Hero Born

by Andy Livingstone

  ‘But there is nothing else. All that anybody has ever done in this game, we’ve tried today.’

  Callan smiled slowly. ‘But that does not mean we have to do just that, does it? If we do something new, they will not be ready for it.’

  The two tradesmen appointed to enforce the few rules the game possessed had started to shout across to them. Gareth stood up. ‘We’ve got to get on with this. If you have anything of value to say, say it now, and quickly.’

  ‘Right.’ Brann took a deep breath. ‘This is it. Pretend I am injured, and that is why you are over here just now. Restart the game, and work the Head round to the other side of the cairn.’

  ‘And?’ said Gareth.

  ‘And throw it over here.’

  ‘Throw the Head away? Are you mad? We might as well tell them we’ll put it in the basket for them.’ Gareth was disgusted.

  But Callan grinned and slapped the ground in glee. ‘Not if we get it over the cairn. There will be no one here.’

  ‘Except him,’ Gareth grunted in acknowledgement. ‘I know I’m slow, but I get there eventually. Is that it?’

  Brann shrugged. ‘That’s it.’

  Callan looked at Gareth. ‘Are we going to try it?’

  Gareth unceremoniously shoved Brann back to the ground. ‘Not just try. Do. There is no way we’re going to lose to those towny scum.’

  Brann felt the baking earth pressing against his face again. Gods, I hope not, he thought. Please don’t let all of this be for nothing.

  The dark-haired man stumbled, slightly, as the crowd jostled and surged with excitement.

  He moved, but only in the manner of one who allows himself to be moved, just enough to regain his balance and then brace himself. Somewhat in the manner of an experienced warrior, an observer might think.

  But no one was watching him. All eyes were fixed on the game unfolding before them as they shouted themselves hoarse. The man, too, watched the sport intently, but there the similarity with his fellow onlookers ended. He stood, silent and impassive, absorbing every detail. And finding more of interest than he had expected.

  He had seen more spectacular sport in cities near and distant, from the magnificent gladiatorial arenas of the sun-hardened Empire far to the south, where decadence was masked by a veneer of civilised laws and customs, to the tracks where humans and animals raced, sometimes even against each other, in the more fertile lands at nature’s border where sensible weather stopped and the short sea-crossing began to these rain-drenched islands. Lush and green they may be, but damp and miserable they were, too. He had grown up in a land where the winters were cold, deadly cold, but at least it was honest cold that you could clothe yourself against. Here, the insidious damp worked its way past however many layers you piled on, and seeped into your bones, setting you shivering with an unhealthy regularity.

  Which was why he was thankful that his work had brought him here during what must be their meagre summer. A scant few weeks of blue skies and heat that were welcomed with joy and appreciation by the locals but that, to a foreigner, were more of a taunt: here is what the rest of the world gets for much of the year.

  And what lay before him was no grand arena, but a field of short grass and hard earth outside a market town in name and function only compared with the larger and more grandiose – but, if truth be told, more lacking in soul – settlements farther south in these islands; it was in truth a glorified village of no more than a thousand or so residents, although a suggestion to any of the inhabitants that it was anything less than a town would be met with outrage and suggestions of lunacy.

  Heavy rope, dyed bright red, lay on the grass to mark out a circular area, around a hundred and fifty paces across, and along that boundary the roaring and beseeching crowd was gathered, three, sometimes four, deep and jostling each other as much from excitement as from their attempts to gain a better view. In the centre of the area stood a cairn of large rocks, roughly the height of three men and at least ten paces across the base, with a battered wicker basket (apparently a veteran of many such a contest) sitting at the peak.

  The action raged around the cairn. As far as the impassive stranger had been able to determine, the idea was to scale the cairn and place a tightly bound bundle of bright-coloured rags, apparently weighted by rock or metal in its centre, in the basket. Two teams competed to do so: one defending the cairn while the other attempted to break through and scale the rocks. Rules seemed few, and were therefore easily deduced. The team in possession of the rag-bundle, which was around the size of a man’s head, attacked the cairn relentlessly until the defenders managed to wrest the ball from them – at which point the team’s roles were reversed.

  Tactics seemed only slightly more numerous than rules. Either a player, or group of players, would attempt to force a breach in the line of defenders through brute force by becoming a human battering ram, or one player would dodge and weave his way as far forward as possible, usually aided by team-mates who would try to block, often violently, the defenders’ attempts to reach the carrier. If the player with the bundle looked as if he were about to be caught, he would try to hand it over to a colleague to allow the attack to continue. If, however, the player was caught by the defenders, or if the bundle of rags was intercepted or snatched, the fun began. An almighty mêlée would ensue, with players from both sides piling in to try to retrieve the rags in a maelstrom of flailing limbs and frantic dives.

  If the attackers retained possession, the attack would resume immediately if possible or, if they were under pressure, the rag-bundle would be fed back to a deep-lying player to allow them to regroup; the defenders would not venture too far from the cairn for fear of exposing gaps in their tight-knit ranks.

  Were the bundle of rags to be won by the defenders, they would be able to break immediately for the cairn. As soon as such a battle for the rags began, therefore, several attacking players would position themselves between the defenders and the cairn so that, in the event of a turnaround, they would be able to slow down such a break until their colleagues could reinforce them. In positioning themselves in this precautionary way, however, the numbers competing directly for the bundle were then weighted in favour of the defenders, so turnarounds were fairly frequent as a result.

  And, as far as sport went, it was brutal. There appeared to be no limit to the amount of physical violence that could be used to advance one’s cause, save blatant attempts to seriously injure an opponent, such as biting or gouging. Kicking, punching, butting and the pulling of any available limbs seemed perfectly legitimate, and even encouraged.

  And so it had continued, for almost an hour. The pace was fast and relentless, and the silent stranger was forced to admire the fitness of those who could maintain such efforts continuously at that level for so long. It was even more impressive, given their age: the players, numbering fourteen in each team, looked to be aged near enough fifteen years; probably final-year apprentices, he guessed, if their apprenticeship system conformed to the usual set-up.

  A shorter-than-average boy had been hit hard by two much larger opponents, crashing to the ground and only just managing to hang onto the bundle by clutching it to his chest and curling up like a threatened animal until his team-mates could come to his aid.

  A heavy man, in the apron of a baker, cheered beside the stranger and jostled him again in his excitement.

  ‘Apologies, my friend,’ he bellowed, ‘but that’s their weakest link down again. It’s only a matter of time before we win.’

  The stranger looked round. ‘It is nearly over, then?’

  The baker nodded. ‘You haven’t visited before, I guess?’ The town was boosted by travellers of all sorts throughout the spring and summer as traders brought this year’s wares, hunters trailed back and forth from the hills with fresh game and those who preferred to seek a new horizon every day made full use of the better weather; and every year brought most of the same old faces and a smattering of new ones. ‘Yeah, it’s nearly over. The score is t
ied, and the time’s up. There must be a winner, though, so the game plays on until the next basket is scored.

  ‘All we have to do is get the Head off them and we’ve as good as won.’ The man noticed the stranger’s quizzical frown. ‘The Head: it’s what we call the rags they fight over. They say it was an enemy’s head they used hundreds of years ago when the game started.’ He snorted in amusement. ‘It is slightly more civilised now. That was when it was played between the two villages in the valley. These days we are a prosperous town and they are still a village but still they seem to think they have a chance of beating us. Anyway, having that wee runt on their team is like being a man short for them. The others in the village team have given everything to get it to this stage, but that’s all they’ve got. Next time the runt has the Head, we’ll get it back. He gets knocked down every time.’

  The warrior looked at him coolly. ‘True. But every time, he gets back up.’

  The baker nudged him one more time, unconsciously taking himself one large step closer to an early death. ‘Nah,’ he grinned with relish. ‘The little runt is staying down this time. We are a man up now. It’s all over for this year, mark my words.’

  That warrior turned to him as far as the tightly packed throng would allow. ‘This happens every year, then?’

  The baker looked at him directly for the first time. His eyes moved over the carefully trimmed beard, the clothes and boots that spoke of efficiency as well as expert tailoring, where wear was obvious but tear was minimal, and the obvious quality of the longsword, dagger and boot knife, and his manner became more respectful. Or, at least, as respectful as an oaf such as he could manage. Even the L-shaped scar on the warrior’s cheek failed to diminish the impression of breeding. He nodded.

  ‘Every Midsummer’s Day, for as long as anyone can remember. The game takes place between this town and Twofords, the village further up the valley. Final-year apprentices show what they can do and, for the last decade or so, ours have shown they can do it better. The same again this year, as you can see.’

  ‘Because you’ve got more apprentices to choose from?’

  ‘Because we are better than those hicks from the village, of course. Class shows.’

  The tall stranger nodded towards the game. ‘It is close so far. And not over yet.’

  The baker grinned arrogantly. ‘It’s over. Believe me, my friend, it’s over all right.’

  The warrior’s eyes darkened at the term of address. He returned to his gaze to the small figure lying alone as the action moved around to the other side of the cairn. There was something about the boy that nagged at him. Something to do with the fact that… He smiled. ‘He always gets up.’

  The baker looked at him. ‘What was that?’

  The warrior smiled. A cold smile, but a smile all the same. ‘Oh, I was just thinking that you are right. One way or another, it will all be over soon.’

  Despite the noise saturating the air, Brann began to feel strangely detached as the action moved around to the other side of the cairn. The nature of the game meant that the players were always in one mass, all involved in one concentrated area. As a result, shouts of encouragement and instruction to team-mates, grunts and roars to prepare themselves for moments of impact and yells of abuse towards the opposition made for a constant roar.

  To suddenly be set apart from that immediate clamour left him with a distant sensation. Insignificancies caught his attention: an ant crawling past his nose, twisting and turning as it explored its way about its own world; the heat of the hard-packed earth; the feel of his legs pulled tightly into his chest; the shape of a lone cloud against the deep blue of the sky. It was as if, in the absence of the immediate noise of the contest, the whole world had gone silent. With a wrench, he forced his concentration back to the game, berating himself for letting his mind drift.

  Slowly, partly in the hope that no one would notice, and partly to give the impression of still being injured, he rose to his feet. He tried to look shaky, but felt certain that it was the most unconvincing and embarrassing display of acting that anyone would have seen. Instead, he bent over, resting his hands on his knees for support.

  He risked a glance at the crowd nearest to him. Most were craning their necks to try to catch a glimpse of the action at the other side of the cairn. Some, however, had seen him stand and were shouting various forms of abuse at him.

  That will be the good old townsfolk, he thought, wryly. Such sophistication from our larger neighbour.

  His gaze was caught by the incongruous stillness of a tall man, dressed in black and with dark straight hair caught back in a serviceable ponytail that hung beyond his shoulders. He was impassive, an island of calm in the tempestuous sea of the crowd. For a moment, pale, calculating eyes locked with his, and Brann’s concentration was almost distracted again. A nod of the man’s head directed his attention to a dark speck arcing over the cairn, growing rapidly as it headed towards him.

  The Head!

  Slapping his thigh in annoyance – and grimacing when he hit a bruise – Brann moved to his left, trying to judge where it would land with a hesitancy that stemmed from years of knowing that his inability to throw with any effectiveness was exceeded only by his inability to catch.

  He edged sideways, his eyes fixed on the object, knowing that, once it had landed, every second would be vital to him – and suddenly, and uncomfortably, aware of the world around him. On the edge of his vision, figures moved rapidly around the cairn. He did not dare take his eyes from the multicoloured bundle of rags. He was terrified of making a mess of what, only a few moments ago when he had been explaining his idea to the others, had seemed so simple.

  And, most of all, he became aware that the silence that he had imagined in comparison to the noise of the game had become reality. In a sport where possession was paramount, the ball was only ever carried or thumped firmly into the hands of a team-mate; to lob the Head even just a few feet to a colleague, and risk losing it to the opposition, was unthinkable. To launch it nearly forty yards, as the crowd had just witnessed, was madness on a scale that had stunned the baying, bawling crowd into a shocked hush.

  And the sight of that very object dropping towards a solitary, small, hesitant figure who, just moments before, had been curled up, insignificant and apparently useless merely added to the stunned disbelief of all those watching, regardless of where their support might lie.

  The realisation of that silence was the worst thing that could have happened to Brann. He had, until then, been nervous merely about catching the Head. Now he also felt hundreds of eyes glued to him; most willing him to fail, others desperate for him to succeed. In many ways, it was the latter that placed more pressure on him.

  In the last few seconds before the Head landed, one vision after another flashed through his mind – each one a different version of his failure. His mind raced so fast, everything else seemed to be happening at half speed.

  Spinning lazily against the clear blue of the sky, the Head took an eternity to drop. The boys running towards him looked as if the air had become as thick as water. And his own legs felt as if he had two of the boulders from the cairn tied to them. Brann wished it would never land, that he could just walk away and leave it all to someone else who could do it so much better than he.

  The Head hit the ground, and rolled. He stared at it, scared to move for it, to try to grab it and miss. It hit a stone and spun across in front of him.

  Instinctively, he reached out and caught it. And the silence was shattered. The crowd roared. The players accelerated in alarm. His eyes fixed on the cairn, Brann ran.

  Thoughts of weariness and aches were gone. Movement at the edge of his vision forced him to glance away from his target. The faster members of the opposing team were closing on him, arms driving and faces contorted with effort and aggression as they strained to block his path. He glared intently at the cairn, then back at his opponents. He might just make it. Forcing his knees to rise, his breathing loud in his ears, h
e pounded forwards.

  Then, with the cairn just a dozen strides away, they were upon him. A figure flew at him from the right. Without pausing to think, he jammed his heel into the dirt and almost came to a halt. The boy, arms flailing, staggered in front of him, trying desperately to change direction. Brann swerved slightly to his right and ran behind him. Another opponent, only feet to his right, thundered at him, aiming to bowl him over. He was too close to avoid. Instinctively, Brann dropped to one knee, taking the force of the attack on his shoulder. He barely had time to tense, bracing himself, before the larger boy’s momentum bent him over Brann’s back. Driving down with his legs, Brann forced himself to his feet, flipping the boy into a somersault.

  ‘Forward. Must go forward,’ he muttered over and over. ‘Don’t stop moving. Must go forward.’

  As he started moving, another opponent was upon him. Roaring – either in fury or anticipated triumph, it was impossible to tell – the boy thundered at him, this time from the left. All that Brann could do was drop his left shoulder and half twist, taking the hit on his shoulderblade. The impact started to turn him, and he continued the movement, rolling around the boy and leaving him sprawling.

  He stumbled, regained his balance and looked up to find he was just three paces from the foot of the cairn… with a smirking, round-faced mountain of a boy, arms outspread, waiting right in his path.

  Despair struck him savagely – but, just as savagely, a blur of movement saw Gareth strike the boy with his shoulder at full sprint, launching him into the air and, more importantly, out of Brann’s path. A hand grabbed the back of Brann’s tunic and heaved him forward.

  ‘Time to move, I think,’ Callan’s grinning face suggested beside him. Gareth’s huge right hand blocked another opponent in the chest with such force that the boy was left sitting, dazed and winded, in the dirt, while Kevern, the village’s apprentice baker, grabbed another by the hair and dragged him over backwards. The way was clear.

  Breathing so deeply and rapidly that it hurt, Brann forced himself forward and, with Callan half-dragging him, he started to scramble up the cairn, the bundle of rags clutched tightly in his left arm as his right hand grabbed frantically at the rocks.