The hand dropped. The crowd erupted. Shield up and sword poised, Brann moved into readiness. His opponent, though, turned his back and faced the watching masses. As when he had walked, he held his weapons to the sky, roaring over and over. He wants me to attack, Brann realised, and I will run into a full swing of that big sword. Fighting the nerves, trying to draw on the anger, he waited, dropping both arms to his sides. Why waste energy holding them up?
He glanced across at Grakk, his fight in clear view between the widely spaced soldiers. They were already engaged and the tribesman’s swords danced before him, weaving a net of bright metal as they parried and struck at a speed hard to follow. In seconds, the axe had fallen from nerveless fingers. Grakk swayed back just enough to see a wild swipe send the sword slicing the air in front of him, then leapt forward, arms crossed over each other and extending the twin blades forwards like a heron spearing a fish. The arms flung wide and Grakk sprang back, swords up and ready to defend. There was no need. The neck had been sliced from each side, opened from the front halfway to the back. Blood sprayed and squirted high, bright against sky and sand. The head flopped back, and the body hit the ground. The crowd bayed with lust. Grakk faced Brann, looking for all the world like a dog straining on an invisible leash.
Brann’s opponent turned towards him. ‘See that?’ he screamed. ‘That’s you bleeding your life out into the dirt.’ He pointed his sword at the masses watching. ‘Except I’ll take your head clean off and give it to them.’
He charged.
He came at Brann at a loping run, measured paces that built momentum but kept balance, his weight thudding into the hard ground with every pace. Power, not speed. But changing direction might be a problem. Especially if Brann sidestepped at the right moment. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was a plan. His nerves filled every fibre of his being. He had to get it right.
The plan evaporated. Just short of him, the man leapt skywards, dropping in front of Brann, his impetus down instead of forwards, his sword smashing down with all his weight behind it. Brann dropped to one knee, his shield raised on instinct. Muscles built in months fighting the sea with an oar resisted the blow, but the sword still crashed into his shield so hard that the wood slammed against his head. His own sword was moving, cutting right to left at the large leg in front of him. Just before it struck, the man, still catching his balance from the jump, twisted and Brann’s blade caught the edge of the metal greave and sliced across the flesh of the calf rather than biting into tendon and bone.
His nerves evaporated. The cold calm that had crept up on him before now flowed over him. He knew nothing but the man in front of him. His movements. His noise.
The man screamed in fury. ‘You little bastard. I’ll cut you bad for that. I’ll cut you bad before I kill you.’
He came at him in a flurry of hammering blows. The first, backhanded, hit Brann’s shield so hard it nearly knocked him off his feet and he staggered back, barely keeping his balance. The next came hard on the first, swinging down from his left. His shield came up to meet it. As it struck, he turned his shoulders to the right, angling the shield the same way. The blade deflected away to his right, the unexpected direction unbalancing the man and giving Brann a fraction of a second. Again he dropped to a knee, but this time hammered the rim of his shield down on top of the man’s foot, smashing into the fragile bones. The man screamed. Brann drove up with his legs, his sword vertical. He thrust. The blade speared into the man’s throat and ripped up and through to emerge from the back of his head. The man arched back and collapsed into the dirt.
The crowd were suddenly silent, shocked as much by the brevity of the contest as by its outcome. Then shouts turned to roars, and roars turned to the chant, this time louder than ever before. ‘Four walk in, two walk out.’
Brann stepped up to the man. Mindful of Cassian’s warning about the danger of dying men, he stood on the wrist that still gripped the large sword. He leant over and stared into the contorted face, dark blood flowing from mouth, nose and wounds and expanding the pool already on the ground. Brann’s teeth were clamped tight, but the words came out nonetheless.
‘I have forgotten your name already. But know this: my name is Brann. Remember that as you die. Be ashamed, for you die at the hand of a boy who today fought his first duel. Remember the name of Brann, and take it to the next world.’ He spat red blood onto the baked earth.
He had no idea whether the man was still alive or already dead. He didn’t care.
A soldier leant past him, placed a foot against the man’s chin and drew Brann’s sword from his head with a sucking squelch. He wiped it on the corpse’s tunic where it emerged below his unscratched breastplate, and handed it to the boy. ‘You might want to keep this, lad. You use it well.’
He took it absently, unable to move his foot from the wrist, unable to move his eyes from the face, the fury lifting from him and, in its place, a horror at the reality of gruesome brutality fixing his gaze on the corpse with a force he could not break. Grakk appeared at his elbow. ‘When I said to finish it when you had the chance, you certainly took the instruction to heart. You surprised us all. And, I must say, pleasantly.’ He eased him away and the soldiers turned them to face the royal section. The crowd still chanted in acclaim. The Emperor stood, smiling and – as Brann and Grakk bowed on one knee as Salus had instructed when he had taught them the words of the greeting – applauding. Brann’s eyes sought, found, Loku. His face was contorted in fury. Brann smiled.
Then the shaking started.
Chapter 3
‘You still think me mad and old?’
He had begun to sense her presence when she approached, before even he heard her. He didn’t turn as she filled a glass goblet and sipped at the cool water. The Arena lay empty and silent, soft wind and hard shadows reaching across it. Still he sat, eyes fixed on the smudge in the centre, the stain of blood a guide to his thoughts.
‘Of course. Are you not?’
He grunted.
Her hoarse whisper was like a voice in his head. ‘You do little to dispel that notion. Anyone seeing you sitting here alone, staring into nothing, would be certain your wits had preceded your body to the grave.’
‘Those of us with wits call it thinking. It’s what people who don’t make assumptions do.’
She moved alongside him and followed his gaze. ‘And what do you think?’
‘I think you will have seen that I was right about the boy.’
‘You think he is capable.’
‘Not yet. There is much he must learn. That which is within him must be set free.’
‘Can it?’
‘There are ways.’
‘How can the ways come to pass?’
‘That is what occupies my thoughts.’
‘Will they come to pass?’
‘They will.’
She put a hand on his shoulder. He ignored it, but did not remove it.
A softness crept into her rasp. ‘They must.’
****
When Brann woke, his head was in pain more than his body. Moving his eyelids was too much effort. Groaning was beyond him. The last words he remembered saying were, ‘Wine? What is wine?’
Now he knew. It was what demons created for times when ale wouldn’t cause enough pain the next morning.
He was too hot, so he pushed the blanket to his waist. He needed the feel of something against him, so he pulled the blanket back over him. He curled on his side, but his limbs were restless. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pounding in his skull.
He sat up with a shouted gasp as icy water crashed over him.
‘Good, you’re up,’ Salus said, as jovial as the water was cold. ‘You can carry your bed out to the sun. It needs to dry off.’
He wiped water and fringe from his eyes and waited a moment before lifting his head. Marlo held a dripping bucket, and wore a sheepish grin that Brann wanted to smash from his face. Except that he wanted even more to never again move a muscle. He made to
roll back onto his mattress, but Salus stretched out a big arm.
‘No, you don’t. Cassian’s orders. You do your recovery today, then start training tomorrow.’
Brann managed a groan and slowly stood up. His head felt like it had been filled with lead that was expanding with a relentless thumping pulse.
‘Boss wants to see you first of all. Probably wants to see if you survived the second attempt on your life.’
Brann looked up sharply and immediately regretted the sudden movement. ‘Second?’
Salus nodded solemnly. ‘Your own attempt, using excessive amounts of alcohol. It was a most valiant attempt, I must say.’
‘Was I in a bad state?’
Marlo laughed. ‘Entertaining mostly. Then bad.’
‘How bad?’
‘Couldn’t even bite your finger. That’s when we took you to bed. Well, when I say took, I mean carried.’
Brann grunted and shuffled towards the door. Salus coughed pointedly. ‘Your bed.’
Brann turned and lifted the end of the wooden cot, dragging it behind him, screeching against the tiled floor. Marlo stepped beside him and helped to pull it.
Brann looked at him. ‘Would you not be better taking the other end?’
‘I would if you looked capable of steering on your own.’
‘Why are you here anyway? You were only helping me because my hands were full.’
Marlo grinned. ‘I won the chance to handle the bucket.’
Brann’s reply was snatched away by the stabbing pain of the sunlight as he stepped from the doorway. He dropped his side of the bed and clutched his hands to his eyes, yelling in misery. Marlo dragged the bed to one side and left it to dry in the heat. By the time Brann had eased his eyes open to slits, the boy had gone.
‘If you’re ready?’ Salus was waiting.
‘Never felt less like it, but don’t feel like it’s changing any time soon so I may as well,’ Brann grumbled.
Cassian was watching his fighters spar when they found him. Brann was still trying not to vomit from the smell of the food cooking in the kitchens that they had passed on the way, but still managed to curse inwardly that the Master of the School could not have been occupied in the cool shade of his residence.
‘Ah, my young warrior!’ The old soldier beamed. ‘I’m so glad to see you again. I did tell you this last night, but you didn’t seem to be taking much in at that stage. Did you enjoy your introduction to wine?’
Brann rubbed the heels of his hands against his temples. ‘Even my hair hurts. Why could you not have had a normal drink, like ale?’
‘If we had expected you to return, we would have ordered some in.’
‘Oh, very funny.’
Cassian frowned. ‘It was not a joke.’ He beamed and clapped Brann on the shoulder. ‘It was a surprise, but be assured, it was a surprise of the most pleasant sort. And you certainly seemed to like the wine when you were drinking it.’
‘Well I don’t now.’
‘Your dancing on the table was most amusing, though not as amusing as your spectacular fall from it. And it did serve to cure your shaking last night. Although I see it is now causing the shaking this morning.’ He handed Brann his waterskin, old leather that still had a feel of high quality. ‘My victory present to you. Drink and refill it regularly.’
Aware that his mouth was tongue-sticking dry, Brann drank greedily. Cassian tipped the waterskin back down. ‘Easy, easy. Build up slowly or it will hit your stomach and bounce back with all it finds there.’
Salus grinned. ‘That might actually not be the worst thing that could happen.’
‘Perhaps.’ Cassian clapped Brann on the back. He was sure it caused his head to burst. ‘What will be, will be. In the meantime, our friend Salus will introduce you to my good lady wife. She will take care of you today. We will start improving you tomorrow.’
Brann swayed slightly, waiting for his vision to stop dancing. It didn’t, so he accepted that he would just have to follow both of the two Saluses that were walking back towards the main house.
After a while, Cassian’s final words sank in. ‘Improve me?’
‘You can always improve.’
‘But I thought what I did yesterday worked.’
‘It worked against him.’
‘Yes, so I was thinking I would just be…’
‘You will not fight him again.’
‘Oh. That’s true.’
They were about to enter the house, but Salus wheeled to face him. He placed his hands on Brann’s shoulders and bent to look into his eyes. For once, he looked stern. ‘The day you stop learning, is the day you die. Dying stops you learning; stopping learning makes you die. Some you will be taught, some you will notice yourself. But you must always look to improve.’
Brann nodded solemnly. ‘I do tend to notice things.’
‘Well keep doing it. And do it more. Now come, and let us have no more of this seriousness.’
He led Brann down into the centre of the house and turned down the same corridor that had taken them to the bathing pools. Before they reached the pools, however, Salus knocked on another door. A slave, clad in a simple white tunic and with a silver chain of slender links around his neck, opened the door, his head shaven and his arms and legs as smooth as his scalp. The sailors on the voyage to Sagia had filled the nights with tales, and some had spoken of such men who had, as boys, been robbed of their manhood for any number of reasons –through religion, for practicality, as punishment or to break their spirit – and in many cases all body hair followed of its own accord. Whatever the reason for the cutting, Brann thought it abhorrent and he found himself stopping and gripping the man’s arm in sympathy as he passed. The slave looked at him quizzically.
‘Don’t have any designs on my staff.’ The tall, striking woman Brann had seen with Cassian just the day before stood to one side and looked up from a potion she was pouring into a cup. Her voice was low, soothing, measured. ‘I know of at least one culture that believes sex to be the cure for a hangover, but I find this to be more effective.’
He took the cup from her. ‘Staff? Designs?’ He frowned, trying to move his brain at normal speed. ‘Cure?’ His eyes widened. ‘Sex?’ Realisation flooded his face with colour. ‘Oh, no. I was just so sorry for him.’
‘You think he suffers working with me?’
He was stammering now. ‘No. I mean… no, no. I just think it’s awful, what has been done to him.’
‘You think I mistreat him?’
He was starting to wish he had entered the room head down and silent. ‘I mean what happened to him as a boy.’ He glanced at the man, who seemed unperturbed and was arranging pots and vials on a shelf above a cabinet.
She leant on a padded table, facing him. ‘I have known him since he was a boy.’
‘Then you know what they did to him.’
‘Did what to him?’
He walked closer and lowered his voice. ‘You know… when they, er… when he had his…’ Of all the experiences he had been through since arriving in this land, this was becoming the most excruciating. He decided he just had to go for it. ‘When they cut off his balls,’ he blurted.
The slave dropped a pot. Salus spluttered. The woman looked at him. ‘Nobody has cut off his balls.’
Brann looked at the man. He still had his back to the room but his hands were braced on the top of the cabinet and his shoulders were convulsing. Convulsing, Brann realised, with mirth.
‘But his lack of hair. I thought…’
‘We all know what you thought. Hair loss is not always a symptom of castration. You should know that Mylas chooses to shave all his hair. All who work specifically with me must adhere to the highest standards of cleanliness, and some of the men find that removing their hair helps them to facilitate this. In my case,’ she shook her long tendrils of hair, ‘I wash myself, but beyond that I choose to bind up my hair and cover it, while all Mylas has to do is wipe his head. I do shave my chest and back, though.’<
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Brann’s eyes widened. ‘You shave your…? You…?’ His brain caught up. ‘That last bit wasn’t serious.’
She nodded at his hands. ‘Drink your drink.’
He took a sip. And spat it back into the cup. ‘By the gods, that’s foul!’
‘It will work.’
‘It would need to work very quickly because it will be coming straight back up.’
‘It will not. Drain the cup. That way you will not experience the taste for so long.’
He stared at the cup, the pale-orange liquid sitting there and doing its best to look like poison. He looked at the eyes boring into him. He had no option. Taking a deep breath, he downed the drink.
Surprisingly, when it hit his stomach a soothing warmth rose through him rather than the contents of his guts. He felt better. Still not great, but better. ‘Is that an old soldier’s recipe?’
‘It is my recipe. Are you calling me an old soldier?’
‘No!’ Oh gods, not this again. ‘But haven’t you been a warrior at some point? Women don’t go to war among my people, but I have heard that in several countries they do.’
It was difficult to tell if she was more bemused or amused. ‘Quite the opposite, young man.’
‘But you taught Cassian how to fight.’
She laughed then. ‘I have taught my husband many things, but it is good to hear he has admitted it for once, even if it was to a boy widely expected to take that knowledge to his grave the same day. I cannot lay claim to teaching him to fight – he became accomplished at that all by himself.’
He shook his head in confusion. ‘He told me, when he said about tendons and muscles and shallow wounds. He said he learnt that from you.’
‘My expertise does lie in that area, but in putting them back together, not in taking them apart. However, when you know how to fix something, you also know how to break it. And talking of fixing things, let us fix you.’
Hero Grown Page 9
