Hero Born Read online

  ‘Take your time to come to,’ she said, impish amusement back in her eyes. ‘It is my job to go and see what they want.’

  Smoothing out her simple dress, and with a mischievous glance back over her shoulder, she skipped from the room and disappeared up the stairs. Almost before Brann had managed to regain a sense of his surroundings, she reappeared. ‘Your master has need of your services, whatever they may be,’ she told him, the glint in her eyes dancing hypnotically.

  Brann desperately wanted to impress her with a mature reply – or, at the very least, not to sound like a mumbling idiot. The best he could manage, however, was, ‘I suppose I’d better go up then.’ He silently cursed himself.

  Still smiling, the girl said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you the way.’

  She turned and started up the stairs. Blushing, Brann followed her. They continued past the ground floor and exited the stairwell into a corridor that led across the tower. Einarr was waiting at the far corner, in front of a door that would open into a room overlooking the town and its approaches. With a lurch in his stomach, Brann realised that these would probably the lord’s rooms.

  Valdis halted in front of the waiting man. Bowing her head in deference, she said, ‘Your page, my lord.’

  ‘So I see,’ Einarr murmured.

  ‘Will there be anything else, my lord?’ the girl asked demurely.

  ‘No. Thank you,’ the tall warrior said. ‘That will be all.’

  The serving girl turned, winked at Brann, and returned down the corridor. Brann could not help noticing the sway of her skirts as she went. Talking to the Captain in his cabin on the ship seemed so distant, now, but one thing he had said, about his heart starting to open up in time, in small steps, seemed actually to be correct. For the first time in a long while, he felt good. He smiled.

  ‘Confident girl,’ Einarr observed, bringing Brann back from his reverie with a jolt. He looked up at the tall man to see amusement playing on his face.

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ he stammered.

  ‘Well, now that she has settled your nerves – or, perhaps, added to them – you need to forget about her and concentrate on the task in hand. Which is, in case you have forgotten, the small matter of being my page.

  ‘When we go in, stand at the back of the room, by the door, as if you are ready to run any errand I may ask. I won’t, but you should look as if you are expecting it. If things get particularly private, you will be told to leave the room, in which case you wait here until summoned back in or sent elsewhere. But that may not happen. You will be surprised how much pages are trusted here. Mainly through necessity, because nobles need someone at hand at a moment’s notice and it is inconvenient to keep kicking the pages out and having to bring them back in all the time. But also because of the fact that the penalty for a page passing on information to anyone in these circumstances is death. Which is something you should probably remember.’

  Brann gulped and nodded. It was not a lot to understand, but it was a great deal to take in for a boy whose life had been transformed so much in such a short time. In many ways, he still felt in the midst of a dream – or, to be more accurate, a nightmare.

  Einarr raised his hand to knock at the door, but paused and turned back to the boy. ‘And one other thing: take your lead from your serving girl and address any noble as “my lord”, myself included. I am many things to you: when you row, I am the Captain; as a slave, I am your master; but as my page, I am your lord and, to a page, that transcends all else. And noblewomen are addressed as “my lady”, but you probably guessed that already.’

  Brann smiled weakly and nodded again as Einarr turned back to the door, and with no hesitation this time, rapped the thick wood twice. A voice called from the other side and Einarr strode in, surprising a page on the other side who had been about to open the door for them.

  A log fire roared in a massive stone fireplace, tall enough for a man to walk into. Dramatically silhouetted in front of it, with his back to the flames, stood Ragnarr. As they entered, he moved to one of a pair of high-backed, carved wooden chairs, gesturing to Einarr to take the other.

  As they sat, Brann turned to stand at the door. Finding the other page there already, he stumbled in trying to avoid walking into him. The boy, a good couple of years older than him, helped to steady him with a sympathetic smile and directed him to the other side of the doorway. Thankful that neither of the men by the fire had seen the incident, Brann took up his station and, with a surreptitious glance, copied the other boy’s stance, with his hands clasped behind him. He did not know if such a position was mandatory, but he was taking no chances.

  Ragnarr picked up a large flagon from a table beside him and gestured to a similar one at Einarr’s side. ‘I trust you have eaten and drunk well already,’ he rumbled, ‘but I always think this helps to settle the stomach after a meal.’

  Einarr smiled. ‘I must admit, I have missed your ale these past ten years, Ragnarr.’

  The large lord’s eyes widened in mock shock. ‘Just my ale? Is that all you miss from your second childhood home?’

  Einarr laughed this time. ‘Of course not, uncle,’ he said. ‘And there is much we have to catch up on in each other’s lives.’

  Ragnarr sighed. ‘That there is, boy, that there is. But I am afraid that is for another time. The hour is late and I will contain myself to our current situation.’

  Einarr’s eyes narrowed, but he made no reply, letting Ragnarr continue.

  ‘I know nothing of your reasons for returning, though I know they must be of importance or you would not risk the upheaval that could follow, not least to your own future good health.’ He held up his hand to deter any response. ‘I will hear of them later, I know. Anyway, if ever there was a time when you might be able to slip in unnoticed, this is it. We have bandit trouble.’

  Einarr nodded. ‘So you said when I arrived. But that is nothing new. There have always been bandits.’

  ‘Not like this,’ Ragnarr growled. ‘There are more of them, and they are bolder. And they raid further into our lands than before, rather than just keeping to the hills. They will not venture within range of the townships, so the farms close to us are mostly undisturbed, but any travelling is affected. There are large pockets of the land where a sizeable escort, as I said in the hall, is needed to discourage them, and lone travellers do not survive. Which is why there are no lone travellers any more.’

  The large warrior swigged from his flagon, droplets of ale glistening in his beard as they caught the firelight, and he stared into the flames for a moment. He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself to utter something he was unwilling to say aloud.

  He spat savagely into the fire, producing a loud sizzle. ‘But there is more, and worse. Most of the bandits are what we are used to: scum who have been run out of town or village for thieving, murder, or whatever. But not only are they more organised and co-ordinated – not the random, opportunistic bands you will remember – there is also an element among them that are savage, almost inhuman. Where they strike, none is left alive, and there is almost a joy in the killing itself.’

  Einarr leant forward, his dark eyes intent. ‘The bodies: mutilated?’ he asked tensely. Ragnarr glared at him and nodded, and Brann felt nausea sweeping through him as he remembered, like Einarr, the reports from the south island that had sent them in shock across the sea.

  ‘Not just mutilated – they were unrecognisable. Hacked to pieces, and left like butcher meat. Whole villages: men, women and children. It has only happened in three places, so far, but already the rumours have started. These scumbags have never been seen – not, at least, by any who have lived to tell – so there is much talk in the villages, and even the towns, of the monsters of the myths: men who are half-bear, or half-wolf, or even both. You know, the sort of things the older boys used to frighten you with when you were a child. Of course it is not that, but try telling that to the people out there.’ He sighed. ‘Maybe I am getting old, but I just cannot imagine any man
acting like these do. The gods know I have seen many things in my years: as a warrior, I have seen men killed in battle with terrible injuries, and as a lord, I have cleaned up after murders and examined the corpses. None of it has been pretty, as you will know yourself. But I do not have the stomach for this.’

  He ran his hand through his hair and wiped the back of it across his eyes; a weary gesture. ‘I know I have not seen you for a decade, nephew, and I am sorry to burden you with such gloom, but it is of too much import to be left unsaid for any length of time.’ He took a long draught of his ale.

  ‘I have seen such things already,’ Einarr said slowly. ‘That is why I am here.’

  ‘What?’ Ragnarr slammed down his flagon. ‘Where?’

  Einarr rose to his feet and stood in front of the fire, staring into the dancing flames. ‘On the islands, where I was… working.’

  Ragnarr grunted. ‘Do not be embarrassed. I know what you do. I have ears and eyes beyond the boundaries of my town and even beyond our land, you know, and I am well aware that the cargoes that you carry are not always inanimate objects. A man in your position must make a living somehow. And who am I to judge, having stood by while my brother’s son was exiled rather than defend my family?’

  Einarr turned. His face was an impassive mask. ‘We talked through this a decade ago, my father, you and I. There was no real alternative: one man leaving, still with his life in his own hands, rather than many men dying and lands being lost to defend the folly and shame of that one man’s action.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Pain was still etched into Ragnarr’s face. ‘But it has not been an easy ten years to bear, for us as well as for you.’ He stood and took Einarr’s ale to him. ‘So, you saw the work of these monsters, too?’

  Einarr nodded. ‘Yes. Well, not personally. But some of my men did. They were more shaken than I have ever seen. And these are men who do not have the most genteel of pasts.’

  Ragnarr stood and burped with a ferocity that widened Brann’s eyes. Despite the tension in the room (or perhaps because of it) he had to fight to stifle a giggle.

  ‘Then it is vital we speak with your father as a matter of urgency,’ the chieftain declared.

  Einarr looked up, puzzled. ‘But I thought there were not enough men here for an escort.’

  Ragnarr smiled coyly, an odd expression on one so large and fearsome. ‘I thought about that after you left the hall earlier, and took the liberty of sending a messenger.’ Einarr started to speak again, but was halted by the raised hand of his uncle. ‘Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking, that I have just told you of the futility of a lone traveller attempting to make any journey at the moment. But one man can get through… by boat. The bandits are an inconvenience on land, but they have not taken to the sea yet. Weather permitting, he should take only one day longer than he would travelling on horseback.’

  Einarr grunted. ‘If I set sail in the morning, I could be there before him. I could be travelling, after all.’

  ‘Don’t let your heart rule your head, boy,’ Ragnarr growled. ‘You know as well as I do that the sight of your ship arriving at your father’s harbour unannounced would cause more than a minor stir. It is easier to turn up here out of the blue, where the town is inland from the anchorage, and be welcomed, but to sail right into the city that is the warlord’s seat of power with no prior warning would not be fair to your father and would cause problems you would have to be stupid not to predict.’ He sighed, his tone softening. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll see him soon enough. I reckon he will be here in a week at the most.’ He looked directly at his nephew. ‘How do you feel about that?’

  Einarr smiled gently. Brann was startled – he had never expected to see a look so tender on the face of the Captain. ‘It will be a long week,’ he said quietly. ‘I have missed my parents terribly these past ten years. Being away in itself has not been the problem; knowing that I had no choice to return has been the intolerable part.’

  Ragnarr slapped him heartily on the back. Another man could have been knocked headlong, but a warrior’s instinctive reactions, honed muscles and the experience of regular childhood visits to his uncle combined subconsciously to see Einarr step forward slightly to ride the blow initially and then brace himself to prevent any further movement. The corners of his mouth creased slightly in what Brann guessed was the closest he would come to a wince.

  ‘Oh, get to bed, you girl!’ Ragnarr roared. ‘You will have me in tears soon with all this heart-rending claptrap.’

  Einarr nodded and, smiling, turned to go. He paused. ‘Thank you, uncle,’ he said softly.

  Ragnarr grinned, an expanse of white teeth breaking out in the midst of his midnight-black beard. ‘It is nothing, boy. I am your favourite uncle, after all, am I not?’ Stepping past his page, he opened the door himself. ‘And welcome back, Einarr. I hope you will not take so long before the next time.’

  Einarr’s eyes smiled back at him. He gestured to Brann to follow, and left the room. Neither spoke as they walked along the corridor, stopping only when they chanced upon a servant boy. Einarr asked the lad to show his page to the chamber that had been set aside for him, and turned to Brann.

  ‘Sleep well, boy,’ he said simply. ‘You have much missed rest to catch up on.’

  ‘Shall I show you to your quarters first, my lord?’ the servant asked.

  Einarr shook his head. ‘I was playing in these corridors before I could walk, lad. I will be able to find my own way.’

  He strode back up the corridor. With fatigue striking him for the second time that night, Brann followed the boy to the most eagerly anticipated bed he had ever known.

  Chapter 7

  He had visited the oracle once.

  He had never been one for superstition. A man’s fate lay in the hands of his guile and endeavour, nothing more. To abdicate responsibility to the utterings of another was the action of those too weak and lazy to take a decision themselves or formulate an approach to any given situation. And it gave the author of those utterings the opportunity to guide your actions, should they so wish. He preferred to direct his fate himself. Those weak and lazy in his position had a short lifespan.

  Curiosity, however, directed his feet to the oracle, once. To form a true opinion on something, it must be an informed opinion. She had offered him guidance or prediction. He had, of course, dismissed guidance.

  He had never visited her again. There was no need. His opinion, now informed, remained the same. He had not disregarded her, though. From time to time, she had proved useful, when he wanted those more gullible than he to be guided along a certain path. He had always had a feeling for the form of persuasion suitable for each individual. For so many, it was gold or fear. For others, it was the temptations of the flesh, or the threat of those temptations becoming known. For some, it was the word of the oracle. For those who filled the position of oracle in his time, it varied. But he always found it.

  Her words to him, he had dismissed at the time. Vague claptrap, as he had expected. But he had never forgotten the words.

  And now, plotting once more, those words, for reasons unknown, came unbidden into his mind. His plans needed an instrument. If the words were indeed claptrap, he would find an instrument elsewhere. But if they did, against expectation, come to pass, he would be handed one.

  Inexplicably and utterly against character, the feeling nagged at the corner of his mind that they would come to pass.

  ****

  Crisp snow crunched softly underfoot and breath hung heavily in the still, sharp air. The small party moved through the sparse fir trees as the foothills steepened into the mountains that rose to the landward side of Ravensrest, on the far edge of a small plain dotted only with the occasional farmstead.

  Brann caught his breath and absently shifted one twig at his feet in line with another as Konall signalled a halt. Shortly before dawn, a servant boy had wakened him with the news that Lord Konall was mounting a hunting trip into the mountains that day, and needed two p
ages and a couple of servants to accompany him. The outbreaks of banditry had been exclusively confined to areas out of immediate range of the forces from the larger settlements, and even then were largely targeted at the roads where travellers were easily spotted and ambushes simply laid. As they were headed across rough land and into the mountain areas that were unpopulated but for the occasional shepherd, they were not expected to encounter anything other than the local wildlife, although four battle-hardened veterans had been sent with them as a token gesture towards caution.

  Lord Ragnarr had suggested that, in addition to Lord Konall’s own page, Lord Einarr’s page should also go, as it would save him from being cooped up in the hall all day, and Lord Einarr had agreed.

  Lord Einarr had also suggested that, instead of two servants, they take two slaves, as all of the servants in the hall were busy dealing with the extra work caused by the arrival of Lord Einarr’s party and the imminent visit of Lord Sigurr. Lord Einarr, the boy faithfully continued, had said that his page should choose the two slaves. He said that, in selecting them, his page should have trust as his main consideration, and that his page would understand.

  His page did. Accordingly, he had ordered – as Einarr had expected him to – Grakk and Gerens to be brought to join the party. The pair had been roughly shaken from their sleep and, as they met up, a frantic, but concealed, signal from Brann had kept their mouths shut despite their puzzlement at finding him in the hall – although he knew that an explanation would be demanded at the first opportunity. Glancing at the pair as they rested in the shade of a tree – Grakk squatting quietly, breathing easily despite the heavy load of provisions on his back, and Gerens pacing up and down, finding it difficult to contain his frustration at having to waste time resting – Brann knew why Einarr had meant for him to choose them. Grakk’s experience and simple practicality would be an obvious asset and he was intelligent enough, despite his savage appearance, to know that any attempt at an escape in a strange land while in the company of experienced warriors and skilled trackers would be folly. Gerens was, like Brann, new enough to slavery to be wary of attempting escape, and he also added his own brand of deep, dark consideration and unscrupulous logic to every situation. And, most of all – as the Captain had hinted – there was a mutual trust between the trio, formed rapidly but strongly in the short time that they had shared a rowing bench. Even if the boys felt that they knew the bare minimum about Grakk, they had been encouraged by his seeming acceptance of them, and they had come to rely on the tattooed barbarian, and his contrasting suggestion of a civilised education, as if he were a guide in this new world they had been thrust into. Likewise, the boys’ eager acceptance of his advice had appeared to please Grakk, and he had taken them under his wing. Such a relationship had become silently accepted by all three, and Brann felt better for having him with them on the hunting trip.