Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

Brann cut in. ‘Good. You can watch this door. My sergeant says that you two,’ he looked at the original guards, ‘are to accompany us to guide us to the surgeon. Time grows short for the patient and he wants to ensure we are there as soon as we can be.’

  The guard who had spoken before cocked his head with a frown. ‘The directions were not complicated.’

  Brann shrugged. ‘I know. But, believe me, now is not the best time to disobey an order after what we’ve been through.’

  The guard looked at his companion. The other man said, ‘Why not? The door is doubly guarded with these ones now.’

  They followed Brann at a run down the square spiral of the stairway, passing occasional soldiers and slaves as they went and catching Brann’s group as they reached the foot of the steps. A surreptitiously raised hand signalled to them not to query the presence of the two soldiers.

  ‘To the right,’ the first one said. ‘As I told you before.’

  Cannick nodded. ‘Good. Lead us.’ As they walked, he continued conversationally. ‘We were worried you would have sealed the entrance before we managed to reach it.’

  The man shook his head. ‘It will not be shut until it is certain it is needed. The Emperor is not convinced there is any more danger, and is not enamoured of the thought of the time it takes to raise the slab again once it has been closed. There will be two blasts of a horn from either within or without to signal danger, and we answer with a single one and drop the slab.’ He looked them over. ‘Had they known of the bother you have had, they might have considered doing it already. Was it much?’

  Cannick grunted. ‘Amateurs, that was all. I gave my report upstairs and the captain was satisfied.’

  The man accepted that, obviously convinced that the quality of the Imperial soldiers would be superior to any others they would encounter.

  They reached an open door and marched in without any preamble. A slightly built balding man in a simple deep-red tunic and with a thin scar down one cheek looked up.

  ‘A patient sir,’ the guard said. ‘Lost a foot.’

  The surgeon wasted no time. ‘On the table.’ He washed his hands in a basin to one side of the room, and called, ‘Gnaeus!’

  A bulky slave pulled aside a curtain to emerge from a second room. ‘Master?’ As he spoke, however, he saw Einarr on the table, and assessed the situation in an instant. The surgeon nodded briefly as the slave started to stoke a brazier and pull an assortment of shining implements from a set of drawers.

  The two guards turned to go but Brann nudged Cannick and gave a slight shake of the head. ‘No, wait here,’ the old warrior barked, removing his helmet and wiping the sweat from his forehead. The query from both men died in its beginnings as Cannick glared at the hint of an order being questioned. ‘You may remove your helmets. It is hot in here and we will hear any danger approach.’ He looked round at his companions. ‘All of you.’

  Breta moved behind the two men, out of their line of sight, before exposing her face. If the surgeon and his slave thought anything amiss about a female soldier, they did not say. A squad of soldiers adorned with fresh blood was an intimidating sight, and in any case they had pressing work to attend to.

  And it was attended to surprisingly quickly. The medical pair were clearly skilled and well practised in working together, and after a broad flat metal tool had been heated in the brazier and used to seal the end of his leg – causing Einarr to almost bite through the wooden peg placed between his teeth in his attempts not to scream – the stump was tended with deftness and assurance, an ointment was prepared and applied, and the leg was bound in fresh bandages. The slave ran eyes narrowed in appraisal over Einarr and disappeared into the side room, reappearing with two simply made but finely crafted crutches. He placed the first under the man’s armpit to find it was almost a perfect fit, but was not satisfied and tried the other. Happier, he left it lying beside Einarr on the stretcher and took the other back to the store.

  ‘Good,’ the surgeon said. ‘The crutch will help, but for now he will be light-headed after all he has endured and you must carry him some more. Other than that, he should be fine, though if his leg shows any signs of infection, you must seek the help of a healer as soon as you see it.’

  The surgeon gestured to Marlo. ‘I notice your wounds also. I will treat them.’ In moments the two gashes had been inspected, washed, sewn and freshly bandaged.

  Cannick had watched the treatment of both patients with close interest and moved forward to bow slightly in appreciation. ‘A most impressive display of skill. And swiftly done, also.’

  The man turned to wash his hands. ‘My education was beside a battlefield. You learn there to be effective as quickly as possible and move on to the next.’

  Cannick said, ‘I have been on many a battlefield, but have seen few with your skill. It is appreciated, sir.’

  The surgeon looked into the old warrior’s eyes. ‘I believe you have. Your appreciation is valued.’

  Cannick looked pointedly at Brann and raised his eyebrows. Gerens and Breta were behind the two guards and Brann caught their eyes, resting his hand on his knife hilt and flicking his eyes at the pair of soldiers. They moved up behind the unsuspecting guards, their own knives in hand. At the last moment, Brann realised he should have been more specific. ‘Alive!’ he shouted.

  The guards started and reached for their swords but found a blade at each of their throats. Brann’s party had their weapons drawn and the slave shrank back in horror. The surgeon remained calm and watched them, and Brann faced him. ‘Apologies. After the assistance you have given, you do not deserve this. But it is necessary.’

  The man remained impassive. ‘Unless you kill me, I have endured worse.’

  ‘You will not be killed.’ He turned to the guards. ‘Nor will you, unless you resist.’ He sighed. ‘There has been enough death already today for there to be any more if it is not necessary.’ Hakon and Breta were relieving the pair of their weapons, and Brann added, ‘We also require their armour, and tunics. Or, at least, our hostages require them.’

  The men were quickly stripped, much to the amusement of Breta. Konall was soon dressed as a soldier of the Empire and Cannick and Marlo helped Einarr to do likewise.

  Brann said, ‘The four of them, in the other room, bound, gagged and blindfolded.’ He looked at Gerens. ‘And alive.’

  The boy’s dark stare returned the look. ‘You sure, Chief?’

  Brann nodded, and that was all the confirmation the boy needed. As soon as the curtain was drawn again, Brann’s eyes found the shelving at the back of the room. There was no catch and all it took was to pull one side towards him for the structure to swing easily on its hinges. A well-crafted passage, smooth of floor, sloped down into darkness and a collection of lanterns lay to one side. Brann nodded. It would do.

  The others were readying themselves to enter it but Brann shook his head and gestured for silence. He picked up a bowl the slave had used to catch the last of Einarr’s bleeding and flicked a little over Einarr and Konall as Gerens had done with the rest of them, then walked into the passage to flick the bowl hard, casting the remainder of the blood in a trail as far down the floor as he could manage. He left the shelf-door lying wide open.

  He pointed to the door back the way they had come and they followed him out. Once the door to the surgeon’s room was shut, he spoke as he kept walking. ‘Change of plan.’

  ‘Change of plan?’ Hakon was aghast. ‘Our way out of here was right there in front of us.’

  ‘Every plan plans for failure at any stage,’ Cannick said. ‘I am sure young Brann has a reason. And an alternative.’

  Brann nodded. ‘It was when we were coming down the stairs with Hakon and Breta carrying the stretcher. I thought that we have no idea of the form the tunnel will take. It may be a perfect passage for all of its route, or it may not. I did not want to take the chance that we may not be able to take Einarr through it.’

  Hakon nodded slowly. ‘I can see that.’

&n
bsp; Cannick halted the group. ‘So what now?’

  ‘Some will think the hostages left by the rope from their room. Others will have seen them come in here, but none will have seen them leave. Their only other way out will be the escape passage, which emerges near the docks.’ He grinned. ‘The docks are therefore cut off from us as they will swarm there with their soldiers, but the deception does allow us an alternative. We walk out of the front door of this damned citadel.’

  Which they did.

  As soldiers and slaves and the noble and wealthy of Sagia ran and shouted and carried and fetched and drank and cried and passed rumours and sought news, no one spared a second thought for one more troop of guards passing among them. Three great gates they passed through with no sign of an obstacle or challenge. Until they reached the fourth.

  They saw the problem as soon as the gate was in view from the torchlight around it. A huge wooden problem. A portcullis.

  They stopped before it, their hearts sinking. Two guards walked from the gatehouse and looked over the party with interest. There was no point in even reaching for their weapons: they would overcome the pair with ease, but to attack Imperial guards at any time, let alone during the alert of an imminent attack, would find them overwhelmed themselves from all quarters in seconds.

  The guards stared at them for a long moment before one walked to Brann and, with the tip of his sword, lifted one short sleeve of his tunic higher up his arm to reveal his Dragon tattoo.

  A tinny laugh came from within his helmet and he and the other soldier lifted off their helms. Grakk and Mongoose stood grinning before them.

  Laughing, the group embraced as Sophaya, her uniform a little large for her, sauntered from the gatehouse, much to Gerens’s obvious relief.

  ‘How?’ said Cannick.

  Brann smiled. ‘It always helps to have something in reserve. I was worried that we may not make it to the Sanctuary, so thought we might need to have help waiting at this gate.’

  Grakk clapped Sophaya on the back. ‘Our young friend here has a rather impressive way with locks, so we vacated our cell once the commotion reached a crescendo. The guards became somewhat indisposed, so we kindly finished their shift for them.’

  Brann looked at the portcullis. ‘What about this, though? I had planned for you to be here to ease our passage past the guards, but I had not anticipated this.’

  ‘Worry not,’ Grakk said. ‘The engineering is a wonder to behold. One person may turn the wheel to raise the gate high enough to grant passage in mere moments. Mongoose, my friend. If you would?’

  The girl disappeared through the doorway and almost instantly the wooden structure, each squared beam the thickness of a ship’s mast, started rising.

  ‘The gearing is a work of mechanical genius,’ Grakk enthused, ‘but I fear we do not have the time available for me to show you.’

  Gerens grabbed Brann’s arm. ‘Indeed we do not.’ He wheeled him around.

  Around two score Imperial guards were running directly towards them, shouts of triumph carrying in the air as they spotted the group and attracting the attention of others.

  Quickly they slipped under the portcullis, its looming weight palpable above them, but Brann was worried. ‘We cannot outrun them with the stretcher.’

  ‘True,’ Sophaya said, before ducking back through the gateway. Sword in hand, she ran into the gatehouse and a second later the portcullis crashed to the ground with a force that left their ears ringing.

  ‘She cut the rope,’ Gerens said in horror.

  ‘She has bought us the opportunity to get clear of them. But only if we move now before they repair it.’

  ‘In any case,’ Brann laid a reassuring hand on Gerens’s shoulder, ‘high as these walls may be, I suspect she may reach the house before us.’

  She did.

  Brann steadied the horse beneath him, watching the dawn rise behind the capital city of the Empire. The others were quiet on their own mounts, each with their own thoughts on the events at the Emperor’s palace.

  Cannick cantered towards them with Breta and Mongoose in tow, completing their party. Brann was glad the two fighters had elected to travel with them; after what they had been through, it would have been hard to leave them behind, and he was sure that every sword would be vital, although Breta looked as if it would be a while before she felt comfortable on the horse that was currently bouncing her about as if she were a doll strapped to its back. At the thought of a sword, his hands dropped to his own weapons, strapped back on to his waist the instant he had entered the house. He smiled.

  ‘All good?’ he said to Cannick as the veteran reined up beside them.

  The man nodded and tossed him a bundle. Brann’s eyes widened as he opened up heavy black material, a neatly stitched repair near the hem. ‘My father’s cloak.’

  Cannick smiled. ‘We grabbed what we could when we fled the ship, and fortunately for you we found that among among what we had salvaged. It wasn’t much use in this climate, but I knew you were partial to it and, in any case, you’ll thank me for it when we reach the Northern weather.’

  Brann smiled. ‘I thank you for it now.’ His horse whinnied and he stroked its neck comfortingly. ‘What news?’

  ‘Threefold,’ Cannick said. ‘Einarr has safely taken up residence with Our Lady and her daughter. He will convalesce there much more successfully than he would with us. Secondly, the Lady Cirtequine passed a report from a certain former Emperor that his own sources of information tell him of a man asking questions in several locations of your South Island about a former mill boy from the North.’

  ‘Loku?’

  The grey head shook. ‘One of his men, most likely, who hasn’t had the message yet that you travelled to Sagia. I expect there are others seeking you in Einarr’s land also. You should take care when we return to your rain-soaked islands.’

  Brann shrugged. He could expect nothing less and, given what Alam had told him, it would certainly get worse. ‘And the third?’

  ‘The reason I know it is not Loku seeking you there is that the Lady also passed the information that the man may be a dangerous plotter of evil, but he has the maritime knowledge of the Deruul. He has been delayed by the storms that plague the south coast of the continent at this time of year, and it will be some time before he can reach the point where he can turn north. Should we work it cleverly with horse and then boat, we could arrive at your islands close on his tail.’

  ‘In that case,’ smiled Brann, ‘now would be a good time to start.’ Clenching his fingers around his father’s cloak, he touched his heels to his horse and started it forward.

  He headed home.

  ****

  They stood on his balcony. They could not see the rising sun around the corner of the building, but they could see its glow as it lightened the sky.

  ‘It seems,’ he said, ‘that there was no enemy at the walls. It seems there were an army’s campfires, but no army.’

  ‘And so,’ she said, ‘the royal elite can return to their lives as normal. It did make for an eventful night, apparently.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  They stood in silence.

  ‘It would have been nice, however,’ he said, ‘if even one of them had enquired after my welfare on our return to our chambers. It seems I am not high on their priorities. I am an insufficient asset or threat.’

  She stared over the desert, and her voice was that of the sand. ‘Fools.’

  He smiled. A cold smile, but a smile still. ‘I thank the gods that they are.’

  Epilogue

  The storyteller smiled. ‘And so tonight’s story draws to a close.’

  A murmur ran around the crowd. The villagers had proven a receptive audience, and so they should, given where he was. And now they wanted more.

  Which was always the perfect time to take his leave.

  He swept into a low bow. ‘I have more years behind me than in front, good people, and those years require me to rest. But if you permit my retur
n on the morrow, I shall conclude our tale, for it is a tale of three parts. You have heard our hero born and you have heard him grow.

  ‘Meet with me again to hear him rise.’

  Acknowledgements

  It is often said that a second book is harder than the first, but I found the opposite to be true. Hero Born was my first novel, and as such a leap into the unknown: the unknown of whether I could even write enough for a full-length book, never mind the mechanics of actually how to put the story together properly. So I launched myself into it, feeling my way and, much as Brann does in his fights, just did what felt right.

  When, therefore, I sat down with this one, I had the benefit of the experience of writing Hero Born and the advantage of the lessons I had learnt from the writing process and from expert editors. And I already knew the characters and the world – it was like stepping back into a familiar place after an absence and meeting old friends who had changed not one bit since I had last seen them. So the writing flowed comparatively more easily for me this time.

  But, despite this, it is safe to say that nothing would have been possible, were it not for the inspiration, expertise, support, help and advice of those near and far who had an impact beyond their awareness.

  My wife, Valerie, who is my confidence and my reality check, my rock and my refuge; and my family, Martyn, Johnny, Melissa, Nicky, Adam and Nathan, who continue to inspire me, encourage me, make me laugh and fill me with wonder.

  My parents, Ian and Diane, and my brother, Gordon, whose enthusiasm for my books remains unbounded, unchecked and energising; and my parents-in-law, Frank and Nan, whose relationship with me matters more to me than they can know.

  To my first-two-chapter-testers, Melissa and Claire, whose approval and enthusiasm helps fire me on though the rest of the writing.

  And, of course, to those professionals who made it all possible: Rachel Winterbottom, who edited with keen perception, deft skill and an unexpectedly-deep feel for the story and characters; Simon Fox, who copyedited with such an astounding eye for detail; Ben Gardiner whose evocative cover design was so perfect at the first attempt; Anne-Janine Nugent, whose publicity photos somehow manage to make me appear vaguely natural; Lily Cooper, who endures my naive questions and replies with relentless cheer; all at HarperVoyager whose work goes unseen by me but is no less appreciated for it; and, of course, Natasha Bardon, who oversees all with a touch that is as deft as it is infectiously enthusiastic and who, right back at the start, invested the faith to launch me on this incredible journey.