Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

  Now, shuffling through the corridors, the cool felt dank and foreboding rather than a welcome respite from the searing sun. He was numb, but not from the temperature. His mind tried to stretch every second, as if he could prolong the time before he must face his fate; his opponent; his death.

  They walked alone, just him and the guard. He and Grakk were fighting in the only two death matches that day. They were rare, and conversations overheard from the other side of the wagon’s canvas had attested to the excitement brewing amongst those whose blood would not be risked but whose hearts beat faster at the prospect. Those fighting in a death match did not await their moment with the mainstream fighters. They were treated as different. They were different.

  He was shown into a room with a domed ceiling of bricks, dark-flamed torches sputtering for air and casting light and shadows equally.

  ‘We meet again, young Brann.’

  Grakk sat cross-legged against one wall, a simple breastplate lying beside him and the two swords he had chosen the day before lying across his lap.

  Brann said nothing. His mind was blank. He looked around the empty room and found his voice. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Our opponents? We will meet them on the sand of the Arena. Until then, it is just you and I. You are feeling fit?’

  ‘What does it matter how I feel now? In a short time I won’t feel anything.’

  Grakk unfolded himself and stood in one fluid movement. He stood in front of the boy and looked into his eyes. ‘You will die today, undoubtedly.’ He tapped one finger against Brann’s forehead. ‘If you think in this manner. Should you enter the Arena already defeated, you will exit it dragged by the feet, trailing your blood behind you. But you are a silly boy, for I feel you will win. Unless your thoughts defeat you.’

  ‘You think I will win? Are you mad?’

  Grakk shrugged. ‘Some say so. But in this I have reason. I have seen you fight. You are perfect for this. You do not know your opponent. You cannot plan for his style, his methods. But you do not plan anyway – you react, you adapt. There is an instinct in you, a voice that speaks to your hands before your head has heard. But not just this. Your eyes also notice things, chances, opportunities that others do not see. This is a good combination.’

  ‘But if he is better than me? I am on the far side of the world, dragged halfway as a slave and the other half as a silly naïve boy thinking he was on an adventure. Only to die in some stupid entertainment.’

  Grakk gripped his head and stared into his eyes. For the first time since they had met, Brann heard an intensity in his voice. ‘Listen to me, young Brann, and listen well. There are no rules, no restrictions, no limitations. You will face a criminal, whether it be a former soldier who will show no mercy or a gutter rat who lives by fighting dirty. Whatever or whoever he may be, he will do whatever he can. You must do the same. You must face him with a craving for life, a desperation to keep a heart beating in your body. You must do anything, use anything, to stay alive. The man in front of you will be wanting to kill you. To kill you. Feel rage at that, turn it on him. Don’t believe you will die, but don’t think about winning. Don’t think at all. Live in the moment. Live each action and reaction as it happens, then live the next. Live. Always fight to live. Always fight.’

  Brann nodded.

  ‘Good. Now you get dressed.’

  ‘Dressed?’

  ‘Dressed.’ Grakk turned him around, and he saw the sword he had used against the pig’s carcass, a shield – similar to the one he had practised with but studded with iron and emblazoned with the symbol of Cassian’s school – and a shirt of chain mail.

  Grakk saw him looking at it. ‘It is a…’

  ‘A hauberk.’ Brann looked at him. ‘We don’t fight naked where I come from, you know. Just because we choose not to fight every day, it doesn’t mean we are centuries behind the rest of the world.’ He remembered a conversation with Einarr on the trip to the city, when the wind had filled the sail, the oars were rested and life seemed good. ‘Our smiths are renowned, you know.’

  Grakk was pleased. ‘That is more the spirit you need. And your smiths are indeed regarded with admiration. This mail is a good choice. Light enough to afford mobility and, while it will not stop a weapon used full-strength, it is strong enough to deflect a glancing blow. For it is the small wounds that are often the lethal ones.’

  ‘I know, I know. Tendons and blood vessels and things like that.’

  ‘Good boy! You see, your prospects are more than you thought.’

  As they had been speaking, Grakk had lifted the mail over Brann’s head. It reached to his mid-thigh and was short-sleeved. Grakk was right, he could move freely. He could feel the weight of it bearing down on his legs, and Grakk smiled. ‘Now you see the reasoning behind the tunic with weights.’ He fastened a belt around Brann’s waist. ‘This will keep it from shifting at an awkward moment.’

  Brann tried moving in it. It felt awkward, but reassuring. He looked around. ‘No helmet?’

  Grakk shook his head. ‘The good people of this city like to see the faces of those who may die. They like to see the faces as they die. Any sort of light armour is permitted, but only light. In heavy armour the combatants may die of exhaustion before a single drop of blood is spilt. That would not do at all.’

  ‘I feel ridiculous. Like a child at play.’

  Grakk grunted. ‘Well I suggest you play at being a winner.’

  Satisfied with Brann’s preparations, he moved across to the breastplate and slipped it on. Brann moved to help him fasten it. ‘It is fine. Pick up your sword and shield. Become accustomed to the movement in your new attire. Do not put them down from now until the fight is over. They are a part of you for this time, and they must feel as such. And remember this. Lengthy fights, ebbing and flowing and replete with excitement, they are for the sagas. In life, it is the most exhausting time you will ever live, even were you not encumbered by mail and baking in the heat. It will last minutes, but it will feel like hours. Take your chance whenever it presents itself. Kill if you can; if you cannot, weaken; if you cannot, worry. Learn quickly of his style. Trust your instinct, and act.’

  Brann looked at the lean tribesman, a man he had grown close enough to call friend over the course of months and through more than a few deadly situations, and realised that he barely knew anything of Grakk from before the moment they met. And now he may know nothing more. He pushed down the surge of emotion and replaced it with simple curiosity. ‘Have you fought in a death match before?’

  Grakk stared calmly into his eyes. ‘Not precisely as this. But, yes, I have fought to the death in circumstances of many varieties, and I have watched men fight also. One thing I have noticed often: it does not always finish the way onlookers would expect at the start. Do not panic at the sight of a man in front of you with sharpened steel, for once it starts, your mind will empty of all apart from the danger you face. Move, anywhere and in any way, and you will not freeze. Your desire to live will do the rest.’

  Brann nodded, at a loss to imagine any way that he would not freeze, but grateful for the words. If nothing else, they had filled the time. He tried a few experimental swings and thrusts, and, to his surprise, the mail afforded him more freedom of movement than the padded tunic had the day before. Grakk merely flexed his shoulders and resumed his cross-legged position.

  A guard appeared in the doorway. ‘You two. With me.’ Brann jumped, feeling foolish at being seen practising his sword strokes. The guard ignored him and turned on his heel.

  ‘Advisable to follow him if we don’t want to get lost, young warrior,’ Grakk suggested from beside him. They did so.

  The noise of the crowd, borne on the constant draft blowing down the bare passage, was different. A chanting that, though the words were indistinct, lent a primeval atmosphere to their journey. Brann felt his legs dragging and his knees buckled slightly. He felt Grakk’s hand in the small of his back, a steadying presence.

  ‘Hold your head
high, and your pride will follow. If your father, and his father, and his father, and his father were in the crowd, here to see you, how would you conduct yourself? Well, those who have passed to the next life, they are watching you today. Show them what you can do. Show this crowd, who are here to see you die, that you will not bow to their will. And show Loku, for there is no doubt he will wish to see his designs for you succeed, that he cannot beat you.’

  Brann felt an anger begin to grow in his chest. His eyes felt an intensity he had not experienced before. But still his stomach heaved, his hands shook and his legs were weak.

  They stopped before heavy double doors. The chanting was like a drum beat. Six beats in two threes. Over and over. And over. And over. Growing, swelling, pounding the stone structure till it shook in time.

  Grakk turned to him. ‘All is order in this land. In a death match, for every killing, there is a life. For every life, there is a death. In a death match there are no rules, you do what you do to make the life yours, and the death his. There are no rules, but there are two laws: it finishes only when your opponent dies at your hand; and for every one that falls, another must stand. If two fight, one only must die. If a hundred fight, fifty only must die. So if four fight, two only must die. We both win, we both live. So think on this: I will finish my man as expeditiously as can be achieved, then I will join you. No rules, remember? I will help weaken him, but the killing blow must be yours. Stay alive and it will be so.

  ‘You will live, young Brann. You will live.’

  Horns sounded, and the chanting burst louder still in response. The guard nodded to two men at the doors, and they were swung outwards, flooding them with light and noise. Grakk stepped forward and, with a shove from the guard, Brann stumbled after him.

  The chant was a hammer blow harder even than the wall of heat. But now the words were clear.

  ‘… walk out. Four walk in, two walk out. Four walk in, two walk out…’

  Huge drums, spaced evenly around the circular stadium, thundered out a steady beat but were almost drowned out by the voices they sought to lead. Brann realised his feet were keeping time, as were those of the squad of eight soldiers marching in line immediately to their right.

  The floor of the combat area was wide and hard with packed sand, and Brann felt the vast bareness opening away from him. Never had he felt so exposed, so visible. The spectators crammed the benches, a mass of teeming humanity so vast that he was unable to register individuals. The sight and the sound combined to make them a single entity, all seeming to watch him, all seeming to hate him, all gleeful for his death.

  From directly opposite, their opponents had entered. Both looked like common criminals, but of the most ferocious and murderous sort. The type of men who killed for a purse rather than stealing it by guile, who fought others for their spoils and who survived amongst others of their ilk by being nastier and more brutal than those they fought. Brann was sure they were not a random choice. Both were lean and strong, one with a moustache that reached the bottom of his chin and a scar that ran vertically from the corner of his mouth to bisect an eyebrow and finish at his hairline, carrying a sword and shield similar to those Brann bore, and the other larger and more powerful, turning as he walked to wave a longsword and an axe high to the crowd. As the groups closed, both men leered at Brann and Grakk with obvious pleasure.

  The two pairs, with their escorts, met in the centre and turned to walk together towards one side, where Brann noticed a more sparsely populated area. Rather than the bench seating elsewhere, this section was furnished with individual chairs of a size and ornateness that grew further, the closer placed they were to the centre. Perfectly in the centre was a plain stone throne. Lounging in it was the Emperor, smiling as benignly as if Brann were being presented as a desirable suitor for his daughter, waving his hand absently along with the chants. Behind him stood his impassive Scribe, to either side sat the four who had sat with him the previous day, to the side of them sat the frail old man Brann had seen near Loku at the Throne Room and behind them sat Loku himself, his smile triumphant and his eyes bright with anticipation. The chanting had reached a crescendo.

  A horn cut through the roar, silencing the throng in the beat of a heart. The silence was just as overbearing as the noise had been.

  A herald, fat, shiny with sweat and lurid in a shirt, pantaloons and imperial tabard of colours that clashed so violently they jarred the eyes, stepped forward onto a platform at the front of the Emperor’s section. His voice, though, was as true to the ear as his clothes were offensive to sight.

  Almost singing, such was his lilting tone, his words rang to every nook of the Arena. ‘What is your purpose today before His Magnificence, Emperor of the all the Civilised World?’

  The other three started to respond, and with a jolt Brann recalled the words taught to him by Salus shortly before they had left the compound.

  ‘Lord of Lords, our lives are yours. We fight, win, die for your glory. Death is our master, Death is your servant. Our blood is your power.’

  The Emperor smiled down at them, genially.

  The herald continued. ‘Today we witness a death match. Four walk in, two walk out.’

  The crown thundered in response. ‘Four walk in, two walk out.’

  Silence lay heavy as the herald paused to build the tension. He looked at the four fighters standing motionless. ‘Today you walk the red path. But who shall you fight? Now we shall discover.’ Both arms aloft, he held on high four balls. ‘At this hour of death, we see the four colours of life: the amber of the sun, the green of the leaf, the blue of sea and sky, the claret of our blood.’

  A soldier walked over with four strips of cloth, dyed to match the balls, tying one to each of their right biceps. Brann received the claret, Grakk the amber, the moustached man the blue and the large man the green.

  The herald dropped the four balls into a bag. ‘Our Emperor, the heart and soul of ul-Taratac, shall divine the selection.’ The Emperor’s Scribe descended to fetch it, but instead spoke briefly to the herald. ‘In his beneficence, and in recognition of recent service of great value, our Lord of Lords has invited his loyal and trusted advisor, Taraloku-Bana, to make the selection.’

  Loku stood and walked down to the herald’s platform, his face solemn. He bowed to the Emperor, receiving a warm nod in reply, and turned to face the fighters. The herald held out the bag and lifted out a ball. The fat man’s voice rang out once more. ‘Claret will fight…’ Brann’s stomach lurched. The hand dipped again. ‘Green.’

  The larger man. Brann was sure the selection was no coincidence. Loku smirked.

  The herald continued. ‘And so Claret will fight Green, and Blue will fight Amber. Today we witness death matches, not one, but two. No rules, no limitations, just one truth: four walk in, two walk out.’ The crowd roared the response. ‘This contest will be fought as two matches, separate as the sun and moon. Two men, and two men only, fighting alone, twice over. Pure and simple as death itself.’

  A fist of panic squeezed Brann’s heart and he looked at Grakk in alarm. The tattooed tribesman leant in close. ‘It is what it is. We cannot change it, so waste no time wishing it different. Deal with the fate you face. You have survived much. You can do so again. What is it you say? Just do what seems right.’

  The large man, grinning, exchanged his axe for the shield of his companion. The smaller man started to object but was silenced by a growl. He took the axe, swung it experimentally, and shrugged, apparently satisfied.

  Brann’s eyes narrowed. The man was adopting the same weapons as he had – he was making them as similar as possible so that the only difference left would be his size and, presumably, experience. The fact that he was alive attested to the fact that it had been successful experience.

  The spears of the soldiers separated them into the pairs who would fight, and directed them to the centre of the Arena. Strangely, a hush had descended over the crowd, and they could hear their own footsteps and the clink of metal.<
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  An unexpected calm had settled over Brann also, as a blanket over a fire. His stomach still churned but, with no option left to him and his immediate future certain, a coolness enveloped him. His senses were heightened, but also focused. He lost awareness of the crowd, of their very existence. He examined the man, slightly ahead and eager to start. He was tall and broad shouldered, tending to a bulk that spoke of power rather than speed. Similar to Grakk, he wore a breastplate but he had added matching protection on his forearms and shins. He was never still, banging his sword on his shield or raising both on high and roaring to the crowd. Not that it mattered, but Brann couldn’t help but notice that whoever had shaved his head had done a patchy job.

  They approached the centre and the man wheeled and hissed at him. ‘My name is Balak-dur. Remember that when you die. Do not be ashamed, for it is an honour to die at the hand of The Reaper, the victor of forty-nine duels. A fortune awaits me, and your death will buy it, little man, so feel your worth. My fortune has been promised, and I will have it.’

  ‘Promised by whom?’ If he could place even a seed of doubt, it may distract the man.

  ‘Promised by whom?’ His high-pitched repetition was mocking. ‘By none other than the Emperor’s own Master of Information, so there is certainty in the promise. Remember the name of Balak-dur, and take it to the next world.’

  A rage began to build within him, but it was a cold fury, washing against his fear. The soldiers stopped, two lines back to back and with spears levelled, separating the fights. The fighters faced each other at a distance of around five spear-lengths. The silence deepened. The Emperor rose from his throne of stone and raised one hand. He held it there for a long moment. The air felt thick, almost humming with the anticipation of thousands.