Hero Born Page 13

  As Cannick’s boots banged back down the gangplank, Brann turned to Gerens. ‘Why change to a new contract? What’s the point?’

  ‘Money.’ Gerens looked at him. ‘Isn’t that always the point? They can make more with several short trips in the time that it would take to sail to the Empire and back.’

  Brann looked over the rooftops of the low buildings in the port town, his eyes towards the south. ‘I would have liked to have got closer to these slavemasters. I have a score to settle with them on behalf of my brother.’

  Gerens snorted. ‘Brann the Avenger.’ He stretched his back, trying to ease several weeks of combining intense activity with cramped rest. ‘You can forget that. Every slave has thought of that, brother’s death or not. Never happens. Even if you succeeded, which wouldn’t happen, you would die anyway.’

  A cold laugh burst harshly from Brann. ‘What would that matter? I have nothing anyway. At least I would have achieved something.’

  ‘You would have achieved nothing.’

  Grakk opened his eyes but refrained from uncurling from his position on the deck beside them. ‘Your friend is correct. You would be seeking revenge on a system, a way of life, not a single man. The rest is just a series of actions, reactions and consequences over countless time and people. What we call “life”. That is what killed your brother. That, and Boar’s crossbow.

  ‘Think to your own life. What has happened, has happened. Those who are gone, are gone. You are here, and this is your life. These men are not the worst masters you could have. The blood of the pirates they took this ship from is still in the timbers, but so is the blood of many a slave who served under that previous crew. Be thankful you were not on these benches last year. But these men, they are more used to ships rowed by freed men. We are still slaves because they can afford to feed us, but not to pay us as equals. And because, for us, that is what is.’

  Gerens stood and spat over the side into the still water of the harbour. ‘I told you. Money.’

  The new cargo – non-human, this time – was brought on board in crates and was stowed below decks, presumably in the small hold that had so recently been a very temporary home for Brann. Gossip spread around the rowers that the cargo was linen cloth from Qotan, far to the south, and that the merchant needed it delivered as soon as possible to a destination called Cardallon on the east coast of somewhere called Salaria to avoid reneging on a deal that threatened to ruin his business. Brann reflected that, weeks previously, such news would have held no interest to him. When your world was restricted by metal links to the few rowing benches around you, however, the gossip was high entertainment.

  As the last of the food and fresh water was brought on board and the mooring ropes were cast off, however, it was clear that the nature of the cargo had meant nothing more to the men at the oars than passing curiosity – it mattered not to them what the ship carried, for the oars would rise and dip the same way regardless.

  Now he knew what he was.

  He was a galley slave.

  Chapter 5

  The high-backed chair felt better than he would ever let any of them know. He’d had it moved to what he considered the perfect position: close enough to the balcony to give him a fairly widespread view; but at just the right angle that it was always in the shade. He’d had them put it there shortly after he moved – was moved – into these apartments, and he’d never seen the need since to have it any other way. He sat there when he needed to think. All of his days now, he had time to think, but the occasions when he needed to do so were fewer than he liked. But since he had returned from his summons, he had been blessed with such a time. During the discussion, he had given and received, but he had taken from it far more than he had offered – he had been careful about that, as ever. It was part of his nature; he had learnt it longer ago than he could remember.

  So there were stirrings in the north. There were stories of incidents unusual even among the ungodly practices of the barbarians. The debate had turned to matters of greater import: trade with near neighbours, the forthcoming Empire Games; a slowing in the supply of slaves. Condescendingly, they had enquired his opinion on the machinations of the near neighbour’s court. His opinion must have been valued, or he would not have been there. But it would not do for them to give it openly any credence. Far more acceptable to make it look as if it was an unfortunate necessity to give the past its place, a consequence of manners more than anything else. The matters in the north were treated with disdain and disinterest: would the mighty elephant pause to wonder about the squabbles of the ants around its feet as it passed?

  But the matters in the north were precisely what the fools should have found most interesting. They presented an opportunity. And if the fools failed to realise that, then they allowed the chance to exploit the opportunity, in an altogether different way, to fall to him.

  He sat in his chair. He envisaged possible scenarios. He predicted outcomes for each, and he thought of possible scenarios ensuing from those outcomes. And so on.

  And as he plotted, he felt young again. And he sat, his eyes on one scene while his mind watched another. He smiled. The chair felt good.

  ****

  They retraced their passage north, and Brann became more watchful.

  He knew he was heading in the direction of his home and it was simple logic that, if he were to escape, it would be best to do so with as little distance as possible to have to travel afterwards. How he might escape, though, he had no idea, for the chains were solid and the men who watched over them were as hardened professionals as he could imagine. But he could not prevent himself from thinking that, somehow, a chance would come.

  On the first day out of the unnamed port, Galen walked among them. ‘Well done, lads,’ he said. ‘You have adapted well, and under more pressure than you deserved. But that is life in the world outside your cosy little villages, and you have learnt a lesson. Just make sure you keep learning it, and do not slack off, thinking you are old hands already – if the men you are sitting with made you shoulder an equal share of the effort, you would know all about it. I do not know how much longer you will be needed here, but you have this voyage at least to contend with, so keep up what you have been doing and you will do all right.’

  Brann was sure that they had been contributing latterly more than Galen was admitting, but guessed that the warrior was concerned that they would become blasé and felt that it was better for the boys that they were warned in advance by him rather than ‘advised’ afterwards by the rowers around them that they could have been trying harder. In any case, the relentless rowing had begun to alter their physiques already – all of them came from a rural background and had been fairly fit and strong to begin with, but the work at the benches had toned their muscles and broadened their shoulders and backs, and was continuing to do so. This had combined with their adoption of Brann’s rowing technique to mean that, Brann suspected, they were contributing more than Galen would wish to say.

  In the meantime, however, the wind had picked up behind them and the sail was unfurled. Once it filled, the oars were drawn in and Brann reached under the bench, drew out his father’s cloak that now also served as a blanket or towel as necessity demanded, pulled it over him and, in the manner of sailors and soldiers around the world, dozed off without hesitation.

  The ship travelled north, with the coast just beyond the horizon to their left, for around four weeks, as the two boys’ combined reckonings agreed. They dropped anchor one cloudy morning in a small bay that was deserted but for a small road leading through lofty sand dunes fringed with whispering long grasses. As the crates were taken ashore, the rower in front of them turned to say that he recognised the cove from his time on a previous ship. It was hidden from any approach, by land or sea, until you were almost upon it, he said, and as such was one favoured by smugglers. Since the current business was legitimate, however, they agreed that it must have been chosen on this occasion for convenience, for its proximity to the village that
was the cargo’s destination.

  That having been decided, they settled down, as usual, to rest, having rowed through the night, and were soon lulled into grateful slumber by the gentle slaps of the water on the hull and the repetitive hiss of the waves on the loose sand of the beach.

  Brann wakened late in the morning as a buzz of unrest ran around the ship. The small party who had been detailed to carry out the mundane delivery task was returning, and it was clear that all was not well. Three of the four men were pulling the small handcart that they had used to carry the crates, and they were moving in the manner of men who wanted to be back among comrades as soon as possible. As they drew closer, it could be seen that the cart bore the fourth man, who appeared to be still alive, though barely.

  The order was given to ready the oars and they edged the ship as close to the shore as they could without risking becoming grounded. The men dropped the handles of the cart and pulled the injured man into the shallows, dragging him on his back and keeping his face clear of the water as they waded with a ferocity that bordered on panic. They neared the ship and were forced to swim, with two of them supporting the injured man. Their sense of urgency was infectious and ropes were thrown to them to help speed their progress. The move was justified as, in a scene that eerily mimicked the time when Brann’s group had been brought aboard, a group of riders stormed onto the beach. This time, however, those on the ship were not so nonchalant: the vessel and the swimming men were closer to the shore and, more importantly, within arrow range.

  Brann’s side of the boat was closer to the riders, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable at the thought that he might be expected to sit and wait for arrows to fall. As if reading his mind, Grakk – and the rowers on each bench down that side of the ship – reached across and flipped up a thick, square board attached to the inner side of the vessel by a pair of hinges. As he lifted it, a pole swung down from underneath and he used it to brace the board so that it angled upwards and inwards.

  ‘I don’t believe it to be heresy to say that we cannot rely on the gods’ good grace to watch over us all of the time. A little protection from arrows never goes amiss,’ Grakk explained dryly.

  Brann had caught only a brief glimpse of the riders before the protective board had been raised. But he had seen enough to catch his breath with fear – hard black masks, distorted into the most ghoulish of faces, could not conceal a malevolence that somehow radiated from the eyes of the masks and the hoods of the crimson cloaks. Peering between the boards – the folly of the move did not occur to him until later – he saw the swimming men approaching, disturbing terror etched into their battle-hardened faces.

  The swimmers were only a few yards from the ship, two of them holding their companion’s head above the water as they dragged him and grabbed for the ropes. Several riders had scrambled from their mounts and arrows arced towards the frantically splashing men, spearing into the water with a plopping sound that seemed ridiculous in contrast to the dire danger they posed. The ship’s archers replied in kind, but the movement of the ship in the choppy shallows made their task much harder than that of the men on the beach who, in any case, seemed oblivious to the peril, so eager were they to draw blood from their prey. The sound of their eager snarls and guttural words speared across the water, adding a macabre element to an already nightmarish scenario.

  An arrow struck one of the swimming warriors square in the back, and he stiffened, his eyes wide, losing his grip on the wounded man before sinking face down into the water. The third swimmer unceremoniously pushed his lifeless body clear and, grabbing his semi-conscious comrade, he dragged on one of the ropes and helped to pull him the last few feet to the ship. The three were pulled quickly over the side near to the bow and, even before they were fully on board, the order was given to start rowing. The rowers were only too happy to comply and the ship leapt forward, picking up speed as they gratefully angled away from the beach. A scatter of arrows followed them, most falling short. Two reached the ship, thumping into the aisle between the rowers, and one embedded itself, quivering, in the board above the bench in front. Brann, Gerens and Pedr paled in unison, and redoubled their efforts. The seasoned rowers, however, seemed unperturbed and worked impassively, as if there was little more to contend with than a few irritating flies. The ship surged forward and, in the space of surprisingly few strokes, they were out of range of the bowmen.

  The Captain, who had come to the bow, regardless of the danger, to oversee the efforts to bring the men on board, turned to Cannick. ‘Tell the drummer to set a more sensible pace, and have the steersman head us over the horizon while we deal with this.’ The veteran nodded and strode back up the aisle.

  As they adjusted to the slightly slower drumbeat and moved steadily out to sea, Brann flicked glances over his shoulder at the group behind him. The two men who had been swimming were exhausted, but unscathed. They sat, heads thrown back and eyes shut, dragging air into heaving chests as water formed an expanding puddle around them.

  Their companion was faring less well. A warrior tended him, apparently a medic from the efficient and assured way that he was approaching the task. The man’s breathing was shallow and irregular, and his eyelids fluttered. Blood soaked the front and left side of the heavy tunic and leather jerkin that were being cut from him, despite any cleansing effects that the sea may have had. He lay still most of the time, but occasionally convulsed with a cough of pain.

  The Captain crouched beside the wounded warrior and the man working to save him, watching the medic’s examinations intently. The blood-soaked man convulsed once again and coughed twice, a rough, guttural sound. Blood, ominously frothy, bubbled from his lips.

  The medic paused. He looked up at the Captain and gently shook his head, but the black-clad man had already determined as much for himself. He stood, and gestured to the medic to do the same, unsure if the wounded man could hear them if they stayed close. ‘Just make him as comfortable as you can,’ he said quietly, his face tight as if he were trying to mask his emotions.

  The medic nodded and took a couple of small leaves from a pouch at his waist. He rubbed them between his fingers until they crumbled, and placed the fragments on the stricken man’s tongue. Within seconds, the warrior had calmed noticeably and his breathing became more even as his eyes unfocused. The medic caught Brann’s gaze and said, ‘Not long now, boy. But at least he will feel no pain.’

  Brann felt horror and fascination simultaneously. He was unable to tear his attention away from the tableau beside him. The warrior’s breathing became slower until Brann realised that it had stopped altogether. Brann rowed on, unsure of his feelings.

  The medic closed the dead man’s eyes and moved beside the Captain, who was standing, hands resting on the side of the ship, staring at the receding coastline. ‘Captain,’ he said softly. ‘That’s him.’

  The tall man took a deep breath and nodded without shifting his gaze. Ostensibly, he appeared to betray no emotion, but he was close enough to Brann for the boy to see his fingers tighten on the rail until his knuckles stood out white. He stood like that for several long moments and Cannick, who had quietly come forward after having been busy at the stern, stood back from him, watching attentively. The Captain loosened his grip and slapped the rail once with both palms, as if to close an event.

  Without turning, he said, ‘Cannick, give him to the sea, please.’

  If the grey-haired veteran was surprised that the Captain was aware of his presence, he did not show it. He quickly and quietly organised the medic and another warrior to remove the dead man’s weapons – a ready supply of good-quality arms was essential to survival on a ship such as this – leaving him with only his sword for the passage to the afterlife. They wrapped him in a canvas sheet and tied it tightly around him. Once they were finished, and without a pause, they slipped the body over the side and into the sea. One man traced in the air the symbol of Akat-Mul – his culture’s name for the god of death who was both guard and guide on the road to
the afterlife – and it was done. There was no ceremony, there were no words of remembrance; each man had his own memories of both of their comrades who had died, and his own thoughts at this time. As warriors, they gave, and asked, no more.

  The Captain turned to the two men who were left from the party that had gone ashore.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  Both men started to speak at the same time, and stopped. They looked at each other and the younger one nodded to the other, deferring to his more experienced companion, a stocky man of average height whose black, heavy beard was criss-crossed with the hairless lines of at least half-a-dozen scars.

  ‘It was pure bad fortune, Captain,’ the exhausted man started, shaking his head. ‘The worst fortune. There seems to be some minor war in progress. The whole area is crawling with soldiers. We found our way to the village without a problem, but we were ambushed by a scouting party just short of it. We did not manage to kill them all, but the one who survived looked as if he would die of his wounds soon enough so, not wishing to linger onshore any longer than we had to, we left him dragging himself away and headed into the village to make the delivery. Unfortunately, the dying man chose not to oblige, and we spotted him upright and managing a fast stumble, so we did not want to waste any time in case he raised help. By this time, Erik was forced to admit that the injuries he had sustained were worse than he had wanted to say, and we had to use the cart to bring him back. The rest you saw, and we made it here.’ His face tightened. ‘Not soon enough for Erik, though, was it?’

  The Captain nodded. ‘You could not have done more. Hakar, too, in taking that arrow was just running out of the luck we all rely on every time we fight, no more. There is no blame on your part. Get some food then rest as long as you want.’ He paused. ‘You delivered the goods, though?’