Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)

by Andy Livingstone

  Pushing aside his annoyance at allowing a foe to approach so close unnoticed, he scanned the area properly. No one else was near enough to attack imminently. In fact, it looked as though no more attacks would come. Those arriving from the further parts of the camp were greeted with the sight of blazing fires and thick billowing smoke, dust rising from massing forces about to crest the hill and, emerging from it all, masked warriors with blood on their blades and bodies at their feet.

  They fled.

  Scrambling and careering, they ran for their lives in every direction but the one that promised death. They headed into the open countryside with thoughts of no one but themselves, scattering like seed from a farmer’s hand.

  The group converged and moved free of the smoke. Brann pulled the material from his lower face, glad to be able to breathe freely again, as Hakon slapped him heartily on the back.

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ the boy said, gripping Brann’s shoulders from behind and squeezing them affectionately. ‘That was fun.’

  ‘It was also most effective,’ Grakk said, joining them. ‘A highly efficient plan, young Brann.’

  He smiled. ‘Far more effective than I had even imagined. They ran sooner and faster than I thought they would.’

  Cannick snorted. ‘You underestimate the weakness of character of such as those. Even when they win they run away, just as soon as they have rifled your corpse for valuables.’

  The smoke was lifting as the huts quickly burnt out, and Gerens was staring at the rocky outcrop with a frown. ‘Where is Sophaya?’ he said, worry forcing the words out abruptly.

  Brann laid a calming hand on his arm and pointed to the end of the ridge that lay on the side of the camp where they had approached. The slight figure could be seen staring out across the open land beyond.

  ‘As soon as she could no longer see to shoot, I told her to head there with Grakk’s looking tube thing.’ He looked at the tribesman. ‘The…?’

  ‘The oculens.’ Grakk shook his head. ‘You have a truly awful memory.’

  ‘I do,’ Brann nodded. He couldn’t deny it. ‘Anyway, she’s been watching for Loku. With her sight aided, he could not escape her notice even if he left the moment we struck. She will remain there until we are sure he is not still here.’

  ‘So now we search the site for him?’ said Hakon.

  ‘Now we search the site.’

  They did, but with no sign of Loku or any of his effects. They met back at the horses and cleaned off their weapons.

  ‘Not bad work for an hour or so,’ said Mongoose, blood matting her hair, but presumably – hopefully, thought Brann – not her own.

  ‘True,’ said Brann. ‘They are scattered, and we can still get a good half-day’s travelling behind us yet.’ He looked at Cannick. ‘How far to the northern coast, do you reckon?’

  The battle-worn face creased in brief thought. ‘Five days. Maybe less if we push it.’

  ‘Then let us push it.’

  There had not been many horses in the corral at the settlement, but they found one of sufficient quality to take for Philippe. With proper feeding it would build its true strength in time, and it was young enough to keep up with the rest, though it looked exhausted each night and Brann felt guilt at the need to force it so much. Still, there was no choice, and they had been lucky with its character as it gamely forced itself to keep pace with the rest. Riding long each day and stopping only briefly, they found themselves approaching the port of Selaire during the afternoon of the fourth day. It was a compact port, and they dismounted to walk their horses through streets busy with the throng of thriving trade.

  They headed straight for the docks, where boats of all sizes and purposes bumped in close confines, shouts of men, squeals of seabirds, and clanking and banging of cargoes being moved from quay to vessel and vessel to quay echoing the sounds of every port Brann had visited in his travels of the past years.

  Brann looked around, a faint memory stirring.

  Cannick noticed. ‘We stopped here to pick up a cargo when you first, well, “joined” our crew. Remember now?’

  Brann did remember. ‘You know people here, then?’

  ‘It was mainly Einarr who did, but I met the harbour master a few times. If there is a ship leaving for Cardallon soon, it is his job to know.’ He nodded to a street that angled away from the docks. ‘See there, between the fish market and that warehouse with the hoist bringing the crates to the upper floor? Head up that road for two minutes at the most and you’ll see an inn with boxes of flowers above the door: The King’s Lady. Strangers could always eat and drink there in relative safety in the past, so hopefully it’s still the same.’

  Brann nodded. He knew as well as Cannick did that their group could defend themselves, but trouble with drunk dockers or sailors, or fending off locals intent on relieving them of their valuables would, at best, waste time. ‘I thought they didn’t have kings around here.’

  Cannick smiled. ‘Drinkers like to reminisce, inns need drinkers, so innkeepers like history.’

  He headed towards a brick building with external stairs leading to a balcony and what looked like a busy office, from the number of people leaving and entering, and Brann caught up with his meandering companions just as Marlo caught at the sleeve of a passing stevedore.

  The man turned aggressively, causing Brann’s hand to drop to his knife – a safer weapon of choice in a crowded area, where innocents could be caught in the sweep of a sword blade – but Marlo’s expression was bright and pleasant.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but do you know of a tavern where a group of travellers may satisfy their hunger?’

  The man’s expression changed at the question. He glanced around as if to check whether any other passer-by was listening, and smiled at Marlo with too much enthusiasm for Brann’s liking. ‘I don’t know of any taverna any further north than near enough a month’s riding to the south, but there are a few inns around, being that dock work is thirsty work.’ He pointed. ‘Head for the ship, right there, and you’ll get taken care of all right.’ He slapped Marlo on the shoulder and headed off in the direction of that same inn, and Marlo turned to the others enthusiastically.

  ‘There,’ he said proudly. ‘I have found us somewhere perfect. Did you hear him say they would take care of us?’

  Hakon took his arm and gently steered him away. ‘I am sure they would, my trusting friend, but not in the way you are thinking.’

  Brann inclined his head in the direction Cannick had indicated, and they followed.

  Marlo, still guided by Hakon’s unshakeable grip, wasn’t happy. ‘But…’

  Hakon grinned and released his arm, instead wrapping an arm around the slight shoulders. ‘Marlo, we will keep you alive and, in return, please do not ever change. Even in our darkest hours, you remind us that there is light.’

  Marlo scowled. ‘I was only trying to help.’

  Konall spoke from behind. ‘Hakon is right. Now shut up.’

  A frown still wrinkled Marlo’s brow, and he looked around at the others and the amusement in their eyes. He shrugged and grinned. ‘Fair enough!’

  Hakon ruffled his hair. ‘That’s what I mean.’

  The King’s Lady proved to be as normal and devoid of miscreants as any inn found in a port could be, and, from the approving smile Cannick bore as he met them at their table, it seemed that it was as he remembered it.

  The grey-haired warrior lifted a leg of chicken from in front of Brann and savoured a large bite.

  ‘Got us a ship with room enough for all of us and the horses,’ he said around the meat.

  ‘That’s excellent,’ Brann said. ‘When does it leave?’

  ‘On the evening tide.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  Cannick nodded, taking another bite and moving to the side as the innkeeper brought another platter filled with more meat, followed by another of bread and cheese. Hakon and Breta eyed the food appreciatively.

  ‘Also excellent,’ Brann said. ‘When do we ne
ed to leave here?’

  Cannick lifted another piece of chicken. ‘Precisely?’ Brann nodded. ‘Now.’

  Hakon eyed the food. ‘Not excellent!’ he said, aghast. ‘Very, very far from excellent.’

  The innkeeper glowered. ‘Well, you paid for this. I’m not taking it back.’

  Hakon looked horrified at the very thought. ‘This will cover the cost of two new serving platters.’ He placed a handful of coins on the table and, after a thought, added a couple more. ‘And a jug.’ He lifted the two platters, passing one to Breta, and the jug of ale and smiled beatifically at the others. ‘Actually, now is fine.’

  The captain took the agreed price from Cannick at the foot of the gangplank, and eyed Hakon and Breta dubiously. ‘The amount does include feeding you, you know.’

  Cannick smiled. ‘Don’t worry, they will still appreciate any meal you put their way.’

  ‘Afternoon,’ Hakon said cheerfully as he passed them, proffering the platter politely and towering over the man.

  The captain declined the offer with a shake of his head and turned back to Cannick. ‘I believe you.’

  The wind was favourable as they rode the tide from the harbour, taking them quickly to sea. They were split over the two passenger cabins, and Brann was happy to settle in a bunk after the hard riding of the past few days. He watched as Grakk moved a lamp to a hook above the centre of the room and spread out the Duke’s bedsheet and the documents within it on the floor, starting to sort them into piles.

  ‘Do you want any help?’ he said to the top of the tattooed scalp as the man already pored over them.

  Grakk shook his head. ‘Your offer is appreciated, young Brann, but my tribe has lived for centuries with a primary purpose of collecting, studying and archiving information. Perusing this and sorting the relevant minority from the irrelevant majority is what I learnt to do at the age that you were watching your first grain ground. My concentration is best when I work alone.’

  Brann left him to it, but watched his quick movements and flitting eyes with interest until the rocking of the ship saw him drift into a doze. It had been a while since he had been on open water in the choppy Northern seas, but the familiarity was comforting.

  He was roused when a sailor brought them supper late on, and noticed with astonishment the progress Grakk had made. Six or seven large piles lay to one side, while the man was sifting through one small set of papers that lay in front of his crossed legs.

  ‘You were not wrong about being good at that,’ Brann said, and received a shrug in reply. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Three things: the first being that we will not have to carry this bundle around with us any more. This,’ he tapped the pile in front of him, ‘is all that is of use.’

  Brann nodded. ‘And the second?’

  ‘That our friend Loku is one of several agents at his level in the organisation who are charged with generally sowing unrest, fear and confusion in key areas, on various scales – the establishing, populating and developing such camps as we have seen being a prime example of this. These agents tend to be strategically placed, but Loku is different in that he seems to have a roving commission, covering several separate territories, perhaps because his position with the Empire restricts the time he can spend away from Sagia. For that reason, he is often used to communicate and liaise with the others, such as at Belleville.’

  ‘You said plots operate on different scales. We already know of anything from scattered atrocities to the attack on the ruling class at Konall’s home. But are there other parts of this that are as big as what happened at Markethaven? That was an established army.’

  ‘According to what we have here,’ Grakk waved a hand over the papers, ‘that was connected, but separate. Whoever is directing this whole strategy took advantage of an ambitious warlord to the east of there, and north of the Empire, and filled his head with ambition. A different tactic and outcome, but to the same ends: unrest, confusion, even regime change where possible. It is becoming ever clearer that we must find who is at the top of Loku’s conspiracy, who is devising and coordinating it all, for if we only strike at those lower down the chain, other attacks will spring up like new shoots after the rain. The man, or woman, at the top must be removed for there to be any chance of stopping all of this. Finding that person is everything.’

  Brann nodded grimly.

  A gruff voice broke into the conversation. ‘Was that the third thing you learnt?’ Cannick had been listening from his bunk and sat up. ‘About Markethaven? That was more than just a siege of an affluent town with plunder in mind, as they had pillaged and destroyed with determination on their way there and seemed intent on invading further had they been successful at that town.’

  Grakk shook his head patiently. ‘That was still part of the second.’

  ‘So the third is…?’ Brann said.

  Grakk smiled. ‘We know exactly where Loku is heading, and when.’

  Brann was on his feet. ‘The meeting across the water the Duke spoke about! Where they were to meet with the man controlling them. When is it?’

  ‘Two days from now. At nightfall.’

  ‘Where? The port where we land in the morning?’

  ‘Waelclif? No. It is near Eabryg, a market town in the lands of a minor lord. The lord’s estate steward is Loku’s fellow agent. He operates from the hunting lodge, and that is where they will meet.’

  Cannick reached to the tray of food that the sailor had brought. ‘I know that town, Eabryg. Einarr had trade links with a merchant in the next town, and sometimes we would stop over there.’

  Brann looked at him. ‘How far is it from Waelclif?’

  Cannick grinned. ‘If we push it, two days.’

  They stepped onto the dock with a sharp wind plucking at their clothes and the dawn sun struggling to break through thick clouds.

  ‘Welcome to the Green Islands,’ Brann said.

  Mongoose pulled her cloak tight around her. ‘Feel good to be home?’

  Brann stared around. ‘This is not home. Gerens and I are from Alaria, the North Island. It’s colder, and wetter.’

  She huddled deeper in her cloak. ‘This is bad enough. I don’t know how the two of you survived in your village.’

  ‘We didn’t grow up together. Same island, different parts.’

  She frowned. ‘You didn’t know each other? On the same island?’

  ‘It’s a big island. Two or three days’ ride across, and a good couple of weeks from bottom to top, or so Einarr told me.’ He thought of the Northern lord, Konall’s uncle, and missed him. There was a calm assurance about the man that made a crisis less of, well, a crisis. He pulled out his own cloak. ‘But you are right about one thing: having got used to the Southern climates, I am not sure myself how I got through the weather there. I suppose it never occurred to me that there was any other type of climate.’

  They led the horses through the town to a farrier’s workshop where a broken shoe on Sophaya’s horse could be replaced, and the smell of porridge from the inn next door soon pulled them inside.

  Brann smiled as Hakon asked for an extra portion in his bowl. ‘Get enough to eat last night?’ he asked.

  Hakon nodded as he ate. ‘Yes, thank you. Fortunately, the Sagian ones, Marlo and Philippe, were not used to the sea and allowed us their share of the food.’

  ‘Not Sophaya?’

  ‘She was fine. She seems to cope with anything, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Don’t mention that to Gerens. I’m still not used to him waxing lyrical, though only he could do so with one word.’

  Hakon grinned, and took another mouthful. ‘Magnificent.’

  Marlo popped his head through the doorway. ‘That’s us ready.’ He smelt the food and a queasy look dropped over his face. ‘I’ll be outside.’

  Hakon looked at his bowl, still a third filled, and fished for his purse. Brann stayed his hand. ‘You cannot eat porridge on the back of a horse, and you can’t just keep buying tableware. Finish it
and I’ll get your horse ready for you.’

  ‘Truly,’ Hakon said, his spoon a blur, ‘you are the very best of friends.’

  Brann couldn’t help smiling as he lifted both of their packs and joined the others at the horses. He saddled his own first, settling his pack with his personal supplies, including his mail shirt, in a saddlebag on one side and confirming the equivalent, holding food and water, was balancing the weight on the other. His bow and quiver he stowed in a holster behind his right hip, and he checked that a long knife – more of a short sword, really, was settled behind his left, covered by the round shield that he hung over it. He was halfway through fixing Hakon’s gear when the boy appeared behind him.

  ‘Oh,’ the Halvekan accent said over his shoulder. ‘If I had known it would take you so long I could have had some more porridge. I’ll see you in a few more minutes then.’

  Brann whirled with a scowl, but was greeted with a grin and a wink. He punched Hakon with all the effect of punching a stone waymarker, and the big boy laughed in return.

  ‘Thank you, Brann. I will finish it from here. You wouldn’t do it the way I like it anyway.’

  Brann was still massaging his wrist and decided not to punch him again.

  The innkeeper stopped them as they were setting off, the first of them already heading up the street. He held a cloak aloft, and Brann reined up, seeing that it was Mongoose’s, the young woman having taken it off when she had entered the warmth of the inn.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said to the innkeeper, leaning down to take the bundle. ‘She has left already – I’ll take it for when the cool air reminds her she has left it behind.’

  He flicked his own cloak out of the way to let him wedge it beside his pack in the saddlebag, and the innkeeper’s eyes locked onto it with interest.

  ‘Your cloak has a distinctive repair,’ he said.