Читать книгу Hero Risen - Andy Livingstone - Страница 7

She sat beside him each afternoon now. Two high-backed chairs were paired on the balcony, fine sand gathering around their short legs of finely carved wood.

It was curious how change eased its way into your life before awareness caught up. He could not remember when her companionship had become routine; he could only recall the day when, with her called on other business, it had seemed strange that she was not there.

The other servants made no comment. They would not dare, of course, in his presence but he knew from his sources that her companionship provided no domestic scuttlebutt in the corridors. Why would it? Nobles, in particular, royals, had a habit of demanding services far more intimate from servants. Gossip is not born in the commonplace.

Her whisper drifted in the baking air. ‘You hate this.’

‘The heat?’ He snorted. ‘It is the only weather I know.’

‘Not the heat, as you know quite well.’ It was uncanny how a hoarse monotone could yet convey chastisement. ‘The waiting.’

He rested his head against the chair and raised his eyes to the deepness of the sky. The same sky that sat above all countries, above all people, and some more specific than others. ‘You think you can read my mind, crone, but you are wrong. Not the waiting. Waiting lies within the course of every strategy.’ He frowned at the sky. ‘I hate the not knowing.’

She gave a soft grunt. ‘And the not controlling.’

‘I would that I could control you and your prattling tongue.’

It was even more irritating when she did not reply. He let the silence draw out, as if it had not irked him.

‘And you miss him.’

He cursed inwardly, as much at the involuntary start her words had given him as at the suspicion that she could read his mind after all. He turned slowly and looked at her for a long moment. Her gaze never wavered from the horizon but the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth hinted that she was aware of his stare.

‘On pain of death, do not ever say that in the presence of anyone,’ he rasped. ‘Especially him.’

****

Pain thumping and rebounding within his skull, Brann forced open his eyes and found himself lying in hell.

The stench of gore was so pervasive that he could taste it filling his throat; enough to make him retch, had he not become accustomed to the sensation that seemed half a lifetime before. He heaved at a body – cold, clammy, and limp and as naked as he felt himself to be – to force its weight away from his chest. It slipped from him with a wet slither, allowing him to drag in a breath of welcome depth. Pain flared across his ribs as he sucked in the air, but a pain of a battering and, thankfully, not of broken bone. It was not so much the breaking that worried him, but the piercing and tearing it so often caused inside. Bones could mend, but blood coughed up all too often prophesied the end. He twisted, feeling lifeless limbs shift beneath him, to look further around. He was in a pit as deep into the dry crumbling earth as his father’s mill had been tall. The darkness of night above was tinged with the glow of fires beyond the lip and either the flames or the moon or both combined to lessen the gloom just enough to reveal the silhouettes of arms and legs and bodies and heads, a layer of nightmare shapes with the promise of more hidden beneath.

Low voices approached and Brann lay still, tense and alert. A glow grew brighter at the lip of the pit until the flickering light of a torch brought the detail of the scene around him to his eyes in all its stark gore. Faces stared back at him, some hacked almost beyond recognition as human, while others appeared ready to start a conversation until he saw the eyes, cold and dead as stone. Limbs were strewn at angles, attached still to bodies or not; skin was rent and pierced, and everywhere, coating all, was blood, a dark lubricant that saw the corpses – stripped of everything whether of value or none – shift as, with a scrape of movement at the edge of the pit and a harsh slap on impact, another body was flung onto the pile.

A long moment of silence and shifting shadows was broken by a grunt of satisfaction.

‘That’ll do for today. Tomorrow will see us fill it enough to put the dirt back in over them, then we’ve done our bit. I’ll put the stew on to heat, and you two can start sorting their gear. We’ll divide it once we’ve eaten.’

A harsh laugh and a younger voice: ‘Sounds good to me. It’s hungry work, this. Bodies are heavier than I thought.’

A third voice: ‘But worth it for the loot. Don’t matter that the bodies are heavy when the loot pays you back. You city cut-throats are all the same when you come to this – you don’t realise you can’t just leave the dead in an alley for the watch guards to pick up in the morning. Now you know why I told you it’s good to stick with the sergeant who’s the best cheat at dice. Won us a pit to fill, didn’t he?’

The first voice was further away, presumably at the stew pot: ‘Say again that I cheat and you’ll be in the pit yourself and as dead as the others.’ The sergeant finished with a barked laugh.

The torchlight started to recede but Brann forced himself to lie still; steeling himself against rising bile at the feeling of a cold arm pressing against his face, and waiting until the pit returned to safe darkness. The voices were still relatively close.

‘Of course, boss. You’re just very good at it. But before you start rolling those dice again, I want my name on those black weapons.’

Brann’s eyes jerked wide open.

The sergeant’s voice: ‘Good try, but we all do. I’ll take the sword. You bastards can roll the dice for the axe and knife.’

The young voice: ‘I am happy with the knife.’ A snicker of a laugh. ‘I like knife work.’

‘And the axe is fine for me. So we’re agreed. We can roll for the rest.’

The sergeant grunted. ‘You can sort the rest now, or the food will be ready before you’re done. Get your arses over here. You can use the knife tomorrow. At least the black one won’t take you four tries to cut a throat like that blunt apology for a blade you were using today.’

Brann growled as rage flared, overwhelming the horror and disgust prompted by the gore-smeared bodies pressing around him. He made to rise, but his left arm gave way beneath him as a shock of pain ran from his elbow into his shoulder. He could make out the dark shape of a wound on the arm, and a burning on the side of his ribs led tentative fingers to the split skin of another long gash. Either the bash on his head that was causing the headache or the loss of blood had been the reason he had passed out and appeared dead. Either way, it had saved him from being finished off by a looter’s blade. He had to hope it hadn’t been blood loss, or the strength to even escape the pit would have drained from him with it. He grunted softly. There was only one way to find out. The pain wasn’t enough to stop him from forcing movement had it been necessary, but while he had another good arm, there was no need.

Brann rolled to his right and pushed himself against a torso, chest hair slick and matted with blood and the jagged end of a rib pressing against his hand, and levered himself into a crouch. He tested his legs beneath him. They ached, but only through the stiffness of immobility. Hands and feet slipping and slithering on corpses, he moved towards the side of the pit. The body parts shifting beneath him made progress awkward, but the slick covering of stinking fluids saw them move quietly – just a squelch or a small slap as cold flesh met cold flesh. With almost every movement, his foot, then a hand, then a foot slipped between bodies – corpses that clung on, unwilling to let him go. His head told him that they were dead, that they were empty pieces of meat and bone, that they could not hurt him. But the feeling that they were trying to drag him down among them, to lose him in their midst and accept him as one of their own, overwhelmed him. Panic rose and he started to scrabble faster, one foot sinking even deeper into the grasping cadavers. He dragged in a gasp and forced himself to stop moving, desperately trying to control his impulses. He could feel his leg encased for most of its length against still, cold, wet dead skin. But it was the stillness that he forced his thoughts to accept. While he didn’t move, nothing else did. There were no spirits trying to pull him into their embrace, no fingers grabbing his ankles. He slowed his breathing and withdrew his leg gradually, pushing down within him the revulsion at the feeling of what it slid against. He was no stranger to death or broken bodies; the gods only knew how many he had caused and the brutality involved. But those were dealt with in the moment, reaction and action born of necessity, and driven by the urge at the core of nature to survive. This was the cold eternity of death, and it reminded him of everything he fought to avoid. He blew out a slow breath and moved slowly, each movement placed with deliberate care. A face, eyes dull but staring, almost allowed the panic back in, but he forced his concentration away from what the bodies had been and made his eyes see them as nothing more than a surface to cross. The entire journey was no more than the length of two long spears but to his straining nerves it seemed the distance of an arrow-shot. He glanced ahead – he was almost there. A leg that bridged unseen between two bodies snapped under his weight, the splintered end of the shin puncturing the side of his heel. He caught his balance by throwing himself at the pit wall, bracing his good arm against it and finding it steep. Stomach heaving, he twisted and wrenched free the broken shin bone. He let his vomit go; there was no point in fighting it in this hellhole. Most of the bone was intact, and he stabbed the jagged end into the wall, using it to pull himself up, injured arm dangling and one foot finding a root that protruded enough to let him push against it, dried earth rubbing against his front and mixing with the gore that coated every part of him. His arm found the lip and, legs scrambling behind him, he dragged himself over.

The nightmare apparition – naked body, heaving chest, and snarling face caked and smeared and matted in mud and blood, and broken bone in hand – that he must have presented as he rose to his feet, eyes glaring from a head lowered from effort and shoulders hanging low to one side to favour the left arm held tight to his chest, was reflected in the dread filling the stare of the man who must have been the sergeant. The man froze, a ladle dropping against a rock with a dull clang that alerted his companions.

His reaction stopped the other two also, despite their backs being towards Brann, giving him a moment to absorb what lay before him. The sergeant, crouched beside a steaming pot suspended over a fire, was a wiry veteran, with little hair and fewer teeth. The fact that he had reached this age told of skill with arms or ruthless guile, either of which was as dangerous as the other. The other two, a skinny youth and a taller man, broad of shoulder and girth, were closer to him and had been moving items from a heap of all the plunder stripped from the bodies and sorting them into smaller specific piles.

‘Son of a poxy whore,’ the sergeant breathed.

The other two turned.

The youth’s eyes widened, and his voice was shrill. ‘The dead. Gods save us. The dead are rising.’ He had been handing Brann’s axe to the other man when Brann’s appearance had frozen them, and it hung forgotten in his hand.

Brann growled at the sight.

The broad man tried to speak, his mouth working soundlessly.

Brann started towards them, the stiffness easing from his legs with every step. His movement broke through the men’s shock but, before it could turn to panic, the sergeant recovered enough of his senses to growl at the other two.

‘Back-from-the-dead or never-dead, make sure the bastard stays dead this time. I want a head to fall.’

The boy hefted the axe but still hung back, waiting for his companion to move. Clearly the sort who preferred his victims with their backs to him. His voice was still high and shaking. ‘Should we get help?’

The brute beside him grabbed the nearest weapons to hand: a halberd with a broken tip and an axe-blade with more nicks than edge, but no less dangerous for either. ‘And let them demand a share of our loot in return? Help me gut him and we’ll get our dinner in peace.’

Brann’s eyes narrowed. For all his initial dumbness, this one’s nerves had steadied the quickest. He was the first threat. He angled his approach towards the youth, panicking the boy even more as he fixed him with a stare that seemed intent on him alone. With a roar, the burly man shouldered the youth to the side, sending him staggering, and raised the pole of the halberd high to strike.

Brann’s grin was savage. They may be useless and unskilled, or they may be anything but. Regardless, they were better one at a time. ‘Got you,’ he said, his voice rough and dry.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise, for an instant, before he started to swing the weapon. In that instant, Brann was inside his swing and the jagged end of the shin bone had buried half of its length up under his ribs. Brann had spun away and towards the youth, the bone pulling with it a sprayed crescent of blood before the body had even started to collapse. A wild swing of the axe, born of panic, was easily avoided and the bone was left a hand’s width deep in the youth’s throat as Brann closed his fingers around the familiar haft of his axe and pulled it from already nerveless fingers.

The sergeant spat and crouched, a sword drawn back in readiness. ‘You won’t catch me by surprise, bastard.’

Brann stepped forward and, in a blur, raised the axe high with both hands, gritting his teeth against the sharp agony of the stretched wound along his ribs. As the man swung his sword up to parry the downwards swing, Brann changed to slide one hand up towards the dark metal of the head of the weapon, grasping the wood and slamming the shaft end first into the man’s face. The sergeant barely had time to register his smashed nose and shattered teeth before the axe swung and his head bounced in the dirt beyond the firelight.

Brann, his chest heaving, looked down at the corpse. ‘That was what you said you wanted, wasn’t it?’

He sat the axe against the ground and rested on it. His wounds had sapped his energy, but he had proved that the blood loss wasn’t life-threatening just yet. He needed clothing – he could wash and attend to his injuries once he was safely clear of the area – and, looking around, it was clear that the looters had been diligent enough to provide him with a large selection. He had another concern first, though. You can’t meet an attack so easily with a tunic or a pair of boots. He wiped clean the black axe head on a ripped tunic and moved to the pile of sorted weapons, grunting in satisfaction to see the distinctive black metal of his sword and dagger. Lifting them to one side, he turned to the next pile, one of weapon accessories: scabbards, belts, sheaths, and the like. The three men may have been callous, but they had certainly been meticulous. It didn’t take long to find his belt and the strapping and sheaths he had become accustomed to using to fasten knives to each of his forearms, between his shoulder blades and on his lower legs, inside his boots – he always felt better if a blade was to hand, no matter where that hand may be. His sheaths had been near the top of the pile, so he guessed his knives would be likewise in the heap of weapons. He must have been one of the more recent bodies to have been dragged to the pit.

He chided himself. Of course he had been. If he had been brought earlier in the process, he’d have wakened under a layer, maybe several layers, of corpses. Unless suffocation had seen to it that he never wakened at all. He grunted in annoyance. His thoughts were slow and he needed to be away from this place as soon as possible. Ensuring his main weapons were always within reach, he quickly flicked through the assembled collection of edges and points and soon had assembled his collection. Now for clothes.

As he straightened, the wind shifted and drifted smoke in his direction. There was a strong smell of burning meat, but there was too much smoke for it to have come from campfires. Some of the corpse collectors apparently favoured pyres over pits.

He tensed. The smoke was not all that the shifting wind had brought his way. A sound, no more than a scuff of boot on a loose clod of dirt, mixed for a moment with the crackling of the late sergeant’s cooking fire. He crouched, feeling for his sword and axe, his eyes straining to see beyond the fire’s light. He cursed himself, not only for the time he had taken but more now for his position – he was perfectly lit beside the fire, whilst those approaching could be encircling him and approach from any or all angles with little warning. He whirled back and forth, fighting to see, but all he could discern was a shadow, then two more, slightly vaguish, and all from the same direction as he had heard the noise. He bent his knees, pushing through the pain in his left side to hold the sword forward to parry and the axe back to strike. This time he might not get away with using one weapon.

‘Steady, chief. Not everyone thinks it’s a good idea to fight you.’

Brann relaxed with a sigh, and Gerens stepped into the light. The rangy boy turned and whistled softly into the darkness. ‘He’s over here.’

Konall emerged from the gloom. ‘The gods save me,’ he gasped. ‘There’s an image that will haunt me to my deathbed. For the love of all that’s dear, please get dressed.’

A guffaw exploded as Hakon followed close behind. ‘Little friend, the weapons in your hands are sufficient. One more would not make a difference.’ He reached down and threw a pair of breeches to Brann. ‘Put these on and stick to the weapons you can do harm with.’

Brann grunted and started to dress. ‘I was a bit distracted by these other three. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have tidied up.’

‘I’d have settled for just getting dressed,’ Konall said drily.

‘Wait,’ said Gerens from behind. ‘Don’t put them on just yet.’

‘Oh, make up your minds!’ Brann objected. ‘First you can’t wait to get me to cover up, now you… argh!’ His yelp turned to spluttering as cold water drenched him from his head down. He whirled to find Gerens solemnly regarding him, a now-empty bucket in his hand.

‘Your dead companions had left this water, and it may rinse some of the worst from you until you can wash properly. I don’t know if you had noticed, C, but you are in a bit of a mess.’

Brann just looked at him.

Gerens’s eyes widened with concern as some of the grime rinsed from his arm. ‘You are wounded!’

The other two stepped forward in concern, but Brann waved them away and ignored the pain to pull the tunic over his head. ‘It’s fine, it can wait. We need to leave.’

‘You are right there,’ Konall said. He found a sack. ‘Fasten your black weapons to your belt and put your many knives in this. You can sort them later.’

Reluctantly, Brann did so. He buckled on his belt and slid the weapons home, sliding the leather hood, dangling from the loop for his axe’s shaft, over the weapon’s head.

Hakon tossed over a pair of boots. ‘These do? They look like they’ll fit your dainty little feet.’

Brann felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. ‘So says someone who would need to have his footwear made at the boatyards.’ He looked at them. ‘They’re actually better than the ones I had.’ He tried them on. ‘And comfier.’

‘Good,’ Konall grunted impatiently. ‘Now grab another set of clothing and let’s go.’ Brann wondered why, and it must have shown. The tall blond boy added, ‘The state you are in, all that those clothes you are wearing will be good for when you take them off will be the fire. No use being a change of clothing down when we set off.’

Brann nodded his understanding and quickly gathered what he needed, adding it all to his sack of knives.

Konall turned to go, but Brann hesitated.

‘Wait just a moment.’

Konall threw his hands in the air. ‘Oh for the love of the gods. What now?’

‘It won’t take long.’ Brann crouched by the sergeant’s headless corpse and reached under the man’s tunic until he found what he was looking for: a pouch that had hung on a thong around the man’s neck when there had been a neck fit for that purpose. He pulled out a handful of coins and a set of dice.

‘Brann!’ Hakon was aghast. ‘We needed the clothes, that was fair enough, but this is not you. I’ve never seen you loot the dead before.’

‘And you won’t now.’ He scattered the coins on the ground and dropped the dice among them. ‘If you came across this scene, what would spring to mind? That they had fallen out over dicing or that one of the dead woke up, hauled itself out of the pit and slaughtered them?’

Hakon beamed. ‘Good thinking. Wait, is that what you did? The crawling out the pit and killing thing?’

Gerens cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘You think he stripped naked and smeared himself from top to toe in blood for the fun of it? And that these three committed suicide?’

The large boy grinned and slapped Brann on the back, prompting an un-noticed wince. ‘Good man! This will make an excellent story for the others.’

Brann picked up the sack. ‘You tell it then. There is much in it I’d rather not be reminded of.’

Konall snorted. ‘You and me both. At least you weren’t greeted with the sight that we were. Now can we go?’

Without a further word, they left the light of the fire, Konall leading them unerringly into the gloom. They skirted telltale campfires and their progress proved straightforward. Brann could remember nothing of how he had come to be in the burial pit, but it had been obvious from the start that there had been some sort of battle, although the only men remaining were those tasked with clearing the dead, and paid for their troubles with the loot. Those who had fought would seem to have moved on. He glanced around and counted no more than six or eight campfires, two of them with large pyres burning beside them. He pictured the pit he had been in, suppressing a shudder at the memory of slick bodies moving and sliding beneath him, and estimated the dead within it. Even if the men had doubled the number the following day to complete their pit, and assuming that all of the similar groups around them were allocated similar numbers to deal with, then the dead numbered in the low hundreds rather than the thousands. So not a major battle, then.

It still didn’t explain his involvement, though. Or his failure in combat, which worried him more. It was only luck that had kept him alive, and chance was the most unreliable of all factors, and the one he generally tried to avoid having to consider.

His thoughts were interrupted as he stumbled.

Instantly, Gerens caught him by the elbow, taking the sack from him with his other hand. ‘Steady there, chief.’

‘Thank you. I’m fine now.’

But Gerens maintained his hold on Brann’s arm. And Brann, feeling a weariness, hitherto banished by the energy of combat, creep over him, said nothing to shake off the support.

They left the fires behind without incident and found the horses picketed by the three boys in a copse on the far side of a hillock from the small valley where the conflict had been fought, dark shapes scattered in the gloom below and the noise of scavengers – human and animal – moving among them proving that the work to clear the bodies would continue into the next day. Brann shuddered. Had he not wakened when he did…

Gerens sat Brann in front of him, the wiry strength in his arms providing a calming security. As they moved off, Brann decided they were far enough from danger to be able to gain some idea of how fate had led him to a burial pit. The swaying of the horse, however, the weight removed from his legs, the companionship of his friends… it all felt so welcome that he decided to enjoy it for a few moments before questioning Gerens.

He was woken by a shout of alarm. Breta’s familiar booming tone was not happy as her powerful arms lifted him from the horse. ‘What do you bring me, you fools? You return him to us in such a state? He is barely conscious.’

‘Small wonder,’ said Cannick’s calm growl as his fingers pulled the blood-soaked tunic away from Brann’s side.

The sharp pain as the material pulled away from the wound on his ribs dispelled the torpor of his recent sleep and almost immediately threatened to send him back there as his head swam.

‘That’s an impressive nick you’ve got there, son. Looks like more on your arm, too. Breta, lay him by the fire where I can see better. And cut that tunic from him. Marlo, bring me my pack. We’ll see if we can get him sorted out before the others return. No need for them to get the shock we did when we saw him.’

‘Be grateful,’ Konall’s voice said from behind them, ‘that you did not suffer the shock we endured when we first saw him. I have seen some unpleasant sights in my time, but…’

Brann almost laughed, but the pain it caused stopped him. He settled for a weak smile. ‘Glad I made an impression.’

Konall grunted. ‘Fear not, it was one I will struggle to forget. Though believe me, I will try.’

‘At least you can smile.’ There was relief in Hakon’s honest voice. ‘I don’t feel right when you are not smiling for more than a few heartbeats.’

Breta laid Brann beside a small fire set in a small depression cut into the ground to minimise its glow. It had been allowed to burn low – the night was warm enough as it was, and, cooking time over, it served only to provide what little light was safe enough for them to allow. Gerens squatted silently beside him, his dark eyes burning with as little hint as ever of the thoughts behind them, but deep concern born in hope filling the way he leant forward. Cannick brought a water skin and a clean rag, and started washing around the two wounds and the lump on the back of Brann’s head. Satisfied that the bump was no more than that, he turned to the wounds, starting to clean them with short efficient movements. Brann sucked in a sharp breath through gritted teeth as the cloth touched the open wounds, and once more as water was again poured over them. His head grew light, but he forced his breathing to be deep and slow and, the more Cannick’s work was repeated, the more the feeling became bearable and more sensation than pain. Similar, he mused, to the cold plunge pools in Sagia – what seemed an overwhelming shock, at first, soon dissipated against all your expectations to a bearable level. Similar, but a bit more painful in this case. Still, the aftermath of every gladiatorial contest in the Empire’s capital had involved work of some sort to a variety of wounds, so he fell into the familiar process of concentrating on his breathing. The slice along his ribcage was attended to first, and the pricks when the needle and thread pulled together the deep cut on his arm brought him relief, as he knew the ordeal was close to an end.

Cannick grunted, peering at his handiwork. ‘It’ll do. Now get in the river and wash the rest of you before I pass out from the smell.’

Brann smiled his thanks. There was something he had to do first, however.

The horses were restless as he approached, the scent of death that still encased him making them shift nervously against the ropes tethering them but the noise helping him to find them in the darkness. His own horse whickered as he stopped in front of it, eyes widening and nostrils flaring. He stroked its face just as it liked, and spoke softly until it calmed. Moving to the side, he felt in the darkness behind the saddle to feel the familiar heavy cloth of a cloak. His fingers traced the line of a repair, feeling the marks of his mother’s careful stitches.

A throat clearing behind him made him jump. He turned, and then relaxed when he saw Marlo, receiving an apologetic smile in return.

‘You’ve learnt to move quietly!’

Marlo shrugged. ‘It was something I always could do, but Sophaya has been helping me improve, just as you help me with my weapons.’

‘Really? I never noticed.’ He saw Marlo’s look, and raised his eyes to the sky at his own slowness of thought. ‘Of course. That is the point of her speciality.’ Brann nodded, considering. ‘It is good. It helps to be as skilled as you can at as many things as you can. Especially the things that help you to stay alive.’ He ducked to one side and came up to flick the back of a hand at the side of Marlo’s head. The boy fended it off with a flick of his wrist and they both laughed. ‘I hope she is a more patient teacher than I am. And there are at least three others who have trained for years longer than I have.’

‘But you are the best at finding a way to win.’ Marlo grinned.

‘Mongoose moves more similarly to you. She would understand what works for you.’

‘I would not like to upset Hakon. He still has ambitions.’

Brann’s laugh burst from him. ‘You mean he still doesn’t know?’ Marlo shook his head, his eyes twinkling in the moonlight. ‘We really should tell him, but it’s too much fun.’ He laughed again, softly, as his mind pictured an image. ‘Anyway, Gerens is fine with you having private time with Sophaya?’

‘Of course. You know Gerens. Everything is taken as it is.’

‘True. But Breta – she is expert with weapons I have never even seen.’

‘I am quite happy with both of my tutors, thank you. Each is equally adept.’

‘Ever the diplomat, trying to keep us all happy.’

‘Why not? It is only fair, as you all make me happy by allowing me to travel with you.’

Brann gripped the boy’s shoulder. ‘Marlo, never be mistaken. You are as much a part of this group as any of us.’ The silence stretched, almost awkward. Brann turned to the horses. ‘Saddled?’

‘We kept them ready and the essentials already on them, in case we needed to leave in a hurry after we found you.’

Brann’s hand strayed to the bundle behind his saddle, and Marlo smiled. ‘Your father’s cloak is most definitely one of the essentials.’

Brann smiled. ‘Thank you.’ He made to start unbuckling the saddle. ‘Perhaps we can now make the horses more comfortable for the night.’

‘Indeed, but I am afraid that you must have become accustomed to the way you… well… not to put too fine a point on it… stink. It is not good for the horses. Even your own is finding it hard to stay calm.’

Brann paused. It was true. ‘I should wash.’

‘You should wash. I will see to the horses.’

It was only a short walk to the river, a small effort little more than a brook. Kneeling waist deep in the water, Brann savoured the refreshing cold, a welcome contrast to the hot humid air that was oppressive even close to the middle of the night. There was a splash behind him and he whirled, wary of the day’s danger not yet being finished. But it was only Breta he saw, striding through the water as if it were a puddle. He turned his back as quickly as he had first turned, clutching both hands to conceal his groin.

The girl laughed. ‘Fear not, little gnat. It is your arse that my eyes have always preferred to feast upon.’ A massive hand slapped the relevant part of him to emphasise the point. It also served to immerse him, face first, in the water, before the same hand caught his arm – thankfully his uninjured right one – and hauled him back upright. ‘That’s you rinsed. Let’s get you washed. You do the front and I will tend to the side you cannot reach, which also of course contains this firm little arse.’

Brann couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You really are just like a female Hakon, aren’t you?’

An even harder slap answered that, but this time with the other hand holding him in place. ‘He is just like a male me. A pale imitation. Ask the men of the last town we visited.’

Brann grinned his amusement. ‘Only you and he would use a town in the nightmare grip of a siege as an opportunity to bed as many locals as possible.’

‘He did try hard to follow my example with due enthusiasm, I’ll grant him that. It is always good to spread good feelings where otherwise despair would rule.’

‘You have a good heart.’

‘It was not the heart I was seeking,’ she guffawed, slapping him a third time. Brann resolved to end the conversation while he could still walk, and concentrated on washing himself while Breta did likewise on his back.

As soon as he had dried himself, and before he could fully dress, Cannick inspected his wounds and wrapped them in clean cloth. ‘This should keep them clean. I’ll check them each morning and night, but as long as the cleaning has kept infection at bay, they should heal without restricting your shield arm.’

Brann grasped the older man’s arm as a surge of emotion swept through him. ‘Thank you, Cannick. I don’t know what I’d do without you. What any of us would do.’

The broad shoulders shrugged. ‘One day you will have to. Learn enough from my infinite wisdom until then.’ He winked, passed Brann his clean tunic and carried his pack back to the rest of his belongings.

Tended and washed, Brann felt a weariness sweep over him. The others were pottering about with minor tasks, their attention on the minutiae of camp life. He moved to where his pack lay on the edge of the fire’s light, and spread his blanket on the ground as far from the heat of the embers as possible. The night was still warm, but the glow of light was also welcome. He took off his boots, curled up and closed his eyes.

Brann woke slowly but realised quickly that he would not find sleep again easily. His mind filled with thoughts, one racing on to find another waiting, and he tossed from one side to another before deciding a change of scene might help.

He rose and moved to the river bank, dangling his feet in the welcome cool of the water. The eddies swirling before him were lit by the full moon, and his mind whirled in tandem. Images of the pit of corpses merged into the degenerate fighting pits below Sagia where Loku had sent him to die and where the horror had forced him from his own mind to let his body survive. Dead bodies beneath his feet faded into dying bodies at his feet. And all the time, blood ran down his face, smeared his body, dripped from his hands.

Gerens sat beside him, his arrival causing Brann to jerk in surprise. ‘Have you all been practising creeping up on people?’

The other boy’s expression was as implacable as ever. ‘I don’t need to practise that.’

Brann’s irritation had already dissolved. He smiled softly. ‘I’m certain you don’t.’ He sighed. ‘Every time I go to do something since I got to the camp, someone seems to appear beside me.’

‘You wonder why?’ The tone was matter-of-fact, not challenging. ‘You were not in a good state when we found you.’

‘I was in a better state than when Grakk pulled me from the pits of the City Below after Loku had sent me down there to die.’

‘Better is not necessarily good, chief.’

‘I did learn a lot in those pits, right enough. Not so much in the pit of corpses this time.’

‘I suppose you learnt this time that you weren’t a corpse, which is a fairly good discovery to make.’

Brann almost smiled. ‘I was lost to myself in the City Below, Gerens. I will never be able to repay you all for what you did to bring me back.’

He sensed more than saw Gerens’s shrug. ‘You did what you had to do to survive. We did what we had to do to help you live.’

Brann paused to push aside the reluctance to say the next words. ‘There was a change in me, left by the pits. You know that, don’t you? There is a killer inside me.’

Gerens snorted. ‘There is a killer inside us all for when we need it. Some indulge it, some use it. The difference in you, chief, is that you are very good at it.’

‘And that is actually a good thing?’

‘In the world we live; on the road we travel?’ Gerens jerked and there was the sound of a soft plop as a small stone was cast into the water. ‘Without doubt.’

They sat in silence for a while. That Gerens was a more familiar companion than Marlo was reflected in the fact that quiet lay more easily over this pair.

Silence, until Gerens cleared his throat. ‘Warm weather.’ Brann looked at him. ‘Heavy air, hard to breathe sometimes, don’t you think?’

Brann nodded, looking back at the water. ‘It is. Need a storm to clear the air. Rain would help it.’

‘It would. Just enough to clear it. It has been pleasant to be free of quite as much rain as we have in our land.’

‘Indeed. These lands do have that advantage.’ Brann yawned. ‘It’s late, I suppose. Probably best to go back to sleep.’

‘Indeed.’

They walked back to the group of sleeping figures beside the fire. Konall’s space was empty – he would be somewhere in the darkness, keeping watch. Brann lay down once more on his blanket.

‘Gerens?’

‘Yes, chief?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Any time, chief. Every time.’

Dawn was starting to fade the darkness when he woke again. The camp was stirring as Grakk, Sophaya and Mongoose rode into their midst.

Mongoose stopped her horse close to the rising group around the fire. ‘So you found him then.’

Konall grunted. ‘Be glad it was us and not you who found him.’

The girl raised her eyebrows in question, but Hakon cut in. ‘Please do not start Konall on this subject again. He has been badly affected by the experience. He may never be the same again.’

Konall grunted. ‘Will never.’

Mongoose slid wearily to the ground. The other two also, Brann noticed, looked bowed by fatigue as they dismounted. She led the three horses to the river, while Grakk glanced at Brann, then looked pointedly at Cannick. The grey-haired old warrior nodded back briefly, enough to satisfy the wiry tribesman for now. Grakk nodded in return, the soft light enough to make visible the intricate tattoos on his shining scalp that marked him as from the people of the deserts beyond Sagia – people who allowed, and indeed fostered, the misconception of them as simple uncivilised nomads, to maintain the secret that they harboured the accumulated knowledge of the known world.

Gerens’s query was more audible, though barely in more words. ‘You took a while. Trouble?’

Sophaya shrugged. ‘Avoiding trouble, more like. We were on the far side of the field of dead, and had to lay low to avoid a patrol. We also took a trip into the main camp to see if Brann was among the prisoners, which by necessity was not the fastest of visits.’

‘You went into their camp?’ Gerens was aghast. ‘Do you realise how dangerous that was?’

Breta’s laugh boomed across the fire pit. ‘You say that as if we have a safe and dull life as it is.’

Gerens was not to be deterred. ‘But still…’

Sophaya smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, darling dearest, are you worried about me?’ She patted his arm softly. ‘Fear not, the three who were there were the three best suited to slipping through shadows. And I am the best of the three.’

Grakk winked at Gerens. ‘She is undoubtedly correct in that. She is like a shadow herself.’

Gerens nodded in acceptance. ‘She is magnificent,’ he conceded.

‘So,’ Cannick cut in. ‘We know you didn’t find him among the prisoners.’

Grakk’s stare was bleak. ‘We did not find any prisoners.’

‘You wouldn’t.’ They all looked at Konall. He shrugged. ‘What do you expect? This is the remains of an army, in retreat. Thanks to you,’ he looked at Brann, ‘they no longer have their leader, since you cut his head off in the battle that lifted the siege of the town, and they are no better than a rabble, looting to take what they can to, in their eyes, redeem a bad situation on their way, heading home. That does not include keeping prisoners to feed.’

Hakon frowned. ‘That doesn’t need to include slaughtering simple villagers. That was a whole settlement wiped out. Farmers and their families are hardly a deadly enemy to leave at your back.’

Cannick spat. ‘Some people just enjoy the killing. Doesn’t make it right, but it’s a fact.’

Brann nodded. He had seen enough of that in his time to know the truth in it. He frowned, however, frustrated at the fog in his memory that was obscuring something with as much magnitude as the slaughter of innocents, but leaving his questions for now.

Mongoose had tended to the horses and accepted a hunk of dry bread from Hakon. ‘Anyway, they’ll get what’s coming to them. If they had bothered to scout ahead, as we did after we needed to leave their camp on the far side, they’d know they are heading directly towards a proper army coming to teach them why they shouldn’t have come here in the first place.’

‘Good,’ Brann said quietly. They had their own business to concern them, but he was glad to think of the fate that awaited such savage butchers. ‘Let them meet their doom. They are heading east; we are heading north. We have Loku to catch, and we were delayed enough when we got ourselves trapped in that town’s siege. We need to make haste if we are to stand any chance of catching Loku and learning of the conspiracy he is part of. Any animosity we bear him from his misuse of his position as the Emperor’s spymaster and the ills he has done us personally is secondary to discovering the true nature and extent of the threat facing the lands of the North. We have to work our way up through his superiors, remember, if we are to learn both who is the leader controlling all and what actually is planned. We cannot afford to waste any time at all.’

Cannick had brewed coffee, and passed it around. ‘Take some of the Empire’s greatest export – after wine, of course – and settle down. These three need a rest. A few hours today won’t make a huge difference.’

Mongoose stood up. ‘If we stop early enough tonight, I can sit on a horse until then.’

Grakk glanced at Sophaya. She gave a defiant nod, as if any suggestion that she could not achieve the same were an insult. ‘Agreed,’ the tribesman said. ‘Let us saddle the horses.’

Conscious that they should be well clear of even the remnants of the army before they could feel safe, Brann waited a good hour before moving his horse beside Hakon’s to broach the subject he had been given little chance to address since being found the previous night. In truth, he could have asked any of his companions, but Hakon’s affable and guile-free manner would ensure he received the most open of answers.

The large boy proved the point before Brann had even opened his mouth. ‘You want to know how you ended up where you did, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ He desperately did. He could remember all of his savage primeval time in the fighting pits below ul-Taratac, and thanks to the administrations of the most learned of Grakk’s tribe in bringing him back from the creature he had retreated into as a means of surviving the pits, he had accepted his experience for what it was – a part of his life that had, at its most simple, happened. What it had changed in him, he could never change back, but the shaman Grakk had taken him to had rescued and returned Brann’s soul, his persona, his essence; whatever word was applied to it, and whatever the man had done to him, he had brought Brann back from where he had been hiding from those very changes. Now he was in control, he was the real Brann in normal life. But in combat the other Brann – the animal living only to survive – would re-emerge, only to subside, satisfied, when the danger was past. Or, at least, emerge as much as he would allow. He could not resist the rise of his other self in times of danger, as it was as much a part of him as any other part of his character, but in having the original side of him, the side of emotions, of civilised thought, of memories and the nuances of character that they create – in short, his personality – having that returned had given him an element of control over the cold efficiency of the side buried deep. When that other element rose, it dominated, but there was still a thread connecting him back to himself, like a cave explorer’s rope fed back in his wake to the outside world. But retaining that awareness when his primeval self took over, that knowledge of how he was behaving… did it remove the excuse that acting in such a coldly brutal way was outwith his true personality? Did it mean that he could not escape responsibility for what could, at times, be ferociously savage? And did that make him evil? A killer? Insane? But if those same savage actions and coldly efficient decisions were all that stood between the survival of himself and those he deemed good people, did that then justify them, make them morally the right thing to do? He had spent countless hours agonising over such questions before realising that it made no difference. He could not change it, so to wonder as to its label was immaterial. What did matter was how he acted towards those around him, and that this had indeed kept him, and at times them, alive. The rest of the time, he was much the same person as he had been before his time in the lawless pits in the caverns below Sagia, albeit hardened and less naïve and with lapses into melancholy and occasional nightmares – not all of which were when he slept. He could live with that.

And the thought of surrendering that tenuous link to himself, of allowing the darker side of him to assume total control, to swamp him, to open up the possibility of his true self never finding its way back – the thought made him shudder.

But what worried him more immediately was his lack of memory of the recent events. It reminded him too much of the immediate aftermath of his time in the vicious pits of the City Below, when his mind’s response to the blood-soaked and death-laden distortion of the more skill-based gladiator fights in the mainstream arenas above ground had been to abandon any concept of his real self. Was he slipping back into that shell? Was the cold killer asserting control? Was he losing himself?

‘Yes please,’ he said to Hakon.

Hakon’s look was appraising. ‘How recently can you remember? Sagia? Or the journey along the coast and then turning north through all those really nice small villages with the nice village girls? Or taking the boat into Markethaven during a siege because there had been news of a man matching Loku’s description having been seen there? Or becoming trapped there for the duration of the siege only to find that he had left before it started? Or leaving the city after the siege, and reaching the valley where the village was attacked? Or…’

Brann cut in. ‘The journey from Markethaven: I remember until that and everything before. I don’t remember the village, or setting up camp at that place, or anything after.’

‘Well, you weren’t with us when we set up camp, so you wouldn’t remember that.’ Hakon regarded him again. ‘So you don’t remember coming out of the trees to see those bastards cutting down the villagers. It was only a portion of what is left of the army, maybe a thousand soldiers or so, but the poor sods had no chance. The place was bigger than the smallest villages, but not as much as a town, just a few hundred ordinary folk living off the surrounding farms and the trades that go with their produce. The men were barely armed with working tools, never mind the women and children who were totally helpless.’

Brann stared into the distance. ‘Sounds like what happened to my village.’

The big Northern boy gave a grunt. ‘That would explain your madness. Before we knew it, you were galloping off to take on a couple of hundred armed men single-handed. You didn’t even have your mail on – it was a warm day, and we hadn’t expected trouble. We went after you, of course, but we were beaten back by the numbers. It was just too many. I’m sorry.’ He fell silent, but just as Brann started to reject the need for any apology, Hakon drew a breath and continued. ‘The last we saw, you had worked your way through to a group of men, maybe fifty, who were outside a hall where their families had taken refuge, defending it as best they could against many times their number. By the time we had regrouped, your horse had found its way clear, but you hadn’t.’

It was Brann’s turn to fall silent. Doubtless his companions in the burial pit had been drawn from those brave men.

‘It is I who should be sorry. I could have condemned us all.’

Hakon shrugged. ‘Sometimes the good in us overpowers the sense. This was your time for that. Those people were already dead. They didn’t know it yet and you just didn’t want to accept it.’

Brann frowned. ‘It was stupid. I should have seen that.’

‘We all have a demon inside us. The good you showed is what keeps it under control. It was our fault for not being quick enough to stop you. We know we are all capable of doing what you did, so should have anticipated it in time. But we didn’t, and you did what you did. Should have changes nothing, and pondering it only delays the solution. So we regrouped, waited until we could do something, and then did it. Except that we expected that the something we could do would be to find you and bury you properly – that’s what your people do, isn’t it? Bury your dead.’ Brann nodded. ‘It seemed your time had come. Only Marlo was determined you were still alive, but that’s Marlo for you.’ His face split into a huge toothy grin. ‘Turned out the wee mad bastard was right, after all, which we were all very pleased about. Especially me – I shudder at the thought of telling my sister I had returned but you had not.’

Brann couldn’t help but laugh. For the second time in a few hours, he was grateful for the counsel of his friends, no matter the form it took. And Hakon’s mention of Valdis gave him an extra eagerness to hasten their journey northwards. ‘Thank you, Hakon.’

‘No, thank you. It was worth all of it for the look on Konall’s face when we found you.’

Brann laughed again. Remembering that expression didn’t make the time in the pit worthwhile. But it did help.

Konall reined up his horse where the road crested a rise, and the others bunched around him. A walled town rose from the plain before them, buildings at this distance seeming to have been crammed in by a giant hand, so tightly packed that only a jumble of rooftops could be seen within the grey walls. The morning sun was high in the sky, and glittering around the outskirts suggested a moat of some sort. Farms dotted the plain as if the same giant had strewn them in one scattering sweep of his arm, but they were the only habitation outwith the protection of the walls. This place did not welcome intruders.

‘Belleville,’ Cannick said, staring at it. ‘The beautiful town. In reality, it is anything but. It is drab, dour, and unpleasant, and has the people to match. But the northern coast before we take ship for the Green Islands juts out into the seas at its north-west corner, so if Loku hasn’t wanted to sail round it and is instead cutting overland to sail the short distance to the islands, he will pass through this town. So, to my distaste, it is advisable that we do too.’

Hakon grinned. ‘So you’ve been here before then, Cannick?’

The old warrior leant to the side and spat on the dry ground dismissively. ‘More times than I would have liked. Two major routes, north-south and east-west, meet here, so it holds an important position, and don’t they know it. Still, passing through has been a necessity before, and it’s a necessity now. Might as well get it over with.’

The others readied themselves to move. Most were still mounted, but Brann’s pack had worked loose in its bindings and its rhythmic bumping against him for the past few miles had been irritating him, so he had slipped to the ground to take the chance to secure it more tightly. Grakk also was on his feet, picking a stone from his horse’s hoof, and Brann cast an eye over the road ahead. They were on the highest point and it undulated through a series of ever-lower rises until it met the floor of the plain. On the next rise, a man struggled alone to fix a cart that had lost a wheel. Brann nodded in his direction. ‘Looks like he could do with a hand.’ He glanced at Cannick. ‘I know you want to get in and out of this place as quickly as we can, and pick up Loku’s trail as soon as possible if he has indeed passed this way, but it wouldn’t take us long if it isn’t too badly damaged.’

The broad shoulders shrugged. ‘We are passing that way anyway. We can see when we get there.’ He kicked his horse forward without hesitation, accepting Brann’s opinion.

Brann swung himself into the saddle, his mail shirt clinking slightly as he did so. The pain from his ribs irked him more than that from his arm, not only because it hurt however he moved but also because it was a reminder of the folly of charging unprotected into a battle where blows will come from all unseen angles. Although ironically, he mused, had he not suffered wounds enough to render him unconscious, he would probably have fought on to his death. Still, he had donned his mail at the first stop to water the horses after Hakon had recounted his story, hot sun or no hot sun.

His hands automatically checked the helmet, shield, and bow hanging at vantage points around his saddle, and eased his sword in its scabbard, while his eyes fixed themselves on the scene at the cart. His gaze flicked to the area around it, searching for any sign of movement or disturbed wildlife, but his attention was mainly on the working man. Just because the distant figure had his back to them didn’t mean he was unaware of their presence. And just because he worked alone didn’t mean he was alone. Brann watched the man through the shimmering of the hot air, and continued to watch as they moved forward, waiting for a telltale glance towards hidden companions, or even the unnatural pretence of remaining oblivious to them beyond the point where he could not have failed to notice their approach.

His mind settled comfortably into the watchfulness. He felt happier to be putting more thought into a situation as opposed to reacting in line with the impetuous side that had been born in the pits of the City Below; born, admittedly, as a necessity in an environment where stopping to think was the first short stride in a one-step march to death. Thinking was a small sign that his darker side was not extending its control, but it was a small sign that he grasped and held tightly.

They moved at a trot, not wishing to move any faster lest it seem too aggressive. Brann’s eyes continually scanned for movement or shining metal in the area around, returning always to the man, but all that he could see was a carter labouring over a repair in the mid-day heat, the cargo, four large barrels, standing at the side of the road. When they were two bowshots away, the man straightened and turned, his face scarlet with effort and awash from pate to waist in sweat. If it was a ruse, the effort he was putting into his act was impressive. He watched their approach warily – a sizable group of riders, all armed, was a sight to make any stranded traveller nervous – and his hand strayed into the back of the cart for a hammer that, presumably, he had been using in his vain efforts to mend the wheel. He would know it would make no difference in the face of the odds he faced, but Brann guessed that he felt more comfortable with something, anything, but preferably something heavy, in his hand. Brann himself would.

The others drew up in front of him but Brann rode past, circling the area until he was happy that no hidden cut-throats lay waiting for their chance. Not that there was much cover among the small and sparse trees that the road cut through on its way to the plain, but it did no harm to be sure, and took only a moment. He walked his horse up from behind the cart as Cannick climbed stiffly from his saddle and slapped the road dust from his clothes.

‘Look like you could do with some help, feller,’ the grizzled veteran said. ‘Hot enough riding in this heat, never mind trying to sort a wheel on your own.’

The man, around the same age as Cannick but around half his width, relaxed. ‘That I could, friend, that I could.’ He wiped his brow with the back of one hand, but Brann noted that he still held the hammer in his other. These were not totally peaceful lands. ‘It is indeed a touch warm today, but the problem is not so much the heat as the weight of the cart. I have not the strength I once did…’

Breta and Hakon strolled past Cannick. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that, little man,’ Hakon said cheerfully as he continued beyond the carter, slapping him gently on the shoulder and causing the hammer to drop from the man’s hand and narrowly miss his toes. ‘We’ll take care of that.’

The man’s eyes widened and lifted high to follow the pair, regarding them as if a couple of trees had donned clothes and sauntered by. ‘That’s, er, very kind of you,’ he said to Cannick, his eyes still flitting to the large couple. ‘The pin snapped and the wheel just fell off the axle. Nothing else actually broke, so it is just a matter of lifting the cart to let the wheel be slipped back on. I have a spare bit of metal that will serve as a replacement pin in the meantime, if the cart could just be lifted by your two, er, enormous companions.’ He looked quickly at Breta. ‘No offence meant, madam.’

She frowned in confusion. ‘Why would a compliment offend?’ She shook her head as if some people were bewildering and turned to grip the underside of the wagon. Hakon did likewise, and in a heartbeat the pair lifted the heavy wagon level, allowing Brann and Gerens to slide the wheel back into place. Mongoose took a heavy iron nail, around a hand-and-a-half in length, from the man and dropped it through the hole previously meant for the pin, and Hakon lifted the hammer from the ground, bending the pointed end with a single blow to sit neatly flush with the axle and hold the nail in place.

Mongoose looked at the nail appraisingly. ‘Nice work.’

Hakon beamed. He glanced at Brann and Marlo, and winked. Brann avoided catching the Sagian boy’s eye – his own straight face was under enough pressure as it was.

The carter was also beaming, his smile containing considerably fewer teeth than Hakon’s, but no less engaging with simple happiness for it. ‘You are angels of the road, scions of the good gods sent to save a traveller in need. Jacques extends his thanks to the gods and to you for bringing you this way. May fortune bless your every step! May the road bless you with effortless passage! May the sky bless you with fair weather! May your boots bless you with feet free of blisters!’

Mongoose sidled up beside Brann, her voice a murmur. ‘Should have stopped after three blessings. Got a bit desperate by the fourth.’

Brann turned away, his shoulders shaking, as Breta and Hakon eschewed the planks that the carter had used to roll the barrels from the cart and lifted them directly back into it.

Grakk had been quietly watching, having taken the opportunity to seat himself on a rock at the side of the road. ‘Your gratitude is gracious, but unnecessary, my friend. When a man with a predicament such as yours meets a group with capabilities such as ours, there should be only one outcome.’

‘Perhaps in your experience, but not in mine, holy man,’ Jacques said, mistakenly assuming Grakk’s mode of speech and tattooed scalp to be based on religion. He sat on the back of his wagon, clearly glad of the rest before he was on his way. ‘Most armed groups that are met on these roads are wont to take what you have of value and pay you by allowing you to live. If they allow you to live.’

Cannick frowned. ‘And Belleville allows this?’

The man spat. ‘Belleville protects Belleville, and its farms on the plain, nothing more. They patrol the plain and hide behind their walls. It is up to us to get ourselves there intact. In truth, the bandits are fairly harmless and not overly numerous. They are no more than lads made desperate by poverty, and if they get enough to keep them going, they are satisfied. The real crooks are in the town. When we do,’ he spat again, ‘they pay a pittance for what we have and charge a fortune for what we want.’

Brann turned, humour forgotten in the face of injustice. ‘Can you not take your goods elsewhere?’

Jacques shrugged. ‘Nowhere else close enough to make it viable, young man.’

Brann still found it hard to understand. ‘Can you not refuse to sell unless they raise their prices? And refuse to buy at the prices they set?’

The man smiled sadly. ‘They grow their necessities for life; what they buy from us is over and above that, such as this oil I carry today. These goods enhance their life and they would not like to be without them for any length of time, but they can afford to survive on basics, just to make a point, and are stubborn enough to do so. We, however, need what they sell to produce what we do, and need their coin to buy what we eat. If I had a farm that produced all I needed to live, I would never soil myself with visiting that accursed town. Too late in my life, though, to change what generations of my family have done. We are carters, pure and simple. We transport, we are paid for transporting, we buy from our neighbours what we can avoid going to town to acquire, and then we transport some more.’

‘So,’ Brann said slowly, a thought growing. ‘If you didn’t have to go to the town today, you would not be distressed.’

The gap-toothed grin returned. ‘If I did not have to go to the town today, I would be bloody overjoyed, young man. Sadly, however, a consignment must be delivered for the fee to be paid, and the consignment will be paid for in the town.’

Brann looked at Grakk, then Cannick. ‘Unless the consignment and the cart are both bought at the side of a road and delivered by its new owners in your stead.’ His eyes had returned to the carter by the end.

The carter shrugged. ‘Should that be a possibility, it would be a welcome possibility.’

‘What are you thinking, Brann?’ Cannick was cautious.

‘I am thinking that a band of armed riders at the gates of a town renowned for its less than welcoming attitude would arouse suspicion. But a band of armed riders escorting a cart through dangerous bandit-ridden countryside would make more sense.’

‘Could we not,’ Konall said, ‘just escort this man to the gates of the town and pose as an escort in that way without having to pay for it in the first place?’

Hope began to fade from the old man’s face.

Brann shook his head. ‘Jacques has been doing this all his life, which is a considerable length of time.’ He looked at the man. ‘No offence meant.’

The man flashed his few teeth at Breta. ‘Why would a compliment offend, eh, young lady?’

She nodded solemnly. ‘Indeed.’ She turned to Hakon. ‘He called me a lady. Did you hear that?’

Brann continued quickly before Hakon could get himself into trouble. ‘The guards at the gate will know Jacques, and would wonder why he has broken the habit of a lifetime to now employ a guard. Whereas,’ he glanced at Konall, ‘a new man starting his business in this area, made nervous by the stories of banditry, might panic and hire a sizable escort. That might seem natural, might it not?’

The tall blond boy nodded. ‘It could make sense.’

Brann looked at Grakk. ‘We have the ability to pay.’

Grakk looked at Sophaya, having entrusted to her the pouches of coin passed to them by their benefactor in ul-Taratac – as the Sagians called their empire – to fund their mission, wherever Loku led them. Who better to know how to keep safe such valuables than the one natural thief in the group?

She nodded. ‘Of course. If that is what you want, it is there.’

Brann took a selection of coins from Sophaya and collected them into a pouch. He turned back to the old carter. ‘Can you buy a new cart in time for your next delivery?’

‘No need, young man. I have two, in case an accident befalls one with more dire consequences than today’s mishap. In any case, your price is far too high. Half of that would more than suffice, even after I purchase two more horses.’

Konall made to speak, but a glare from Cannick and a dig of Mongoose’s sharp elbow jolted him into uncharacteristic restraint.

Brann handed the pouch to Jacques. ‘It is the right amount.’

Cannick had suggested approaching the town’s main gate a little after dusk had started to fall, when the heat of the day had left the guards tired and thinking more of a refreshing drink than the duty involved in the remainder of their shift.

The wait allowed the others to rest in the shadow of the cart while Sophaya rode with the old man to a nearby steading, where he could borrow a mount to see him home. The glee on his face attested to the infrequency in his life when he could wrap his arms around the waist of a young woman. Gerens’s glare removed the glee for as long as it took, Brann noticed with amusement, for the pair to move beyond the grim boy’s line of sight.

Brann sat on the ground and rested his back against the recently repaired wheel. He folded his arms, rested his chin on his chest and closed his eyes, but found himself unable to snooze as the others were doing. His mind whirled and calculated, thoughts fired by his relentless impatience to reel in Loku. His thinking was hampered, though, by his nagging regret at missing the man at Markethaven by only a matter of days, only to be trapped there by the siege for weeks, the frustration driving his mind in circles.

The irritation was still refusing to leave him alone after they had moved off, the sun low in the sky but the air no less stifling for it. He nudged his horse beside those of Grakk and Cannick.

‘How long do you think—?’

Grakk cut in with a smile. ‘It would take Taraloku-Bana, or Loku, as he calls himself in these more norther parts, to reach here? I am only surprised, young Brann, that it has taken you so long to ask when you had time this afternoon to ponder it.’

Brann frowned. ‘I was thinking about it, yes, but every time I tried to think about it, my head kept returning to the way we came so close to him, and yet still he managed to stay ahead of us, while we lost even more time. It was as if the gods were toying with us like a bully dangling a toy in front of a child: almost in reach but then pulling it away at the last instant.’

Cannick spat into the dusty road. ‘The gods do not toy with us. What happens, happens. All we can do in this game that is life is play the dice the way they fall and not waste time wishing they had shown different numbers, or some other player will step in and play our turn.’

Grakk looked at the old soldier with narrowed eyes. ‘An interesting theological philosophy, my friend. Can I ask your religion?’

Cannick barked a cynical laugh. ‘The religion of real life. I have seen many a soldier gutted who, moments before, had prayed to his gods, and others walk from battle without a scratch who had prayed just as piously. The gods may watch us, but the only people who can keep us alive are ourselves and our friends around us, if we are lucky enough to have them. Forget that, and place trust in great beings whose workings we only know of through priests and priestesses – other people just like us, not magical beings of great knowledge, mark you – and all you will do is let your guard down. Plenty of time for pious men to speak to their gods when they meet up with them.’

Grakk nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see. You term it “their gods”. And so, do you believe there are no gods?’

‘Oh, there must be gods.’ A brawny arm swept to indicate the fields around them and beyond, then up to the sky. ‘How else can all this be explained? Someone or something must have made it all, and must keep it all working. There’s enough work there for an army of gods. Why would they bother whether one of us sticks a sword in another, or falls in love with another, or recovers from a hangover, or wins a wager at the gladiator pit, or whatever else people pray for? But then I’m just an old soldier, and that’s just an old soldier’s opinion.’

‘An old soldier who is still alive, however,’ Grakk pointed out, ‘and whose opinion has therefore been formed and tested in many situations of living or dying.’

Brann thought that Cannick’s views sounded similar to the views of his own upbringing, where practical people lived off the land and prayed in gratitude to gods representing all aspects of nature while, at the same time, learnt to work themselves with all the unpredictable vagaries of nature that each year threw at them. The real problems came from other men, not gods. The thought of home sent a wistfulness through him, prompting in turn thoughts of urgency – and Loku.

He could see that Grakk, the learned gatherer of knowledge, was now intrigued by Cannick’s straightforward philosophies and had another question about to be asked. He cut in quickly. ‘Loku? Distance travelled? Length of time?’

Cannick sighed theatrically. ‘Oh, the impatience of youth. All right, young man, we shall work it out.’ Grakk looked crestfallen, and Cannick patted him consolingly on the shoulder. ‘Worry not, old friend, we can talk more later.’

He closed his eyes, as if to concentrate, and tapped one thumb against the fingers of that hand in turn, as if calculating. ‘Let’s see. From Markethaven, the last place we and he both were, it would be about seven days’ sailing along the south coast and another eight northwards, up the side of the country.’ His eyes flicked open and must have seen Brann’s dismay. ‘But that is in good weather, and in straight lines. He will have been hugging the coast because of the time of year – rough weather in the sea off the south coast and fullblown storms as he turned northward into the big sea. And not only will his winding route and the difficult waters have slowed him down, but he may well have had to put into port a couple of times when the weather got too bad for them.’ He nodded at Konall and Hakon, riding side-by-side in silence ahead of them. ‘The Southern sailors are nothing of the ilk of their lot, who would laugh at a storm and sail through it and out the other side as if the wind were no more than a baby’s fart. But then, the Northerners have such skill bred into them. Those Loku has taken passage with in his journey to meet up with his fellow conspirators,’ he spat again, ‘are not, as I say, that sort of sailor – we already know the first ship he took passage on had needed to put into Markethaven for repairs, causing him to wait until he could leave on the first ship to be headed his way. So I reckon, a good three-and-a-half weeks all in. Then a couple of days overland, east, to this town before us, if he didn’t want to go by boat around the Point of the Last Lands, and I’m fairly sure he will have had quite enough of bumpy seas by then to want to take on the worst part of the sail. Say, four weeks as a good guess.’

Grakk nodded thoughtfully, his hungry mind already absorbed in this new task. ‘By contrast, we were delayed three weeks, roughly, by the inconvenient siege of Markethaven, but were then able to cut diagonally across country to here, a trip so far of nineteen days.’

‘Which,’ Brann said slowly as his thoughts collected, ‘would put us maybe a dozen days behind him.’ He brightened. ‘Which isn’t too bad considering he doesn’t know we are chasing him. And this is his journey, so he will keep moving. We, of course, do not know what business he will conduct when he reaches his destination, as discovering that is part of our mission, but in conducting that business his progress will be slowed, and all the time we will draw closer.’

‘You see,’ Grakk beamed, ‘I was certain we could cheer up your disconsolate face.’ He turned to Cannick. ‘Now, about the gods and nature. Where would you say the gods’ influence ends, and the innate actions of flora and fauna begin?’

Brann groaned and slowed his horse to drop back, out of earshot. He studied the fields around them, quiet as dusk approached. The creaking and squeaking of the cart and the knock of the horses’ hooves were the only sounds: loud enough to mask the few voices that chatted – only Grakk and Cannick, as a matter of fact – but quiet enough to let him realise that work had finished for the day in the fields. The crops around this part of the road swayed slightly in the early evening breeze, their colour combining with the varying hues of other, more distant, fields to form a patchwork broken only by the occasional pasture hosting, in those he had seen so far, goats or cows. It was a scene that reminded him of home despite the harder ground and the irrigation channels Grakk had pointed out to him – a feature unheard of in his own rain-drenched homeland. He sighed. Home was a thought he had tried to avoid for the past year, but it had wormed its way into his head ever more often recently as they moved towards the islands. Depending on Loku’s movements and where they led Brann and his party, he may never travel any further north than the South Island, but even just to head in this direction made repressing memories more difficult by the day.

He shook his head in annoyance. He had to focus on the danger this town presented now. He fixed his attention on the approaching gate, analysing the situation, to force aside his self-indulgent maudlin musings.

Two guards lounged at the entrance, one leaning against the gatepost, his jaded gaze resting on the approaching party. The other rested a shoulder against the outside of the wall, facing his companion as they passed the time, and seeing nothing in the first guard’s expression to cause him to feel the need to turn his head towards the cart and its escort.

Brann’s eyes had already scanned their weapons, though – they were well-tended and to hand. His own hand strayed onto his belt, close to his own sword hilt. Just because someone looked lazy and disinterested now did not mean they would stay that way. And just because they looked as if they would take an extra second to lower a spear or draw a sword did not mean that they did not know how to use them once that second had passed. Just because they obviously did not expect trouble did not mean they were unable to deal with it were it to appear before them.

The hooves of the lead horses clattered for a moment as they passed over the stone at the start of the bridge across the moat, then gave off a deeper rumble as they moved onto the wooden main section. Brann’s eyes narrowed in curiosity, glancing from the bridge surface and then at the gateway, where a stout metal portcullis was ready to be dropped and where thick gates, banded with iron, could further block the way… but where no chains ran to the timbers of the bridge. He moved his horse beside Cannick’s.

‘No drawbridge?’ he said quietly. ‘Strange, given their desire to protect themselves from outsiders.’

‘Look where the bridge meets the other side,’ Cannick murmured.

Brann saw that the wood of the bridge led into a slot in the stone of the gatehouse. Cannick slowed his horse, pretending to check with a glance at the tailgate of the cart, to avoid closing on the guards while they were talking, and Brann followed suit.

‘It slides in?’

Cannick nodded.

Brann’s curiosity awakened. ‘But why? It seems a great deal of extra effort to construct this. And a normal drawbridge provides an extra layer across the gateway to penetrate.’

‘A normal drawbridge remains exposed when lifted.’ He smiled as Brann felt his face light up in understanding.

‘A lifted drawbridge prevents attackers from crossing the moat, but also prevents defenders from doing the same,’ Brann said. ‘If those besieging the place can damage the drawbridge while it is raised, defenders cannot issue in numbers from the main gate for a counter-attack, and if the intent is to starve them, then it will also help to trap them within.’ Brann brightened with enthusiasm as his understanding unfolded. ‘This way, it can be withdrawn and protected. They already have a strong portcullis and gate to protect the entrance, not to mention the moat.’

‘Good lad. I thought you’d get there eventually. The moat flows in from the north and out at the south, but they stop the exit during these drier months to keep the level high, only letting water escape as they need to.’

Brann thought back to the towns of Konall’s and Hakon’s homeland, ingeniously designed to make an attack virtually a suicide mission. ‘Looks like they could give our friends in Halveka a run for their money in designing defences.’

Cannick grunted. ‘No one touches the Halvekans on that score, and certainly not here. When you get inside, you’ll see.’

Marlo reined up the horses in front of one of the guards, who had managed to rouse himself to confront them. The man looked sullenly around their company.

‘What’s this?’

Marlo cleared his throat hesitantly. ‘I am bringing produce intended for the merchant, Patrice, in the Third Quarter, sir.’

The guard grunted. ‘Don’t know your face. And it is not a face that was born anywhere near here.’

‘My family moved here from the Empire, good sir. I work for my uncle, who heard there was good work for carters here.’

Brann had already noticed that, while the second guard still lounged against the wall, his gaze had never stopped watching the riders, flicking from weapons to callouses on hands, from where they were looking to how they looked. These two maybe didn’t expect danger, but they were watching for it.

‘Why so many swords with you?’ the first man asked, with more curiosity in his tone than suspicion.

His eyes scanned the group once more. Hakon was trying to slouch himself into a diminished size, but was still hulking over the man from his mount. Several of the others were no less intimidating: Konall knew no other way to hold himself than with the casual arrogance of one with years of training and of being obeyed; Gerens had a stare that suggested he would cut your throat without a passing thought; Cannick had the scars and the carriage of an experienced campaigner; Grakk just looked downright fearsome; and Breta… when the man’s eyes alighted on her, he froze with a slight gasp. She treated the guard to what Brann knew she would be intending as a winning smile; the reaction from the man was a nervous swallow and a tightening of his fingers on his spear as he took a slight and involuntary step back.

Brann noticed he had not been one of those to elicit a response from the guard – he was happy for that to be the case. To be regarded as not a threat was to gain an advantage before the fight even started. The sentry steadied himself and glared at Marlo, seeming to be reassured by the fact that Marlo looked as nervous under his gaze as the man himself had done when noticing Breta’s intimidating appearance.

‘Pardon me, sir.’ The fact that the anxiety evident in Marlo’s voice was entirely natural was what had made him the obvious choice for the role. ‘Pardon me, but my uncle had heard there was good work for carters here, but also that there was an element of danger. He preferred to err on the side of caution, as far as security was concerned, until we better learnt the true nature of the peril, as he had heard say that there were parts of the route where transported goods attracted the attention of nefarious brigands.’

A rough laugh burst from the man at that. ‘Nefarious brigands? I have heard them called many things, but that is a new one on me. So tell me, well-guarded young carter: why does your uncle the carter not drive his cart?’

‘My uncle, sir, prefers to organise the business and to let his nephews carry out the simple task of driving the carts.’

‘Your uncle prefers to sit in the safety of his home and let his nephews face the dangers he sees in the shadows, more like.’

Marlo was proving so effective that Brann found himself hating the fictitious uncle and warming to the sentry.

The guard stepped to the side and flicked his head towards the gateway. ‘Typical Sagian. As if we don’t have enough of your lot here already. Better get yourself and your many helpers into the safety behind our walls then. On you go.’

Marlo flicked the reins. ‘Thank you, sir.’

They filed in after the cart. Breta winked at the guard, winning herself a flinch of fear. The young woman looked hurt.

Cannick had noticed as well. He slapped Breta heartily on the shoulder. ‘Would you help me, good lady, find a suitable inn for us? I don’t know about you, but I need an ale.’

Breta brightened immediately. ‘First decent suggestion I’ve heard all day. Hopefully there are some men in this town who are less scared of the fairer sex than that mouse at the gate.’

And hopefully, Brann thought, there were plenty of them willing to talk. They needed information, and they needed it fast.