Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)

by Andy Livingstone

  Brann nodded. But still, the image of his family, his village, his world for most of his life pulled at him. His heart wanted nothing other than to ride north at his father’s side, and without a moment’s pause, and a father’s instinct must have seen it painted across Brann’s face. The big hands turned him to face away. ‘Go,’ he heard his father’s voice say softly. ‘Go away. Now. Go. Away. From. Here.’

  He was right. Again.

  Brann reached behind him, finding his father’s hand. Squeezed it. And walked away.

  Chapter 5

  They shuffled through streets caked in dirt, just two more old people in dark clothes and darker shadows.

  A figure stepped from an alley. Barely any moonlight seeped through the clouds, but enough to show the knife in the man’s hand.

  ‘I’ll take what you have now.’ The voice was grim, but there was the telltale quaver of the slave to the dream smoke. The fact that he would see two elderly members of the poor as targets for his thievery had already betrayed his desperation. ‘Now.’

  He turned slowly to the thief, his hands still tucked into the opposite sleeves of his robe, the cheaply made garment showing signs of careful maintenance and the cleanliness of self-respect. The man was shaking, but whether from irritation or the amount of time since his last smoke was unclear. What was clear, however, was the impatient unpredictability in his eyes.

  ‘What do you think two people of our years, in this quarter, might have of value?’ His voice was dry with age, but held the firmness of an adult talking to a slow child. ‘Did you look before you spoke?’

  The thief shuffled, uncertainly. ‘I don’t care how little you have on you, it is more than nothing and that makes it something.’ Anger started to push down his hesitation. Eyes that were old enough to water slightly in the cool air of the night were not too old to notice the fingers tighten on the hilt. ‘Now, I’ll take what you have from your willing hand or I’ll take it from your dead one. Either way…’

  He opened his eyes wide in shock. ‘You would murder us? At our age?’

  Impatience now brought a snarl. ‘What of it? I should not because you are old? The opposite: time will bring death soon enough anyway; I would steal a year or so from you, no more. What loss is that?’

  ‘Little to you, but much to me. You will find, should you manage to live long enough, that the fewer years you have ahead of you, the more you cling to each one that lies before you.’

  ‘Enough of this!’ The knife drew back, the arm tensing for the blow. Rusted and pitted the blade may be, but it would cut flesh all the same.

  ‘Wait, wait.’ His voice was pleading, frightened. ‘All I have is this.’

  His right hand started to pull from the sleeve, and he stepped closer to the thief, more easily to pass his meagre possessions.

  The knife lowered and the thief’s other hand reached forward eagerly.

  The old mind smiled and old muscles felt young for a heartbeat as his own blade came from his sleeve and slashed across the proffered wrist. The thief’s weapon clattered on the ground as the hand was used instead to grasp the wound. The man dropped to his knees beside the forgotten knife, his eyes wide with horror at the thick blood seeping through his grasping fingers.

  ‘You have killed me!’

  ‘If you are talking, you’re not dead.’

  The eyes looked up. ‘I will be soon.’

  ‘Take your tunic, wrap it tight around it and instead of cowering on your knees in the dirt, use the time to find someone who can fix it. If you go now, you have a chance.’

  The man staggered to his feet clumsily, then looked in confusion at his tunic, its grubbiness testament to his priorities in life, but less caring about its hygiene at this moment than about the difficulty of removing it without letting go of this wrist.

  ‘Here.’ The old woman stepped forward, taking her companion’s knife to cut the tunic from him, the fabric parting as easily as the skin had. She wound the rags compactly around his wrist, allowing him to pull away the other hand, and placed that hand back up on it.

  He watched her work, seeing a new side in someone he thought he had come to know.

  His voice was as dry as Death’s well of compassion.‘You were right, boy: I may have only a year or two left to me. But keep living your life in smoke and I will outlive you. The gods know there is nothing more certain.’

  The wounded man merely stared at him, then ran stumbling into the lane he had emerged from.

  She looked at him. ‘Will he find someone in time who can fix that?’

  ‘Of course. Do you think there are more knife wounds in the rich parts of the city or the poorer? The two most busy professions here in the Pastures are those who sell temporary escape from reality and those who deal with the consequences. He will know of several and find one close.’

  They resumed walking. She broke the silence a short distance later. ‘In years past, you could have cut his throat, not his wrist.’

  ‘That is the thing about the past and the future: they are not now. And you are the person you are now, not the one you are or will be.’

  ‘But you are the product of what you were.’

  ‘Exactly. The product, not the image.’

  They had arrived at a nondescript door in a nondescript building. She knocked with a deliberate rhythm, and the shutter over a window opened a crack; an eye and the glint of metal all that was visible. Bolts were heard moving and the door opened to reveal an armed man who gestured that they should enter. It was closed the instant they were inside, the heavy bolts being slid home once more.

  A man rose at their entrance, offering the female visitor his chair by the fire, waving away the offer of help from the attendant warrior to move swiftly to fetch two more chairs, a crutch compensating for a missing foot.

  His old eyes watched the crippled man’s movements carefully. Some people reacted to a setback with self-pity, others with practical and relentless determination; it was clear which category he saw here.

  His companion initially disregarded the offered chair and moved to the other seated at the fireside, a lady whose age made him feel as though he were once again a young man.

  ‘Mother,’ she said, the love evident in the word. ‘My apologies, it has been too long.’

  Eyes crinkled and smiled back at her. ‘It has been barely longer than a week, Cirtequine, barely that. Talk with sense.’

  ‘Still, I miss you. I should be here more often.’

  ‘Be here more often, and you would not miss me so much, so you would not. You would not miss me at all.’

  Cirtequine smiled and took the chair. She looked across at the man accompanying. ‘Mother, you know—’

  A raised hand from the older woman stopped her words. The gold charms on the chain across her forehead tinkled as cloudy eyes turned his way.

  ‘Of course I know Alam. I knew him as a boy; why would I not know the man?’ She pointed at the one empty chair, the one-footed man having sunk into one of the two he had brought over. ‘Please, boy, sit. We have much to talk about, so we do. Much to discuss.’

  He sat, feeling younger than a young man. ‘If you would excuse my bluntness, Lady Aldis, I did not come for chatter and pleasant reminiscence. I would speak of fate and destiny.’

  The pale eyes locked on his, and he felt – knew – they saw more, so much more, than what simply lay before them.

  ‘What else do those such as we discuss?’

  ****

  Brann stood near the prow, spray in his face and his eyes on the approaching coastline, visible in the soft light of early morning. Daric had booked passage in advance on a ship sailing from the port of Thiel, and Cannick had been sent ahead to negotiate an increase in the travelling party to eleven rather than the six that had been originally agreed. The captain had been dubious at first, both about having room for the extra passengers and the fact that Daric’s intermediary had changed identity, but it was soon proved that, in almost any such situation, money alle
viates all concerns. The conversation also revealed one other useful fact: that Daric had never travelled this way previously, so his absence would not be noticed.

  The crossing had taken the best part of a week, winds not being favourable and, indeed, blowing them south of their intended course. Brann had Cannick considerately suggest to the captain that he take them to a port a half-day’s sailing to the south of their original destination. This time, the captain was only too happy to accommodate the change as it would save him a full day on the next leg of his journey, delivering a cargo to Selaire.

  Konall knew the area well – it belonged to a warlord, not his uncle but a neighbouring one and, while no two warlords were friendly, there was a mutual respect and, mostly, peace between the two. Consequently, Konall had visited the region on many an occasion and was able to confirm that their point of landing was well-suited to their plan to get into character once on dry land and move to the meeting from there. To meet Daric’s contact as they left the ship would reveal too much of their company to scrutiny and, what was more, would reduce their options. To avoid both was preferable.

  Hakon joined Brann, his contentment obvious at feeling his hair blown by the sea air. ‘It will feel almost like home,’ he beamed. ‘And interesting to see this part of the country, too.’

  Brann looked at him with curiosity. ‘You don’t know this area as intimately as Konall does, then?’

  Hakon’s big laugh boomed as far as the gulls above. ‘I know it hard to believe, Brann, but Konall and I are slightly different. He is the son of a lord, and nephew of a warlord, while I am just the son of a warrior, albeit a senior one.’ He frowned. ‘Senior warrior, that is, not senior son, although since my brother is only ten years old and my sister is, well, a sister, I suppose I am a senior son. But that was not the point.’

  ‘No,’ Brann smiled, ‘it was not. Please continue.’

  ‘Anyway, he travelled places with his father on official trips and I, well, I didn’t. A page was not necessary for official trips, only for chores and tasks at home and more chores and tasks on hunting. Furthest I got from the town was either official hunts or leisure ones with my friends, and all hunts went inland, not along the coast. I never got any further away until, that is, we all had our wee adventure in the mountains.’ He laughed again. ‘Now I’m coming back from the deserts of the Empire to a place in my own homeland that I grew up thinking was too far away, even though it was the next settlement of significance along the coast from Ravensrest. How ironic is that?’

  Brann slapped him on the back. ‘See? Stick with me and you get experiences you never envisaged!’

  ‘Aye, but experiences that are going to turn me into an old man before long.’ He ruffled Brann’s hair with a force that almost took his head from his shoulders. ‘But a happy old man.’

  The port was close now and, for the first time in the journey, the wind was perfect for them, whipping them directly towards the harbour mouth.

  They disembarked into a small port that was busy enough for no one to take any notice of them, and quiet enough that they passed from it and into the countryside without hindrance. The ship had been a reasonable size and – despite the captain’s protestations of difficulty to Cannick when a higher price was sought for their passage – with sufficient spare capacity that they had been able to bring their horses with them. It would not have been a terrible hindrance had they not been able to do so, but Brann was now glad that they could mount up and set off as soon as they were on the harbourside. He felt pulled towards their target.

  They stopped a mile from the town and gathered at the side of the road. Hakon looked around the landscape, bleaker and more windswept than the one they had left and with ground that made unrewarding toil of farming, with a beatific smile on his face. Konall knelt and drew his fingers through the sparse and hardy grass, then rested his hand flat as if trying to feel the essence of the ground. Brann knew their feelings. He, too, had been surprised at the strength of the sensation that had struck him on returning to the ground of his birth.

  ‘How far?’ he asked Konall.

  The boy looked up, his reverie broken. ‘No more than half a day.’

  Grakk was surprised. ‘Two ports in such close proximity?’

  Hakon laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘This is not your Empire now, friend Grakk, this is our dear land. Most people live on the coast, because the sea is more giving than the land. You’ll do well to find a cove without dwellings of some sort and boats moored, and everything above the size of a hamlet calls itself a port.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Grakk mused. He had appropriated Daric’s satchel and its contents, and he pulled forth a sheet of paper and scratched some notes on it.

  Marlo laughed. ‘You are turning into a proper little Scribe, Grakk.’

  Grakk drew himself to his full height and looked down on Marlo from a distance of no more than a hand’s breadth. His glare, however, would have had its effect from a hundred times that distance. ‘Little? And you think only those of that slave caste are interested in recording information of value?’ Marlo paled, and Grakk grinned and patted his head. ‘Relax, young Marlo. I jest.’

  For once, Marlo had no reply.

  Brann looked at the road ahead, matching the coast as far as they could see. ‘This the best way?’ he asked Konall.

  The boy stood, brushing dirt from his hand. ‘All the most direct roads link the coastal settlements, because of what Hakon told you.’

  ‘Then let us know when we draw close, and we will ready ourselves.’

  Konall nodded, and they moved off. His estimate of the journey time was proved accurate, as they expected from his precise approach to all in life, and on sighting the smoke of cooking fires he called them to a halt.

  ‘This is the distance you requested,’ he said to Brann.

  ‘Good.’ He wheeled his horse to face the others.

  Marlo was already pulling the cloaks and masks they had taken from the riders they had ambushed, and Hakon was checking the straps on his horse for a ride ahead. Brann reached up to pat the large boy on his shoulder.

  ‘Remind me, how long could it take you to reach Ravensrest, and your father?’

  Hakon grinned. ‘Normally, a good couple of hours, but after being away from home for so long, much less than that.’ His smile faded as he looked past Brann. ‘Oh dear. This is not going to work, I am afraid.’

  Brann frowned and turned. Marlo had passed the outfit they had taken from the fake Daric to Konall, and the tall boy, the member of their party with the closest physical build to Daric, had the red wig on his head and was swinging the heavy cloak around his shoulders.

  ‘What isn’t going to work?’ Normally the sight would have been comical, but Hakon’s words had killed any humour before it could even begin.

  ‘That. No one will believe it.’

  ‘Why not? They have never met Daric. All they could have is a rough physical description of a tall man with long red hair, and an air of authority. And if ever a situation was made for Konall’s perfected approach to life of aloof disdain, this is it.’

  Hakon shook his head. ‘It is because it is Konall. These are local people he is meeting. At some point, he will have to remove his mask, and as soon as he does, no wig in the world is going to stop anyone within a hundred miles of Ravensrest from recognising that face in the instant they see it.’

  Brann’s heart sank. ‘But everything rests on us luring them from the town. We have no idea of their strength in the town, here, and cannot risk taking them on in a place that is their stronghold. We have no one else but Konall, given – as I said – that physical description is all they will base their recognition on.’

  ‘Well, almost no one else.’ They turned in surprise at Philippe’s voice. The boy shrugged. ‘I am a match for Konall in height.’

  Brann shook his head. ‘Philippe, it is far too dangerous for you.’

  The boy frowned. ‘This is more of an acting job than a fighting one. H
ave you forgotten…?’

  Cannick spoke softly. ‘The boy has a point.’

  Philippe pressed on. ‘Look, it only fits with difficulty over Konall’s hair anyway, and my hair is much shorter.’ He moved forward entreatingly. ‘You have all taken me in without question, and when the opportunity to repay you in some measure through the very skill I have that you all do not, do you think I would rather be watching picketed horses for you?’

  Brann shook his head. ‘I am still not happy about it. If something happens to you and I could have protected you from it…’

  Grakk moved closer also. ‘It perhaps is Philippe’s decision as to whether he wishes protection. We could all say the same about Marlo, or even you, at times.’

  Brann frowned, but he could feel his resolve faltering. ‘Gerens does feel the need to protect me.’

  Cannick nodded. ‘But he still allows you to do what you feel you must. He protects by watching your back. You can do the same today for Philippe.’

  ‘There comes a time for everyone,’ Grakk added, ‘when they have to do what they think they should, if they are to be the person they can be. You of all people must know that.’

  Brann nodded. ‘Fine.’ He faced Philippe. ‘But I will never be more than an arm’s length from you.’

  Philippe smiled weakly. ‘I wouldn’t be going if I thought you weren’t. I’m not that brave.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Brann. ‘You are. It’s one thing going into something where you may have to fight your way out, but a whole different thing where you know you cannot.’ He sighed. ‘You’d better try on the wig, then.’

  Konall tossed it to him, and it slipped onto his head as if it had been made for him.

  He took the cloak and swirled it into place, spinning dramatically through a full turn. When he faced them once more, his appearance drew a gasp from every throat. His posture had pulled straight and haughty, matching his face. His eyes were even no longer his own, staring with casual scorn around the group. His voice had deepened and acquired the assurance brought by expected obedience when he spoke. ‘Which of you fools must I take with me?’