Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

‘I made the blades with more size to them than is usual,’ Tarkanan said. ‘Such is the lightness of the metal, I had to give the weapons some weight in that way. Still, they should move quicker than others even of a smaller size.’

  Brann breathed out slowly. ‘They are beautiful.’

  ‘They should be. I broke two grinding stones before I devised how to put an edge on them. And almost broke your two companions in the forging.’

  ‘You are the master of your craft, without a doubt.’

  The small man frowned. ‘Of course I am. Else you would not be here.’

  The others were gathering closer. Brann passed the axe to Gerens and the sword to Cannick, the latter sighting down the long groove of the fuller on one side then the other with a whistle of appreciation. ‘Perfect,’ he murmured. ‘Just perfect.’ He passed it to Grakk, who stared at it for a long time before nodding.

  Few words were spoken as the weapons were passed around the group; none seemed sufficient. The appreciation of workmanship unforeseen was clear, however. They made their way back to the table and Tarkanan laid out a leather sheet that he carefully wrapped around the weapons and tied securely in place. The bundle fitted in a long hessian bag with a strap to sling it over a shoulder, and he laid it on the table.

  ‘In the morning, you will collect this and leave. I have completed my work. You must complete your task. You must return this package to its owner.’

  Brann lay wakened for much of that night but when dawn shone into his eyes, he realised that sleep must have claimed him at some point. He rose and washed at the pool, realising that the others were doing the same. Quietly, they packed their camp. Tarkanan was waiting at the forge, the bundle in his arms. He passed it to Brann, who hung it over his shoulder, and the small smith gestured into the dim shadow of the forge. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘All of you.’

  He led them to the same table where the weapons had been displayed, where now a soft cloth was folded over. When they had all gathered, he spread out the cloth to reveal twelve identical brooches, each one in the shape of a thin circle around exact replicas of the weapons he had forged and the knife Brann had brought, and arranged in the same crossed fashion as Tarkanan had first displayed the real versions. The sword and axe were the length of a finger, and all was crafted from the black star metal.

  ‘We were all here when this metal was worked, and we should all have a token of that. One each, please take.’ He took one himself and pinned it to his leather apron. ‘I wear it as decoration, but you foreigners may find practical uses, such as cloaks or such things that you wear.’

  Grakk smiled. ‘They will be perfect on cloaks. They are perfect. Our gratitude is incalculable.’

  The small man’s brows furrowed. ‘Your gratitude is unfounded. I do what I do, and I have done what has been done.’ He gestured at the table, where the final two brooches lay. ‘These are for those who sent you on this task, who made it begin.’

  Brann frowned. ‘Those? He was one.’

  Tarkanan placed the brooches in Brann’s hand. ‘You will deliver them both with the bundle on your back. He will know for whom the other one is intended. And tell him that the weapons were forged as he had asked.’

  Brann nodded. It was a simple enough instruction. Understanding why was not necessary, or important compared with what lay ahead.

  He placed his hand on the smith’s chest, over his heart. ‘I agreed to this task in exchange for help we will receive for our friends. But had I known what I would witness here, I would have walked to the end of the world for it in exchange for nothing more than the chance to be a part of it.’

  Tarkanan placed his own hand over Brann’s heart. ‘Then that is exactly why you were the person to come here.’ He smiled. ‘Carry them well, Brann of the Arena and the Rat Runs. Carry them well.’

  It was nightfall on the second day when they slipped through the gate of Cassian’s compound.

  A guard ushered them quietly to the Big House, where Salus met them in the hallway. ‘Cassian sends his apologies, but he is abed. However, on learning of your approach, he ordered the baths made available to you and food prepared.’

  Gratitude and relief spread in equal measure across their faces. The big fighter looked at Brann. ‘Not you, I am afraid, youngster.’ He glanced at the shadows to one side of the hall.

  The stocky slave stepped into view. He said nothing, but no instructions were needed. With a sigh, Brann dumped his travel pack on the floor and slung the long package back over his shoulder. ‘May as well get it over with, I suppose. The sooner that is done, the sooner we can start planning to help…’ He remembered the slave, standing quietly. ‘To help our friends.’ There were few people Brann now trusted, and despite his help before, the slave was still not one of them. Nor his master.

  Brann made for the door without waiting for the slave, but Salus stopped him. ‘You may be best using the side door. To come out of here and walk towards the city may be a little too obvious.’

  Brann looked at him. ‘The side door?’

  ‘On your morning run, did you ever happen to notice a tree with white blossom and branches that hung wide and long to the ground?’

  Brann nodded. He had never seen its like before, so when he was looking for sights of interest to take his mind from his laboured legs and chest, it had caught his attention every day.

  ‘Behind that. Beyond the wall, a track leads between the rear of two deserted farmsteads and then through the dwellings. At the other side of them you will be close to the gate.’

  Brann nodded his thanks and walked out, the slave hurrying to catch up. He was not in the mood for niceties and the slave had not proved the talkative type in any case.

  He pushed through the branches of the tree to find the door, a low thick affair, where Salus had said. A latch opened it from the inner side, and when he swung it inwards on silent hinges he saw the hole for a key on the other. It swung shut behind them, flush with the wall and painted the same white so as to be indistinguishable from the stonework, especially in just the light cast by the moon and stars.

  They stumbled along the rutted track and entered the settlement, a haphazardly arranged collection of low buildings at complete odds with the precise order of the city itself. They wound their way through, theirs steps lit by the light from windows and the occasional open door. Those still about the streets seemed either ignorant or uncaring of the fact that the pair walking the lanes were not fellow residents.

  It was with sudden surprise that they found themselves about to step into the open, the moonlight shining on a stretch of open ground before the looming black of the city walls. The slave held Brann back and produced a length of rough rope, looping it loosely several times around the boy’s wrists. ‘Hold it with your hands and they will never know it is not tied.’ He gestured to Brann’s belt, sword, knife and the black dagger hanging from it. ‘May I?’

  Brann bristled. This he did not like.

  ‘I would hardly bring a captive and not have relieved him of his weapons. I will return them as soon as we are past the gate. You have a better idea?’

  He didn’t, so he unbuckled the belt and handed it over. He did, after all, still have the two knives strapped to his forearms, which would be a start until he could acquire whatever else would be needed. The man pulled up Brann’s hood and, in his travelling garb, he looked nothing more than a Deruul captive.

  The slave led him by the loose ends of the rope towards the gate. If anything, the guards seemed even more bored than the first time he had passed through this gate when he was being delivered to Cassian’s care, but then this was the time for night duty. One lazily dropped a spear to hold it across their path.

  ‘And your reason to be coming in at this time?’

  The slave grunted, his tone as bored as the demeanour of the guards. ‘Took me this long to find the hovel where his captors were keeping him. Just as well he was stupid enough to get caught almost immediately or I could have been setting out even later.
Buggers wanted to prattle on, too, about how well they had done. Always the way when you just want to give them their paltry reward and be on your way.’

  The other guard grinned and stepped into their path. ‘And what about our reward for letting you past at this time of night?’

  The slave showed him a badge bearing a crest. ‘You’ll need to ask he who is dispensing the coin.’

  The man coloured and stepped aside. ‘It was only a jest. I thought your master was a merchant, not…’

  ‘Well you know now,’ the slave said shortly, brushing past them.

  As soon as they were around the first corner, the man pulled the rope from Brann’s wrists and Brann pushed back his hood, buckling on his belt as soon as the slave handed it over. ‘Was that not a bit risky, showing those men the insignia of the royal you serve?’

  ‘It would have been, had I not showed them the insignia of a royal I do not serve,’ the slave said. This time it was Brann’s turn to catch him up as he headed off without warning.

  They entered the sewers at a different point from the previous time, one that was closer to the citadel thanks to the area of the city they had been in, and before long they were circling their way up the shaft towards the privy. The slave was more hurried this time, his steps chopped and quick and his head down in determination.

  From a man so normally calm and certain in his assurance, it sat strangely upon him and Brann’s curiosity was aroused. ‘I take it your master is eager for our arrival, given your haste.’

  The reply was panted. ‘My master is not the issue. The haste is of my desire, and would be yours also were you to know what we would seek to avoid.’

  Having been born in a valley surrounded by hills, slopes did not trouble Brann, and his voice was enjoyably more even than that of the slave. ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘The privies, on whichever level they are sited, are arranged at intervals around the circle so that no one is directly above another. Therefore whatever drops does so unimpeded.’

  ‘Good system.’

  ‘But not infallible. There is always some residue that is not so accurately aimed.’

  ‘So?’ He wasn’t sure where this was headed, but he was beginning to feel uneasy.

  ‘So all of the water that is raised to the top levels for washing of people or places or whatever use it is put to, once it has been used, it is collected in a vat as wide as this shaft. Balanced on a pivot directly above this shaft. And once each night…’

  Brann now knew why the slave had felt nervous. ‘… it is released.’

  ‘Indeed. And should we be on these steps when that happens…’

  ‘We will be in the shit. Not pleasant.’

  ‘We will be too dead to care how pleasant it may be.’

  Realisation dawned. ‘Which is why it is a safe route for you to travel undiscovered.’

  The man grunted through his laboured breathing. ‘Though usually I try to travel it after the daily deluge.’

  ‘I’m guessing from the tone of this and the speed of your steps that today’s daily deluge hasn’t deluged.’

  ‘Correct.’

  He needed no further encouragement. They redoubled their pace, every step fraught with apprehension but slick also with treacherous damp. The entry to the privy they sought seemed an eternity away, but reach it they did. The slave paused to listen intently at the secret panel, though Brann felt he’d rather just burst through and damn the consequences. He was still looking upwards, straining his ears for sounds above as much as the slave was for sounds beyond the wall, when the slave opened the section of wall and slipped through. Before Brann could follow, the door to the corridor was flung open, pressing the slave against the far wall of the small room, and a burly guard burst in, already unlacing his breeches. He stared at the slave, astounded that such as he would dare to use a privy as though he were a free man, and with a growl he grabbed at the slave’s tunic to drag him out. His fingers failed to find a grip, though, and as his hand slipped he swung round to face directly the open section of wall and Brann stepping through, black-bladed knife in hand.

  The dagger drove point-first and hilt-deep into the man’s throat, piercing as if through silk. Brann stepped forward with it, clamping his free hand over the guard’s mouth, feeling it sucked close in the same way that the knife was held tight as the chest tried to suck in breath to scream. Dark blood seeped between his fingers and the eyes above his hand opened wide first in shock and then wider in horror, before the light in them faded and, with a shudder, the body sagged. Brann wiped his hand on the man’s tunic and eased him through the opening, letting him drop head-first and pulling the dagger free as the body slipped from sight to avoid any tell-tale spatter of blood on their clothes or within the privy. They waited in silence until there was a faint splash of corpse into water.

  ‘Neatly done,’ the slave said, leaning against the now-shut door to the corridor.

  Brann shrugged, and closed the secret panel. ‘Had to be.’

  ‘I doubt it would have been done so neatly before the Rat Runs.’

  ‘I reckon so.’ Another shrug. ‘Everything leaves some mark on you that cannot be erased. What is, is.’

  ‘That’s the truth.’

  There was a massive rushing of water behind the wall and the pair looked at each other.

  ‘Fortunate,’ said Brann.

  ‘And now also helpful, considering what will be washed away from below.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The passage outside was clear, and they crept swiftly to the chambers that were becoming familiar. The slave knocked softly and they entered without waiting for a reply.

  The grey old man looked up from his chair by the fire. It was angled differently from last time, Brann noticed, allowing sight of the door. He glanced at the blade in Brann’s hand. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Dealt with,’ said the slave. Alam, the former Emperor of ul-Taratac, nodded.

  ‘Do you have a rag?’ Brann said. ‘I should wipe this clean before returning it.’

  ‘You should.’ The wispy grey-white hair stirred as he nodded at the table to the side of the chairs. Beside a decanter of water and a spare goblet lay a linen napkin, folded neatly. It was of the finest quality, but the finest linen counted for far less than the finest blade. Brann meticulously, almost reverently, wiped all traces of the blood from the knife and set the napkin back down. Alam pointed at the fire, and Brann threw the napkin instead onto the small flames, fuelling them higher for a short while.

  ‘Not easy to explain the blood to a servant,’ the dusty voice rasped.

  The old man looked at him closely, then glanced at the slave. ‘Any consequences of dealing with it?’

  The man was as impassive as ever. ‘Only a missing guard. I will leave a mostly empty wine skin behind a statue near to where he was stationed. Hopefully that will suggest an explanation for his leaving his post, and then not wanting to be found when they look for him.’

  Brann’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know where his post was?’

  ‘It will be the one without a guard.’

  He nodded. It was a fair point.

  The old voice whispered, ‘Best to go now then?’

  The slave was already leaving as they heard him say, ‘Indeed.’

  The old man looked at Brann in silence, his eyes never straying to the package on his back though he must have noticed it the moment they had come through the door.

  Brann stared back. ‘You never told me you were once Emperor.’

  ‘I told you my name. The title is what I was. The name is what I am now.’

  ‘And what would you be? Emperor once more?’

  ‘What I want is not your concern, boy. You should be concerned with what you want.’

  ‘I am. I brought what you wanted.’

  He swung the narrow hessian bag from his back and walked to the desk, drawing the long bundle from it and laying it on top of the assorted papers to untie it and carefully roll the leather aside. As the
old man stood, Brann laid out the sword and axe as Tarkanan had done, and put the knife in its place where the weapons crossed.

  For a long while the man stared, pulling at his long beard, the crackle of the fire the only sound. Eventually: ‘They are a wonder.’

  He picked up the sword, testing it with movements that spoke of a fond affinity for such a weapon. ‘This is more than a wonder. It is beyond belief.’

  Watching him weigh the weapon and sample its swing, a thought occurred to Brann. ‘He has made one mistake, however.’

  A sharp look. ‘How so?’

  ‘Your people favour a blade with a curve, and one cutting edge. This is straight, with two.’

  ‘Indeed we do, and indeed it is. Curious. But that is what he has done, and that is the way it is.’ He replaced it gently. ‘He will be well rewarded.’

  ‘I had thought possession of the remainder of the Star Stone was reward enough.’

  ‘To him, maybe. But I value his work more highly than he does. To him, it is what he does. I marvel at flying, but a hawk just does it, for it is its nature. But I see him for what he is: the only one with the power to do what he does. As I see in one other. I will reward him in the form that best enhances his talent, as I will with the other.’ He sat in his chair by the fireplace. ‘So. Your confined companions.’

  At last. ‘My confined companions. And your promised help.’

  ‘Indeed. My word has always been kept, and I have no reason to do otherwise now. Return tomorrow, at the time of the evening meal when all others are busy tending to their stomachs. My man will fetch you as normal. I will think on it in the morning.’

  Brann felt his anger rise. ‘You will think on it tomorrow? I did what you asked. We risked our lives for you. Yet you have not even thought to consider it before now?’

  The eyes blazed and the voice was harsh. ‘Watch your tongue, boy, before I have it cut from your head. You presume much, to think to tell me how I should act. You are fortunate to have my assistance at all.’

  Brann stared at him, his head throbbing with fury. But the fate of his friends was worth more than venting his anger. He said nothing, other than, ‘Where is your slave?’