calmness slipped over him, leaving him conscious only of each second as it passed and seeing everything before him with an unusual clarity.
He jumped backwards rather than ducking under the swing, and then blessed his luck as he saw that the club had been aimed at his torso for a blow that would have crushed his ribs – had he ducked, it would have caught his head instead. His heel brushed against the wall and he knew that the backwards option was no longer open to him. The massive man saw this also, and began a back-handed swipe with a maniacal look of glee. As the swing started, Brann crouched, and in the same movement, dived headlong to the right of his attacker. The force of the man’s swing through fresh air turned him side on and Brann landed behind his massive legs. He slashed Konall’s knife across the back of the man’s knees and, as the hamstrung man’s legs gave way, Brann rolled to his feet and swung his body, arm and sword in one movement to slam the edge of the blade into the man’s throat, almost decapitating him.
Breathing so heavily that it almost drowned out the din in the room, he turned to see Hakon kill the man before him with a hammer-blow of a cut with his sword. In the seconds that the conflict had taken so far, Konall had managed to wound both of the men before him, one seriously and the other with merely a gash on his left arm. As Hakon moved to engage the latter, Konall was able to deftly finish off the already dying man before him but, as he was turning to the other brute to help Hakon, there was a sudden movement from the other side of the table. Konall cried in pain as a throwing knife embedded itself in his left arm, close to the top. Had he not been in the act of turning, it would have struck him in the back, probably squarely between the shoulderblades.
Brann grabbed a stool and hurled it at the moustached man as he drew back his arm for another cast. The throw, clumsy as it was, managed to clatter the heavy wooden stool into the man’s chest, knocking him back a few steps and, more importantly, causing him to drop the knife. Hakon’s adversary saw a glimmer of a chance in the confusion and hurled himself at the two tall boys – only to embed himself on two sword-points as both youths thrust simultaneously.
From either side of the table, each trio faced the other, the air laden with tension and the only noise the heavy breathing of the boys and the slow scrape as the moustached criminal abandoned his dropped knife and drew his sword – a short-bladed one similar to that inherited by Brann.
It was eerie, the pause. The sudden change from raucous madness to silence left Brann edgy, his heart still pumping wildly but with no physical outlet for his twitching muscles and mind.
Loku spoke. ‘So, what now, boys?’ he said, the sound of a voice strange in the fraught atmosphere. ‘It is clear now that there are no men outside – not that it was ever believable, as what warriors would let a lord enter such a room with only two boys to help? You have just killed four men.’ He exuded sarcasm. ‘Oh, well done. They were little better than base criminals who had fulfilled their usefulness. At least you have saved me the cost of their pay. The only one of them with brains made sure he stayed on this side of the table until you had tired yourselves out. For, let us face it, that is what you have done: you are fatigued, you are wounded,’ he nodded at the knife still protruding from Konall’s shoulder, ‘and you are facing three fresh men. So, I ask you again: what now, boys?’
Balki hefted his sword as if eager to be in action. ‘I will tell you what happens now, Loku. Now we start what will be finished by the ambush: I will take great pleasure in personally starting the eradication of the ruling family with its youngest member.’ He glanced at the two men beside him. ‘Do you hear that? The pup is mine.’
‘Pity,’ the lean, moustached man smirked. ‘I like to finish what I start. But, in this case, I will make an exception, in deference to my future warlord. It should not take us long, anyhow.’
Balki, barely able to contain his eagerness, stepped forward, his sword twitching. ‘You go on upstairs to your man on the roof, Loku,’ he growled. ‘We will take care of this.’
In contrast, Konall was deadly still. His eyes never left those of Balki. He pointed his sword down and rammed it, point-first, into the earthen floor so that it stood, quivering.
His gaze still fixed on Balki, he reached across with his right hand and grasped the knife protruding from his shoulder. Slowly, and deliberately, he pulled the blade, bit by agonising bit, from his flesh. Brann winced, almost feeling the pain himself, but Konall’s gaze never flickered.
He laid the knife in his hand. ‘Normally I would finish what someone else has started with me, but this time I, too, will make an exception.’ The tone of the conversation contrasted dramatically from one side of the table to the other: sneering disdain from the traitors was met by the deep-rooted fury and menace of Konall. The young noble continued, his voice quiet and cold. ‘The traitor will have his wish to face the pup. Hakon,’ he tossed the knife sideways and his page plucked it from the air adeptly, ‘stick this in that scumbag for me, will you?’
‘With the greatest of pleasure,’ Hakon grinned as Konall, in one movement, snatched his sword and, hooking his boot over the table, slammed it upside down, leaving no barrier between the groups.
Sword swinging, Balki charged with an eager roar at Konall who met him head on but swung his impetus to the side, clearing the way between Brann and the door at the far side through which Loku was rapidly disappearing.
‘Get after him, Brann,’ he grunted, deflecting Balki’s murderous swings. ‘Do what you can to stop him until we can catch up to help you.’
Brann obeyed, still astonished at his companions’ casual approach in prelude to the current mêlée. He darted to the doorway, wondering if he would ever see the other two alive again, and realised that he would most likely have to stop Loku – and whoever else was on the roof – alone.
How he would attempt that, he had no idea, but he concentrated for now on following Loku as fast as he could: at all costs, he could not let the signal be issued to the hiding mountain men. He guessed that he need not worry about rushing headlong into an attack by the scheming ambassador as he climbed the steep, winding stairs that led from the basement room – as far as Loku knew, all three boys were tied up in combat downstairs, and his main consideration would be to issue the signal as a matter of urgency.
He could hear Loku’s heavy, expensive boots pounding the wooden stairs ahead of him… and getting rapidly closer. By contrast, his own lighter body weight and softer footwear ensured that his progress was not only quieter in itself but was also masked by the louder noise of Loku’s footsteps.
He realised that this was not a good thing after all. He seemed unlikely to reach Loku before he gained the roof and, if Loku was unaware that there was anyone closing in on him, there would be no reason for him to check his progress. The stairway straightened in its final stretch before reaching a door – presumably onto the roof area – and Brann’s assessment was proved correct: Loku was already too-thirds of the way up the
flight and there was no way he could catch him before he reached the door.
In desperation, Brann yelled, ‘Loku! I have got you now!’ Whether it was convincing or not, he would never know, but Loku’s surprise at someone being behind him caused him to turn to assess the danger.
He had lost his momentum. Brann, who had continued his rush up the stairs, managed to scramble the remaining distance between them. Realising he still had Konall’s knife in his left hand he reversed the blade and, with a flailing lunge, dived forward and stabbed it down into the top of Loku’s foot. The man screamed and slashed down wildly with his sword, but the stairway was narrow, confining his swing, and Brann managed to rear back and avoid the blade as it splintered the wood inches in front of him.
Loku, in a violent rage, began to rain blows down on top of him. Thankful that his short sword was not too long to fit sideways across the passage, all that Brann could do was to desperately ward off the blows as he was forced back down the stairs.
He almost stumbled as he reached a small square landing at the foot of the straight stretch of stairs before the rest of the steps coiled back down towards the lower levels. With a blood-curdling screech, Loku launched himself at him from the bottom of the stairway. Brann threw himself to one side to avoid the wild blow and crashed through a door that he had not even realised was there. A middle-aged woman, obviously accustomed to hearing men in dispute outside her door but not to sword-swinging maniacs bursting through it and into her room, sat up in bed, screaming wildly.
Brann had no time to pay her any more attention as Loku came at him without hesitation. The man was experienced where Brann knew nothing; he was broad, powerful and supple where Brann was undersized and weaker; but he was limping heavily and the wound in his foot was seriously affecting his mobility, giving Brann a slight advantage. He knew he should be trying to devise a strategy to exploit Loku’s wound, but it was all happening so fast it was all he could do to dodge the man’s blows.
He was tiring fast, and he knew he would have to close with the man and offer something with his own blade, otherwise it would be a mere matter of time before Loku managed to land a blow. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward instead of back, throwing himself into it before he had time to think – or to hesitate.
The move caught Loku by surprise and, as Brann slashed his sword up and across towards his jaw, he had to fling his own weapon up to deflect the blow, the uncultured and instinctive move upsetting the ordered movements of a man used to sparring with seasoned warriors who fought to a set routine born of years of training. Loku’s parry saved him from death, but the force of the meeting of the two blades sliced the edge of his own sword into his cheek, opening up a long gash from temple to jaw – and jarred Brann’s sword from his own grasp, sending the weapon spinning over Loku’s head towards the door.
In triumph, with one side of his face a terrifying, bloody mask, Loku cried with glee and swept his sword down and across towards the side of Brann’s neck. In fright, Brann dropped to one knee under the swipe – and stabbed Konall’s long knife as hard as he could into the side of Loku’s thigh.
With both legs wounded, the man fell to the floor, but the movement pulled the knife from Brann’s hand. He lurched the few yards to retrieve his sword but, as he reached it in the doorway, Loku threw open the shutters on the window and began to yell to the man on the roof. Brann knew that, even if he re-engaged Loku, the ambassador could continue to shout as they fought. The boy’s priorities had changed: he must reach the man above and stop him, and in his current state, Loku would be unable to catch him. He grabbed his sword and ran up the stairs. As he reached the door at the top, he snatched at the latch – and felt a sharp pain across the left side of his wrist. A throwing knife clattered into the door in front of him. As he jerked in pain, his sword fell from his slippery grasp and slid down the steep stairs behind him. He ignored Loku’s cry of triumph and, grabbing the knife from the step in front of him, thanking the gods that it had struck side-on rather than with the point of edge of the blade, he put his shoulder to the door, half-falling onto the roof.
A scruffy man with a longbow was slouched beside a glowing brazier. Relief swept over Brann as he realised that Loku’s cries from the window had not been heard on the rooftop and had not set off the signal… yet.
Loku’s voice roared up the stairs as the man leapt to his feet at Brann’s surprising appearance. ‘The signal! Give the signal, man!’
The man grabbed an arrow and thrust its tip into the brazier. A rag on the end immediately caught fire and, in a fluid movement, he nocked the arrow to the bowstring. As he drew back the bow, Brann instinctively and desperately flung the knife. It hammered, purely by chance, point-first into the centre of the man’s chest. He arched backwards but, as he fell, his fingers – dead or dying – loosed the arrow. Blazing brightly in the darkness, it soared high into the night sky. Brann sank to his knees with a moan of despair. He had failed. The ambush would go ahead, and men and women would be savaged by Loku’s wildmen.
The thought slammed his thoughts into the present. If there was any way that they could be warned, it must be done. If Konall and Hakon were still alive, he must reach them. He scrambled back to his feet and ran to the door, dragging it open. He flung himself back as the thought struck that if Loku had managed to drag himself to the bottom of the stairs – and he had – then he could have managed to reach the top of them while Brann had been on the roof… and be waiting on the other side of the door. There was no one there, however, and he started more cautiously down the steps, spotting his sword lying at the bottom.
As he bent to pick up the weapon, footsteps thundered up the steps from below. To his relief – both at seeing his friends alive and at the fact that he was not about to face another fight – Konall and Hakon battered into view, swords raised, eyes blazing and chests heaving.
‘Did you get him?’ Konall shouted. ‘Did you get Loku?’
‘I did enough to let me get to the bowman: the man with the signal. But Konall,’ his face, and voice, were stricken, ‘I am so sorry. The signal went up. We have failed. I have failed.’ He slumped on the bottom step, dejected, his head in his blood- and grime- and sweat-smeared hands.
‘Where is Loku?’ Konall said grimly. ‘I am right here,’ the deep voice said, causing the three boys to jump. They rushed to the doorway of the room where Brann and Loku had fought. The treacherous ambassador, drenched in blood and clearly fighting to keep his legs strong enough to remain upright – an impressive feat in itself – was standing on the sill of the tall window, facing them. ‘And I have heard what I wanted to know. The consequences of that signal are in motion, boys, and there is nothing that can stop them. You,’ he nodded at Konall, ‘would be well advised to run now while you can and thank the gods for the extra chance they have given you to live, unlike the rest of your family. Under the regime about to take power, you will be caught and killed very shortly. No one will shelter you when they see the atrocities performed upon those who are even vaguely suspected of assisting you, and there will be many examples made of innocent people to reinforce that impression. You would be well advised to leave this country and never return if you want to live out your days, although I strongly suspect – and hope – that you will not be able to manage to reach the shore. You,’ his cold gaze locked on Brann, ‘I have unfinished business with. We will meet again, I will see to that. And it will be finished.
‘But for now, I must take my leave.’
Konall had snatched a knife from his boot and his movements were a blur as he hurled it at the man. Loku, however, had taken a step backwards and dropped from sight an instant before the missile streaked through the space he had filled.
Konall strode across the room. He noticed the shocked woman, still sitting wide-eyed and bewildered in her bed. ‘Madam,’ he acknowledged her, with a nod.
Brann and Hakon hurried after him. Brann turned to the woman. ‘My apologies about, well, about…’ What, exactly, was h
e sorry about? The mess? The carnage? The disturbance of her sleep? The shock of seeing two people burst into her room and attempt to butcher each other? He had no idea. All he did know was that, whatever he said, would be hopelessly inadequate. ‘My apologies about all of this,’ was all he could lamely repeat. She whispered something inaudible in reply.
He hurried to the window to join the other two. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.
Hakon shrugged. ‘Gone. A river runs through this city to the fjord and has been channelled into several canals to control its route. It seems that one of them passes directly behind this building. So he had a safer landing than we expected.’
‘That was lucky for him,’ Brann observed.
Still staring down into the darkness, Konall said, ‘I would guess that the position of the canal for the purpose that you have just witnessed is one of the reasons why this building was chosen by the conspirators.’ He turned to Brann. ‘Were you responsible for all of that damage to him?’ Brann nodded. ‘Impressive. He is considered to be a formidable swordsman.’
‘I think I was a bit unorthodox for him. I just made it up as I went along, and I do not think he knew what to expect because of that.’
Hakon slapped him on the back as they made their way to the door. ‘Good lad!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Long may you do so. Now let us go and do more of the same to those madmen from the mountains.’
As they rushed to the stairs, Brann said to Hakon, ‘How can you two be so matter of fact, even cheerful, when all these people are about to be wiped out? And what can we do to stop it? There are only three of us.’
Hero Born Page 41