Читать книгу Hero Risen - Andy Livingstone - Страница 9

When he had ruled, the world came to the Emperor. Now it seemed that some things had relaxed.

Arrogance that relaxes standards will build complacency from indolence just as easily as it builds dismissiveness from pomposity. Either forms weakness, and weakness offers less resistance to pressure.

A cracked wall will never again be truly strong, no matter the patches. In some cases, a wall will, weakened, still serve its purpose, for the pressures it will face are less than even the reduced strength of the wall.

But when the wall faces strong and repeated pressure, even the smallest cracks will spread and widen and fracture and bring the wall to rubble. When even the first small cracks appear, one remedy alone will suffice: tear down the wall and build one anew; the only question being when, not if. But the new wall must be completed before the old is destroyed, for even a weakened wall is better than none.

Such is the wall of an Emperor’s power.

He had known it, had maintained an Empire on it. Set the minimum standard at the highest level, and tolerate no relaxation.

Those who ruled now did not know it. They governed for their pleasure, believing they governed efficiently, never knowing that they benefited from the decades that had come before. Place the running of the Empire before all, and the pleasure will come in its wake; rise each morning with the first thought of your own contentment, and the source of the contentment will be pulverised by inattention.

The wall will crack.

A guard’s rap at his door heralded the entry of the current incumbent of the throne. He slumped in his chair and fixed a bland ghost of a smile to his lips a moment before the Emperor strode in.

He mumbled pleasant inanities in response to the eloquent and almost-believable claims of successes and assertions of wise rule that followed the cursory enquiry after his well-being and were intended, he was sure, to bolster the man’s own self-belief as much as the ostensible purpose to reassure a venerated elderly relative that all was well with the world.

As soon as the door closed, renewed determination drew his posture straight once more. He moved to his desk and drew up rapid notes in handwriting that few could read and in a cypher that none but he could understand. To a reader, they were the scratchings of deranged senility; in reality, they formed architectural plans.

Plans for a new wall.

A wall already under construction.

The cracks were growing.

****

They ran.

Joceline saw them coming and started to ask, presumably about Eloise, but the question died on her lips at the sight of the stricken Philippe. Konall’s handful of tunic propelled him and horror and disbelief filled his eyes. She glanced at the small girl, now in Gerens’s arms, stronger as they were than those of Sophaya, but postponed any curiosity in favour of turning and lifting her skirts to allow her to match their pace, leading them through the winding streets with an assurance that defied the darkness of the hour.

Not for the first time, Brann tumbled on cobbles. Ignoring the pain, he glanced enviously at Gerens, the only one of them not to have fallen – a fortunate fact given his burden. Moonlight allowed the other boy to see his look.

‘The slopes around my home were rock, not nice smooth grass. Rock teaches you early on how to keep your balance… and that you want to learn it.’

Streets blurred into one twisting, slipping, frantic journey. At first, their footsteps were the only sound but, before long, bells began to ring their message of alarm.

Joceline half turned, gasping at them. ‘If we can stay ahead of their messengers, we should reach the gate you asked for before the various barracks near the walls know exactly why they are being roused.’

‘Good.’ Brann was panting as much as she was. ‘As long as the messengers don’t use horses, we should have enough of a start to stay ahead of the communication, and they won’t know that they are to look for us, or in fact search at all.’

Joceline stopped at the edge of an open area that lay between the last of the houses and the town walls, a killing ground perfect for archers should an enemy breach the defences. She pointed at the base of the wall, where they could just make out the darker colour of a door.

‘There,’ she said. ‘It bolts on this side, as does the door on the far side of the wall. As you wanted, the nearest gates in either direction are distant enough that you should be able to get enough of a start on any pursuers to see you away.’

Brann nodded. ‘And the size of the tunnel? And doorways?’

‘Small enough that nothing bigger than a man can fit through. Dogs, yes, but no horses.’

Sophaya frowned. ‘Not much use as a gate. Not many options.’

‘It will be a sally port, young lady,’ Grakk said. ‘Far enough from the gates that defenders may issue from it unseen to take unawares besiegers at those gates, or even sneak a messenger away to request help from elsewhere.’

‘Right, so they can’t chase us on horseback. Good,’ Gerens said.

Shouts broke out in the distance to their left, spreading quickly through the streets behind them. The pattern was repeated shortly after from the right.

‘It seems they can send messages on horseback, however. Maybe time to leave?’

Sophaya lifted the little girl from Gerens, and set her before Joceline. ‘This is Antoinette. Do you think you could manage to find her parents?’

The woman nodded, but the girl looked up with eyes that were as dead as her voice proved to be. ‘My mummy and daddy are dead. They shouted at the soldiers when they took us away.’

A tear started in Sophaya’s eye, but Joceline merely crouched and took the girl’s hands in hers. ‘Well, I will just have to take care of you, won’t I? We will find you work to occupy you and train you in skills you never imagined you could learn.’

Brann was shocked. ‘She is no more than six years! You don’t mean to bring her up as a…?’

Joceline’s glare cut him off. ‘The seamstress across from the inn has need of an apprentice.’

He was glad the darkness would hide his blush. ‘Good. Of course. We should go.’ He looked at her. ‘Thank you, for all of this.’

She shrugged. ‘Just tell me this: does the Duke still govern?’

‘Not in this world.’

‘Then the thanks are mine to give to you.’

Shouts drew closer. Without a word or a look back, Joceline took Antoinette by the hand and ran for the shadows. Brann looked at Philippe, who looked after the receding pair, almost out of sight already, and then turned back. ‘There is nothing here for me now but sorrow,’ he said. ‘If you will allow me, I would like—’

Brann’s answer was to grab his tunic and drag him with him as, without further hesitation, he bolted for the wall. The others, impatient to leave, needed no encouragement to run with them.

To expect to reach the cover of the door without being seen would have been pushing optimism too far, but they almost made it. A score of paces from their target, a group of men rounded a distant corner. The open ground and full moon gave the guards a view that was sufficient to show several figures behaving suspiciously, and to men already enthused by the chase, anything questionable became prey. The men began to shout and run in the same instant, although one lingered long enough to sound three blasts on a horn. Answering horns sent back single notes from at least four locations.

Brann thumped into the wall, his chest heaving, at the same time as the others. Gerens paused for nothing, hurling his shoulder at the door without missing a stride. The wood shattered inwards and the boy tumbled through, already back on his feet by the time the others piled in.

‘It may have been open, you know,’ Konall pointed out.

‘It definitely is now,’ Gerens said.

They hurried into the short corridor through the wall, barely more than a few hands of space to either side of their shoulders.

‘I dare you to do the same to the next door,’ Konall said.

Gerens grunted. ‘I don’t mind getting wet. Better than waiting to be stuck with a sword.’

Light penetrated no more than a few yards behind them into the passage, and they felt their way at a trot through the black, feet slipping on the damp stone of the floor. Brann strained his eyes for the slightest hint of light ahead but still discovered the door with his hands rather than his eyes. The others piled up behind him, then backed off slightly as his fingers found three large bolts and slid them free. He yanked at a handle, and old hinges groaned as he heaved it open at the second attempt. The moon was shining from the far side of the town, but outside was lighter than the tunnel and some little vision returned to them, the water of the moat a deeper black than what lay beyond. He knelt and felt in the darkness.

‘There should be a plank lying at the side of the tunnel,’ he called urgently. ‘Run it across the moat and we are away.’

‘I have it,’ came Grakk’s voice. ‘But it will not be our bridge. Wet floors and wood are excellent for rot, but not for strength.’

Brann cursed. There was no option. ‘Gerens, you will get your swim after all.’

The shouts behind were nearing the broken door behind them. Brann launched himself blindly into the moat, hitting the water and hearing the muffled splashes of the others doing likewise before he regained the surface. The distinctive taste in his mouth was expected – and welcome, under the circumstances – but had obviously come as a surprise to Konall.

‘What in all the hells have we jumped into?’ the boy spluttered.

Brann grinned. ‘Just don’t drink any of it.’ At least it meant that the others were waiting for them.

Grakk called to him. Brann saw his dark silhouette crouched at the doorway and was handed the bundle of documents. He took them in one hand while his other kept his head above the water, then watched in alarm as the gangly figure leapt wildly past him in the general direction of the others.

‘That was Grakk!’ he yelled above the sound of the splash. ‘Remember he can’t swim.’

‘Got him, chief,’ came Gerens’s voice. ‘What are you doing back there?’

‘I’m on my way.’ An explanation seemed irrelevant. ‘Just get him to the other side quickly.’

He heard the water thrash as they struck out and followed in their wake, swimming one-handed as fast as he could while carefully keeping the bundle of documents clear of the water. He made the far side as figures, lit by a torch, started to appear at the doorway. Cries from the guards increased in excitement as the splashing of Brann and his companions being helped from the water by strong arms from above told them how close their quarry was. A scrape of wood on stone was followed by a curse.

‘Sounds like they have discovered the rot in the wood,’ Brann said to Cannick as the man pulled him to the bank of the moat with an ease that belied his age, while Hakon and Breta could be heard helping the others. ‘Is all prepared?’ He received a nod. ‘The horses?’

‘It was too noticeable from the wall to have them waiting here. They’ll be on their way soon.’

‘They are not here?’ There was panic in Philippe’s voice, the alarm increasing as the splashes of men jumping into the water started to be heard in rapid and unceasing order. ‘It doesn’t matter how far we are from the nearest gate, if we are on foot they will ride us down with ease.’

Konall swept his wet hair from his face and reached to tie it behind his head, as he always did as a precursor to a fight. ‘He has a point, if a little dramatically expressed. And we are fairly outnumbered by those already on their way.’

A soldier started to drag himself from the moat, and Gerens casually swatted him with his sword, looking across the water as the baying of hounds could now be heard from the tunnel. ‘And then there is that development, too.’

Philippe grabbed Cannick by the arm. ‘So when will the horses come? When?’

Cannick gently disengaged his grip. ‘Just as soon as they see the fire.’

‘Fire?’ Philippe cast about wildly. ‘What fire?’

Cannick lifted a lamp that was shuttered to send light only towards the empty land outside the town, and smashed it onto a towering pile of dry, brittle branches loaded into the back of the cart, now empty of its barrels of oil. The dry wood flared up in seconds.

‘Ah,’ said Konall. ‘That fire.’

‘Not quite,’ Cannick said, as Breta and Hakon leapt forward to run the blazing cart at the moat and tip it headlong at the water. ‘This fire.’

Fire arose from the water as if by magic. Swimmers screamed as much in shock as agony, and the men at the doorway, lit by the spreading flames, shrank back against those behind. The light gave them vision at their own side of the moat as well, revealing two large barrels lying at the side of the water, their tops staved in and contents gone.

Gerens grinned with cold humour. ‘The oil.’

Brann nodded, remembering the trickle of oil in the rear yard of the inn the night before, when the idea had slipped into his head. He was glad it had worked; the still water of the moat letting the oil stay concentrated at that spot for the short time since it would have been poured there.

Two arrows flickered at the corner of his vision and thunked into the ground not far from Grakk.

The tribesman looked at him then raised his eyebrows. ‘Shall we move?’

‘In the gods’ names yes,’ Brann gasped, aghast at his complacency. The flames that kept men and beasts at the foot of the wall from following also made their little group perfect targets for archers at the top of it. In any case, he had no idea how long the fire on the water would last.

They had little to gather and less to entice them to delay, and were running into the darkness in seconds. As soon as they had stumbled beyond the range of an arrow, tripping and bumping each other in blindness, Konall stopped them.

‘Squeeze your eyes shut, and count to ten,’ he said. ‘Your eyes still want to see in the firelight. So remind them what dark looks like.’

When they opened their eyes, the way was clear to them, even with the moon behind clouds. Brann looked at him approvingly, and Konall shrugged.

‘Old hunting trick from where the winter nights would show you what real darkness is.’

They ran again, but this time faster.

Every thirty paces, Grakk gave a shrill whistle.

Sophaya moved alongside Brann. ‘If he is trying to attract those who bring the horses, would he not be better advised to use light?’

‘The source of light is easier to pinpoint over distance, such as from the town gates,’ Brann panted. ‘The direction of a sound is easier to find up close than from far away, so we give less away to our enemies pursuing than we do to our friends seeking us.’

She grunted, accepting his reasoning. He wondered, at first, at a girl of obvious intelligence not seeing this for herself, but remembered her background. When you spend your life, and make your living, in the confines of tightly packed buildings and narrow streets, the accepted wisdom is that light can be concealed by walls or even a cloak, but sound carries greater distances and around corners, and is the greater danger. Different circumstances, different lessons.

Brann’s breath was loud in his head, but the growing sound of hoof beats was louder. They stopped, and Grakk whistled again, giving final confirmation. Despite reason telling him that only their own companions could have reached them so quickly, still Brann’s heart quickened and his sword found its way into his hand as he watched the dark shapes gallop towards them.

Then a rider vaulted from his saddle, and Marlo’s cheerful voice greeted them.

Brann relaxed, finding his horse and swinging onto its back, gratefully feeling the familiar power of the beast beneath him. Marlo was beside him, and he pointed at the dark shape of Philippe. ‘We have brought an extra passenger for you.’

‘Why me?’

‘You are light enough that the horse will not mind as much taking the extra load.’

‘Mongoose is lighter.’

‘You are skinnier.’

‘Sophaya is skinnier.’

‘You want to suggest to Gerens that another man rides with Sophaya?’

A short pause ended with a flash of white teeth. ‘Philippe, you may ride with me.’

Hakon guffawed. ‘You might want to watch how you put that!’

Breta slapped the back of his head. ‘Restrain your ribald comments in the presence of ladies, pig man.’ She hawked and spat as hoof-kicked dust swirled and caught at her throat. ‘Men!’

Hakon looked at her, but thought better of responding.

They rode as quickly as rows of vines would allow, until they reached a road.

Brann wheeled his horse. ‘Konall? Hakon? East.’

Without hesitation, both pointed to where the road led to their left. He saw Philippe’s quizzical look.

‘Born as seafarers. Under the sun or the stars, they always know.’

The clouds had cleared and the moon lit the road to allow a gallop to be risked until they had crested three successive rises, after which Brann slowed them to a loping canter, being more concerned with ensuring the horses could last the pace as long as possible. He moved alongside Marlo’s horse, looking at Philippe.

‘You know the town,’ he called above the noise of the hooves. ‘Will he be mourned?’ Thoughts of the Duke clearly brought back the reality of his sister’s death and, as Philippe crumpled into himself, regret at having to seek information clenched his gut. Brann was on the verge of leaving him to his grief when the young man pulled himself tall in the saddle once more, drawing strength into himself with a long slow breath. Brann’s remorse turned to a surge of emotion as he watched courage gather in Philippe’s eyes.

‘They will rejoice.’ His voice was flat, controlled. ‘They will rejoice, but they will do so behind the walls of their houses, for no one under the Duke’s rule was safe from betrayal, and it takes time for trust to grow and feelings to be expressed openly.’

‘And the loyalty of the soldiers?’

Philippe shrugged, having to grab at Marlo’s waist to regain his hold as his hands moved with his shoulders. ‘They are loyal to the job. Like every other job, some are in it for the money, some like to feel important; some are good men, others are bastards. And like everyone in that town, all were in fear of even the appearance of disobedience.’

‘So what I’m wondering is, how much will they be inclined to follow us?’ He paused as he thought of Philippe’s background. ‘I’m sorry, how could I expect you to know? You were not one of them.’

The level gaze never left him. ‘But I do know people. And I know that when he,’ his head nodded at Gerens, ‘let loose his grip, he not only rid the town and these lands of a madman, but in one heartbeat he also created uncertainty. No one stood ready to step into his place, because he trusted no one to repress the ambition he would have held in their place. And the Captain of the Guard was also killed. They will not follow after they know the truth, and dawn is more than time enough for that.’

Brann bit on his lip as he considered it. Once the officers realised fully what had caused the alarm and that their leader was no more, and once those holding positions of power in the town – and those who would wish to do so – discovered that the Duke was dead, all concern would focus on the question of who would assume control, and any interest in the small group of unknown people would disappear along with the shapes into the dark of the surrounding countryside. Philippe was right. ‘Thank you.’

The young man turned his face forward once more. Brann saw the glisten of tears start to shine in the moonlight, and was struck by a memory of a voice of feigned coarseness in a dark alley. Remember me like this, my lover. He fished in his coin pouch, fingers finding the button Eloise had handed him immediately before walking into the danger of the Duke’s keep. Leaning across, he pressed it into Philippe’s hand.

The young man stared at the button in silence, the tip of his thumb rubbing gently across it as if to confirm it was real. An object of such simplicity, but holding an enormity of sentiment. His chest constricted sharply as a violent intake of breath was prevented from becoming a sob only by a jaw clenched with fierce determination. His fingers closed tight over the button, and eyes drenched in conflicting emotions turned to meet Brann’s. He nodded, once.

Brann steered his horse away, allowing him his sorrow.

They continued at a canter until light started to creep from above the horizon ahead. Brann slowed them to a trot, and then a walk and, when the sun was fully in sight, Mongoose spotted a brook not far from the road.

As the horses drank, they broke out dried meat and bread, noticing their hunger now that they had stopped. Brann untied the bag of documents and pulled out the map, spreading it on the ground before him. He called Cannick over.

‘What have you there?’ the old warrior said.

‘A present from the Duke.’ Brann grinned. ‘I suppose it’s now a bequest.’

Cannick smiled back. ‘Very good of him. Is it any help?’

‘That’s what I want to know. You know this area – what do you think?’

The older man groaned slightly as he knelt beside Brann. ‘I don’t know these lands intimately, but enough to understand this easily enough. There is Belleville, and we are here.’ He indicated a spot. ‘See where the river runs in close to the road, just after the road bends sharply?’

Brann traced a finger across eastwards to a symbol marked onto the map in fresher ink than the main design. ‘So this must be the camp the Duke said Loku headed for.’ He frowned. ‘There are three more of those symbols in the area around the town. I don’t like the look of that.’

‘There is much of this whole affair I don’t like the look of,’ Cannick growled. ‘The sooner we have a chat with that bastard Loku, like we did with the Duke, the better.’

‘You are right.’ He called to the others and wrapped the map up once more with care. ‘At least we know it is a single road to reach it, with just a fork near the camp.’

Cannick nodded. ‘If I am picturing the distances right, we should reach it shortly after noon.’

As it transpired, they reached the fork late morning, though it proved to be less of a fork in the road than it had appeared when drawn on the map, and more a narrow offshoot of a track, overgrown with the bushes, thick and thorny of branch, that grew abundantly on both sides of the road.

Konall rode close, his hunter’s eye drawing his curiosity. ‘Someone has worked hard to make this look unused and unwelcoming. Look.’ He leant to the side and cautiously grabbed the end of one branch, taking care to avoid the large curved thorns. As he nudged his horse to walk it away, the entire bush moved with him, opening the start of the track to allow easy passage.

‘Very good, young lord,’ said Grakk, and dismounted to lead his horse with care between the narrow path between reaching branches.

They followed him up a short but steep slope, eyeing the wicked barbs of the thorns and imagining easily the damage just one could cause if ripping the skin of a passer-by, whether human or animal.

On cresting the rise, they saw a dramatic transformation. Where the track was unable to be seen from the road, it had been cleared to allow easy movement, and was clearly well used.

Despite the caution that potential proximity brings, they moved with as much haste as they could manage. Well used meant the chance of meeting one of those well-users was high, and uncomfortable. The way ahead started to lead upwards again, though not as steeply as the stretch from the road. Brann saw a rocky outcrop a couple of bowshots to the right, and whistled softly to attract Grakk’s attention. He pointed that way, and the man nodded, realising, as Brann had, that they did not know what lay over the crest of this small hill.

Mongoose pulled up alongside him. ‘Don’t fancy knocking on the front door, then? Pity, you lot had all the fun back at the town.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Brann reassured her. ‘I’m not ruling out any fun here too.’

They led their horses into the outcrop, great angular rocks jutting at angles but with space to pass easily between.

Brann looked around. ‘We are far enough in to be hidden. Marlo, watch the horses while we have a look.’

For once, Marlo’s face was missing his smile. ‘Why am I always the one to stay behind?’

‘You have a way with the horses, and it is important to keep them quiet.’ He didn’t want to say that the real reason was his reluctance to place the boy in any greater danger than was ever necessary, but relented at the disappointment written across Marlo’s face. ‘Fine. Gerens, show Philippe how to keep the horses quiet but ready for a quick departure if necessary.’ He looked at Marlo. ‘Grumpy, you come with us.’ The smile returned.

They crept through the rocks, reaching the highest point of the small hill. They crawled the last few yards, rough ground scraping beneath them but otherwise silent. The whole group, bar the two at the horses, eased their heads in unison to look at what lay beyond.

Brann gasped slightly. The sight that greeted him was familiar, similar in so many ways to the village he had seen in the mountains of Konall’s homeland. The squalor, the hovels, the impalement stakes that were almost like religious focal points and, most of all, the people, with their air of belligerence and degradation and, no doubt, the same dead eyes. Similar in so many ways, but different in one: here there were no women or children, leaving the scene both more tense and less horrific. For Brann, worse than any other aspect of the previous village had been the acceptance of casual brutality and torture as commonplace and routine by children who knew no other way of life.

They slid away from the edge and moved back to the horses before anyone spoke. Brann saw Konall, Hakon, Cannick, Grakk and Gerens, who had also travelled south with Einarr from Halveka, look at each other, the same grimness in each gaze.

Breta growled. ‘What in the darkest hells was that?’

‘We have seen such before,’ Brann said, ‘in the North.’

‘Ach, shit.’ Gerens spat in disgust. ‘When that fool dangling from the window mentioned a camp, rather than town or village, I had suspected such but hoped for different.’

Brann realised that Breta, Mongoose, Sophaya, Marlo and Philippe were looking at him intently. He shook his head at the memories that filled it. ‘In the mountains of Halveka, near the home town of Konall and Hakon, a camp had been secretly established by Loku, and populated by the worst in society: those who glorify in inflicting pain and torture, who feast on suffering; the scum of every society brought together and with their basest and cruellest features encouraged and fed.’ He looked at Hakon and Gerens, his eyes flitting from them to Grakk. ‘Some of us were taken there and subjected to their degradation.’

Hakon stood from where he had been scratching meaninglessly in the dirt with a dagger, knuckles white where he gripped the hilt. ‘And two of us went there voluntarily to bring the three imprisoned in it to safety.’ He looked at Brann and Konall. ‘Some things are not forgotten.’ He sheathed the knife and slipped an axe from his belt. ‘I also do not forget that we gave those bastards a beating, and we can do the same to their cousins here.’

‘Easy, big man.’ Cannick put a hand on Hakon’s shoulder. ‘No use in all of them and half of us getting killed.’

Brann nodded, thoughts competing as he weighed what he knew with what might be possible. ‘If Loku is still here—’

‘We net two fish on one hook,’ Konall said. ‘So we go in fast and hit them before they realise they are under attack.’ Like Hakon, his weapon was drawn.

Brann held up a hand. ‘You Northmen will be the death of me! Literally.’

Grakk said: ‘What if Loku is killed in the confusion? Or is not there at all and we have wasted time when we could be on his trail?’

Brann paced, options being dismissed or compared. ‘Indeed.’

‘Still, if the bastard dies,’ Hakon was not deterred, ‘how is that in any way a bad thing?’

Konall sighed. ‘They are right. His death will be a thing of great joy, but our vengeance, and the service such an occurrence will bring to the world in general, is secondary. First, we must determine the greater threat posed by the conspiracy he serves, whether it aims to sow discord, topple rulers or anything in between, and he must be able to talk to lead us further on that path.’

‘The young lord is correct, my friend,’ Grakk said, patting Hakon on his broad back. ‘We need to catch him, to learn what we can of this enterprise, of his superiors. If we know there is activity in the Green Islands, in Halveka and now here also, this is even more widespread than we envisaged. We must find Loku, and learn what he knows, whatever it takes to do both.’

Hakon grumbled and kicked a stone. ‘Can we at least kill some of his little friends down there?’

‘Actually,’ Brann said, ‘it would be a good idea, I think.’ Hakon brightened immediately, and there were signs of enthusiasm from several of the others. ‘We need to know if Loku is there or not, and quickly, for if he is not we can’t afford any further distance growing between us. But we cannot live with any sort of conscience if we leave this nest of death behind us.’

Cannick walked across. ‘So, what are you thinking?’

Brann saw every pair of eyes upon him and pushed aside the discomfort of wondering why his opinion should be decisive to let his thoughts gather. ‘Well…’ He spoke slowly as the leaves grew on the branches of the plan that was forming in his head. ‘We cannot kill them all without sustaining casualties ourselves, and in the most practical sense, that would slow us down further. But we can disperse them. And such people tend to cowardice, so remove the bravado of the crowd and all they have is the life they lived before this. A cut-throat thief is not something I would wish on any community, but they exist already in every town and city, and better that than the slaughter and terror these are gathered to wreak, whether the murder of innocents we heard of in the South Island or the attempt to wipe out Konall’s entire ruling family in Halveka.’ He looked at Hakon. ‘And we can kill a few of them in the process.’

‘Fine,’ said Konall. ‘Kill a few, disperse the others, that’s the idea. So how?’

‘I always find,’ Brann smiled, his confidence in his ideas growing as they flowed, ‘that panic is an excellent weapon. Especially amongst those who enjoy the suffering of others but fear their own. So we make them think they are doomed. Sharp weapons and confusion should do the trick.’ He pointed at Marlo and Philippe. ‘You two take half the horses each: one of you to this side of the hill at the path into the settlement, and the other slightly further along this hill. Keep below the skyline and, at our signal, run them round in circles to make as much dust as you can. Feel free to shout a lot, too.’

‘Sounds fun,’ grinned Marlo. ‘But what will the signal be?’

‘Screams,’ said Brann.

The rest of them were in place in minutes. Creeping close to the edge of the camp was not difficult when danger was not anticipated and standards were slovenly at best. He looked in both directions. They were in pairs – Gerens protectively beside him, Cannick with Grakk, Konall with Hakon, and Breta with Mongoose – spread wide to give the impression of a large attack. He glanced back where elements of the rocky outcrop broke out from the slope that led down towards the camp, and saw Sophaya with the vantage point she needed, placing arrows ready on the top of a slab.

He looked again into the camp. The sun was high and the air thick with heat, making for torpor and quiet; few moved among the basic huts of brittle-dry branches stacked into squat cones. Insects buzzed and birds called from on high. It would seem tranquil, if they didn’t know what sort of people the inhabitants were. And then there was the tall slender stake not more than a score of paces from where he lay, a corpse with less than half its tissue remaining a third of the way from the top and a scattering of well-fed carrion birds close by. As they watched, a thin man clumsily speared one of the birds, pinning it to the ground while another threw rocks at the writhing creature until it eventually lay still.

‘That’s the way to do it,’ the rock man snickered. ‘Feed it till it trusts you, then it won’t suspect when you come looking for dinner. Beats hunting any day.’

The first man jerked his spear free and jabbed it in the direction of his companion. ‘Don’t be thinking you get equal picks. It was my spear that did the business. It was me that pulled the bits of meat from her,’ the spear tip jerked in the direction of the impaled corpse, ‘to give to the bird. I get first pickings.’

‘All right, all right.’ The man held his hands up in acquiescence, and the other laid his spear close by his side as he knelt over the dead bird.

But Brann noticed that a rock was still in the standing man’s hand, and that the first man never turned his back on him, feeling with his hands as he hacked chunks from the body, his eyes never dropping. With a squashed mass of dripping meat and feathers cradled in his arms and his spear awkwardly gripped in one hand, he scuttled towards the far side of the camp. As soon as he moved away, the other man seized the bird by the neck and made off with what remained, looking from one side to the other all the way as though expecting another to be attracted to his prize.

‘No time like the present,’ Brann muttered to Gerens once the pair were out of sight. At least there was none of the long waiting before action – time that bred nerves and ate at confidence.

Winding a rag across his face to cover nose and mouth, he stood and walked calmly past the first hut, finding a broad-shouldered man crouched over a cooking pot. The man’s eyes widened and mouth opened to shout as he saw Brann, but in looking up he also left his throat exposed, and the keen edge of the black-bladed sword cut almost completely through his neck. Brann lifted a burning branch from the fire beneath the pot, and Gerens did likewise. He touched the flame to the man’s hut, the dry wood accepting the fire with fervour, and the pair split left and right, walking behind the next hovels in line and setting each one alight as they went.