Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)

by Andy Livingstone

  ‘One like this?’ Hakon said from another corpse nearby. He lifted a weapon identical to the one in Brann’s hands but at least half again as long and, while it looked far too cumbersome and heavy to be practical, it moved quickly enough in Hakon’s huge hands. ‘This,’ said the Northern boy through a grin, ‘I like.’ He swung it experimentally with both hands on the hilt and then – to Brann’s amazement – one-handed, and seemed equally pleased with each method. ‘The head of a horse, you say? Interesting. Very interesting.’ He lifted the body at his feet into a sitting position and pulled a broad scabbard wrapped in brightly patterned fabric over its head and, after inserting the weapon, he slung it across his own back, quite clearly delighted with his acquisition.

  Brann looked at the weapon in his hands with new respect as he dropped it back on the ground to let him take a drink from his water skin. ‘I have never seen its like. I suppose advanced thinking is in looking at different ways of doing things, not constrained by what everyone else does.’ Hakon had been unable to resist pulling out his new weapon once again and was leaping and swinging it like an uncomplicated child with his first wooden sword. In a way, he was. Brann smiled fondly. ‘And I have never seen a sword as big as that.’

  ‘Actually,’ Grakk said, ‘it is ironic that the only place I have heard of a sword-like weapon of that sort of size is in the mountainous north of your island, where the people live closer to the ways of their ancestors than you soft farmers in the South. They have swords of metal, but some are said to be as tall as a man.’

  Brann’s eyes widened. ‘In Alaria? The Northern tribes are as big as Hakon?’

  ‘Only some of them. The big ones carry the big swords, but all of them are fierce warriors. The not-so-big ones find their own ways to fight men with big swords.’ He looked with narrowed eyes at Brann. ‘Which does somewhat remind me of someone…’

  Hakon strode up. ‘What did you say this was called?’

  ‘A macuahuitl,’ Grakk said.

  Hakon made several attempts at repeating the word. “I’ll call it my maqua.’

  ‘Time to go,’ said Brann.

  They rode – through gaps in walls allowed to crumble through the perceived safety of sitting, of all the kingdoms in the Empire, most in the shadow of Sagia – into a city of discomforting eeriness. With no buffer between them and the enemy, the residents of these first areas had abandoned their homes, fleeing from the atrocities every army brings. Brann stared at houses, some with enclosed gardens glimpsed through doors left gaping, everything perfectly in place but for the inhabitants. Shopfronts, built into the bottom level of buildings, still displayed their wares, and although some had been looted by those seeking supplies as they fled, most still appeared ready for custom. Carts sat in the streets, as if the owners had dropped into a nearby building for just a moment. The only sounds were the buzzing of insects around rotting food and the occasional scuffle of paws of a dog – stray from the city or the larger desert animal encouraged into the empty streets by temptation and curiosity – as it was startled by the noise of the horses’ hooves. With no opposition, the enemy forces had clearly been directed where fighting was possible – to control the city, they must subdue the population, Brann realised, not merely occupy empty buildings.

  He turned to Grakk, who was riding at his side. ‘Why stop here? Why did Loku not just pass the city by? He could have carried on without taking the time it will do to take a whole city.’

  ‘Two reasons, curious young Brann,’ the tribesman said. ‘From a strategic point of view, he would be wary of leaving a competent force behind him, exposing the less warrior-like part of his army such as we faced on the road and creating the possibility that, as a whole, he could be caught between them and some other assisting force. Safer to annihilate this danger, or at least deplete it to the extent that a portion of his own force can be left to watch the back of those who press forward.

  ‘But probably more importantly to him is the second. He knows that we travelled to ulDetina from those of his men who survived their pursuit of us to that city, but he knows nothing of the route from there to Khardorul. He may stumble on another route across the Blacklands and may even discover which mountain of the countless ones in the Blacklands hides my home city, but relying on chance is not his way. He has planned too much, too intricately, to be a man who is comfortable with anything other than controlling his path to his goal. He knows that a direct route must lead from ul-Detina, the City of Ghosts, to my home in the City of Wisdom, else we would not have gone there. However, he cannot interrogate ghosts in ul-Detina, so he will enquire of the people here in his own particular fashion. Whether it is the route we took or another, he seeks a way to Khardorul, and amongst the thousands in this closest city to the Deadlands, he must be sure there is lore that will reveal it to him, even just in tales passed through generations that are thought to be fanciful entertainment. Remember, he has experience of gathering and disseminating information for the Emperor for many years, and he will extract it here in quantity, and distil what he needs. He will extract it in quantity and at speed.’ Brann’s face must have revealed his thoughts at that last comment. ‘You can never forget, young Brann, what we are dealing with.’

  Brann felt the anger rise. ‘How could I possibly? How can you think I would?’

  ‘I don’t just mean what you experienced and, worse, what you saw Marlo experience,’ Grakk said softly. ‘Do not let it cloud your thoughts because it is personal. There are others who have experienced worse, and in numbers greater than we can ever know. This man may believe passionately in his cause or it may be a deception to mask personal gain but, no matter which, it allows him in his mind to see no impediment to, or limit to, the suffering he will inflict on countless innocent people if it will advance him one inch towards his goal.’

  Brann’s eyes widened in realisation. ‘It is not just about Khardorul, and the knowledge within,’ he said, ‘although the danger is not just in what Loku may discover but in what the world will discover: the city’s very existence. But is more. It is the threat of what he might do after. What he will do after.’

  Grakk nodded, his eyes fixed on Brann, his voice intense. ‘When a man in his later years finally achieves all that he has worked for, he is satisfied and weary, and rests with satisfaction and, often, relief that his work has reached a conclusion while life has allowed him to do so; but when a man in his prime finally achieves all that he has worked for, a hunger is awakened, as is a realisation that he can sate it. He looks for more of the same. And when he is a man with a deep sense of his own righteousness…’

  Brann let his own stare leave Grakk and sweep around the unsettling scene of a city street with every element present but people. ‘He will not settle. He will not stop. So he must be stopped.’

  ‘For every reason we have, indeed he must. And for all those reasons, it must, somehow, be here. He must not take another step towards Khardorul and its secrets. As important as he gains none of that knowledge is that the world remains ignorant of the city’s very existence, and the treasure of knowledge it harbours. What has taken a thousand years or more to collect and preserve must be fed carefully back to the world – there is no culture so civilised that man’s baser nature could resist the misuse of power in such abundance. This, here, is where we must make our battleground, young Brann. This is where, of Loku and you, one wins and one fails, and the world takes its next step along with whichever one still stands.’

  The unmistakable whirr of an arrow in flight saw them flinch in unison before the missile clattered against the front of a house. A yelp from a rooftop was followed by a short scuffle, then movement descending inside the building. They waited, weapons bared, as the sounds drew closer.

  Brann started as Xamira stepped from the doorway, gripping a boy of around twelve summers by the neck of a tunic as dirty as his face and holding a bow in her other hand.

  She sighed and looked at Brann, shaking her head in despair. ‘It would help if I c
ould actually watch you from afar as my orders dictate rather than having to step in to save your neck again.’ She proffered the boy before them, eyebrows raised. ‘A dozen pairs of eyes and not one of them lifted above street level. How you have all survived a fraction of your journey is beyond me. And, as for you, you fool,’ she shook the terrified boy, and held the bow in front of his face, ‘you should only be allowed out with this when you can manage to tell friend from foe.’ She dropped boy and bow in disgust on the street.

  Grakk look at Brann. ‘A lesson, and not just in wariness. We can realise all we like the magnitude of our task, but as easily as that can our plans be ended.’

  Brann smiled. ‘But likewise for Loku. He is a man. He can die.’

  Ossavian had dismounted and ambled over to the boy, who cowered with head down, shaking and not daring to touch his bow. The old man crouched on one knee with a groan of effort, picking up the bow. ‘This yours, lad, or did you steal it?’

  Anger lifted the eyes in reflex. ‘It is mine.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Ossavian said quietly, placing one calloused finger under the boy’s chin to keep his head up. ‘Your father make it for you, or buy it?’

  Pride flared in the boy’s eyes and his bearing. Brann noticed that the shaking had stopped. ‘He made it. He made it last year to mark my achieving years of two digits.’

  ‘He means when he turned ten,’ Mongoose murmured to Hakon, who nudged her for her cheek.

  Ossavian shot the pair a warning look, then turned back to the boy. He ran his fingers along the wood, sighting along the curve and plucking at the string. ‘A fine weapon.’ He nodded quietly and placed the weapon back in the boy’s hands. ‘A fine weapon indeed. Treasure it.’

  The boy grasped it with a tightness bordering on desperation, and Ossavian’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your father?’ he said to the boy.

  Tears filled the young eyes, and the group watched in silence as the general’s thumbs gently wiped them away. ‘They killed him,’ his voice almost indistinct. ‘On the first day they came.’

  ‘Your mother still lives?’

  A nod. ‘And my sisters.’

  ‘Well, young man, you see your father when you look at the bow, but your mother and sisters see him when they look at you. He lives on in you, now, and you have a chance to make him proud. What you did up there was foolish because you must pick your targets with more care, but it was also courageous. Most would have hidden, but you acted. We will need more like you in the times to come.’ He glanced up at Xamira with a wink. ‘Just make sure people cannot sneak up on you so easily next time.’

  He stood up with a similar groan as when he had crouched, and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Now, before you go back to the family you must protect now, can you tell me something?’ The small face looked up at Ossavian and Brann knew in that instant the boy would move the city for the old soldier if it was within his power to do so. ‘Can you tell me where the fighting is?’

  The boy nodded vigorously. He pointed ahead. Then to the right. Then to the left.

  Konall grunted. ‘So basically everywhere except where we have come from.’

  Ossavian ignored him, his eyes fixed on the youngster. ‘Good boy. One last question: is there somewhere close that is high, where we can see far?’

  ‘The temple tower?’ the boy suggested brightly.

  ‘The temple tower would be perfect,’ Ossavian smiled. ‘But I am afraid I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘I can show you!’ The small figure was exultant, tugging at the large hand that enveloped his, trying to skip ahead and looking all of his few years.

  ‘Whoa, young fellow!’ Ossavian laughed. ‘These old legs have a horse for a reason. Give me a moment.’ He eased himself back onto his horse and nodded to the lad, who led the way with enthusiasm.

  ‘Masterfully done,’ said Einarr.

  Ossavian shrugged. ‘Only half of being a general is skill in placing soldiers in the right place on a battlefield. The other half is in knowing just exactly what your soldiers need. Reading your own people is just as important as reading the enemy’s moves.’

  ‘A lesson for us all,’ Einarr agreed.

  ‘Learn from your elders, boy, learn from your elders,’ Ossavian laughed. ‘Is that not right, Cannick?’

  ‘It’s what I’ve been trying to tell him for years,’ Cannick said from behind.

  Ossavian guffawed even more heartily.

  They rounded their third corner and the boy pointed proudly. From the centre of a building built in a perfect circle soared a tall slender tower, and through the open sides of a roofed platform at its peak, a long conical wooden tube could be seen suspended on two ropes, swinging lazily in the breeze that the height exposed it to. ‘There!’ the boy said, beaming at Ossavian. ‘The priest calls us with his horn from there, but it also has a most excellent view. So my friend’s uncle told me.’

  ‘Then,’ Ossavian said, ‘we are indebted to you and your friend’s uncle. Now you run to your family, and you remember to tell them that you saw,’ he slapped Brann’s horse on the rump to send it jumping forward, ‘Brann of the Sagian Arena, come to save your city.’

  The boy’s eyes widened, and he bowed to Brann. ‘I am honoured to meet you. I am Akun of, er, Irtanbat.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you a great hero?’

  ‘Of course he is!’ Ossavian said with grandeur. ‘How else could he save your city?’

  The boy scampered away almost as fast as his arrow had gone, and Brann looked askance at the old general. ‘You place a heavy obligation on me.’

  Ossavian raised his eyes to the sky. ‘How many times must I tell you? If we tell them that you will save their city, they are more likely to save it themselves. Now you, Konall and Sophaya get yourselves up that tower. Konall and Sophaya have good eyes, and you have decisions to make.’

  Grakk tossed his oculens to Sophaya and the three quickly found the stairs within the tower, the cool of the inside of the temple and the top of the tower bringing welcome respite from the baking heat of the streets, where the buildings blocked the air that moved across the open land without.

  They stood on the platform, circling slowly to take in the scene. Brann did not need the keen vision of the other two any more than they needed the oculens. The scene was all too evident.

  In the distance, across a sea of rooftops, fluttered a banner – they could only presume it was where the king currently made his command – and between here and there were countless pockets of the frantic movements that could only be the struggle of desperate combat; in other streets, the haze of smoke hanging where still shapes must be the corpses of men, death stealing the distinction between friend and foe, the only movement that of the carrion beasts who profited from the slaughter; between them were blazes of active fires and ravaged ruins, where beside them their eyes fell on buildings curiously and inexplicably untouched, as if marked for safety by the mysterious whim of the gods of war.

  Between here and there was the struggle for a city.

  ‘This journey of ours,’ Brann said, ‘may take longer than we thought.’

  Chapter 10

  She entered as the tall girl left the room. The girl’s eyes were downcast, demure, submissive to a servant of superior rank. The older woman’s mouth twitched into a smile. She was not fooled.

  ‘You see promise in her,’ she said, setting the daily tray bearing the decanter of iced water and two goblets on the table closest to him. She filled both and passed one to him.

  He took a slow drink. ‘I see it because it is there. I can guide it, but it is within her alone to grow it.’

  Her eyebrows arched. ‘It grows fast. Already you set her tasks previously entrusted only to your sadly departed man.’

  He shrugged. ‘Someone has to do them.’

  ‘This someone was a novice in these matters just months ago.’

  ‘As I said, it is dependent on her. If she proves worthy, she is entrusted more greatly. She has proved eager to be worthy, and astut
e in succeeding in that endeavour.’

  They sat in the comfortable silence that only close companionship makes possible.

  She finished her water, feeling the last of it trickle cold into her chest. ‘How far can she climb?’

  He looked at her. ‘I cannot live forever. Someone must come after.’

  ****

  The journey took three days. Three days where every step, every breath, took them deeper along a path that led into the hell of every god ever worshipped. It became strange to enter an area where a thin haze of smoke did not mist all around, did not linger on their tongues and in their noses, did not catch in their chests. Silence was mostly their norm; the slightest sound jarring enough to send them turning with a jerk and reaching for weapons.

  The first people they encountered was a band of Loku’s recruits, frenzied by the herbs they had ingested, hacking at the corpses of a fight that, from the state of the bodies, had finished at least two days earlier. Brann’s party fell upon them in silence, the foe so intoxicated that they shouted and laughed that the dead had risen to fight them, even as they themselves were slaughtered. Not one of them rose.

  Shortly after, they found city folk barricaded in a row of shops, defending themselves against a large group of Goldlanders, as Hakon had taken to calling them to distinguish them from his name for the other half of the foe: the Scum. Desperation was written across the faces of the locals, and written into their every movement. They fought with cleavers and hunting spears, with knives and smiths’ hammers, with anything they could find, men and women shoulder to shoulder, the terrified cries of children muted in the rooms behind. What they lacked in weapons was compensated for by innate instincts of protection towards the children and home at their backs and against those who would take them away. And, Brann noticed, several – many, in fact – of the men fought with a discipline and assurance beyond civilians.

  But still they were losing; the heavy broad blades of their enemy cutting through tendon and bone more easily than the branch and vine of the jungle that had been behind their design. The invaders pushed onto them, starting to drive them back, starting to create gaps, starting to overrun them. Until Brann launched himself onto the rearmost without warning, axe-blade cutting and hacking and spraying blood over victims and aggressor alike, and followed in the next instant by his companions.