Hero Born Page 20

  Konall’s voice snapping through the sharp air jerked Brann from his musings. His legs had stiffened during the short break, and he groaned as he forced himself upright, the weight of his pack trying to pull him backwards as he rose. He had insisted on carrying an equal load to that of the two slaves – much to the bewilderment of the other page, an otherwise cheerful boy who then had to follow suit to avoid losing face in front of the foreigners – because he felt that, despite the need to maintain the pretence, there was only so much that his conscience would allow. Now, however, as he shrugged his pack higher on his shoulders, he was beginning to wonder if his principled stance had been so wise. Ironically the other page, with his bear-like physique more suited to the toil, was dealing far more easily with the effort that they had both been subjected to by Brann’s decision.

  Berating himself, he smiled slightly and trudged after the long-striding Konall, who was leaving the trees for a gentle slope broken only by occasional rocky outcrops that looked even blacker against the bright, sunlit snow. Brann had been worried initially about the less than pleasant prospect of having to endure conversation with the lord’s carnaptious son, but at least the fact that they were hunting had ruled that out – silence was essential so they could hear, rather than be heard, as much as the noise of their passage allowed. In any case, Konall seemed to prefer to keep his own counsel.

  After more than two hours’ walking that seemed, through boredom and fatigue, to have lasted several days, they cleared a rise to descend into a broad, wooded, ravine-strewn valley that lay between two towering, harsh rock faces.

  Konall pointed. ‘There is better hunting here,’ he said curtly. ‘This valley has more sun and more shelter, so less snow lies and more grows. So there is more wildlife. We will camp down there and hunt properly in the morning.’

  They found a sheltered clearing with a small, clear stream running rapidly through it and set up camp. Dry wood that had been carried with them was used to start a fire that gave off as little smoke as possible, while newly gathered firewood was ranged around the fire to dry. These were men, Brann observed, used to surviving without being noticed. Maybe in this land, surviving and remaining private amounted to the same thing.

  Darkness had fallen and the fire, prepared in a small pit to reduce the chance of being noticed by unwelcome eyes, had died to a deep glow by the time they had finished a meal prepared – expertly, as it transpired – by Grakk. Hunger and fatigue had kept conversation to a minimum as they ate and, immediately the food was gone, they settled down, wrapped in blankets and close to the heat, which was fed occasionally by the sentry. Brann noticed that he shielded his eyes as he did so to preserve his night vision.

  Despite his weariness, however, Brann found he was unable to sleep: too much was whirling through his mind. He stood, taking care not to wake those lying close to him, and gathered his father’s black cloak around him, as glad of the familiarity it brought as he was of the protection against the chill. He took a leather water flask from the supplies and, conscious that the guard was watching him with suspicion, he made sure that he kept himself in sight as he moved to sit on a boulder at the edge of the small clearing, sipping at the water.

  ‘Any room for a nine-and-a-half-fingered man?’ a voice whispered in his ear. Brann jumped violently and he dropped the bottle. Gerens, ignoring his reaction and catching the spinning flask, sat down beside him.

  Brann smiled as the other boy took a long, slow swallow. ‘How is the finger? What’s left of it, that is?’

  Gerens held up his hand and flexed the fingers into a fist and back out again, the white bandage on the foreshortened digit catching the dim firelight. ‘It moves, it needs only water now rather than that foul-smelling ointment they were using and what remains won’t fall off as long as I keep it clean. Can’t complain, chief.’

  Brann’s smile grew broader, and the pair looked at the stars until Gerens broke the silence. ‘So are you going to tell us what is going on?’ He handed back the water container and fixed his solemn gaze on Brann. ‘So…’ he prompted again.

  Brann sighed, and shrugged. ‘Nothing much to say,’ he whispered. ‘Apparently, the Captain needed a page to look the part, and I was the nearest appropriate person. Oh, and remember the reports of the villagers getting slaughtered?’ Gerens nodded. Even those who had not been close enough to hear the warrior’s harrowing report to the Captain had soon learned of the horror as word spread through the benches. ‘Well, it seems it has been happening here, too.’

  Gerens’s eyebrows raised. ‘Is that your idea of “nothing much”, chief?’

  Brann paled as the memory of the penalty for repeating anything discussed by the lords, over-ridden by his enthusiasm at talking to a friend once more, returned. ‘I should have not told you even that. Please do not repeat any of this, Gerens.’

  The boy snorted. ‘Out here? To who?’

  ‘Not even when we get back,’ Brann insisted. He changed the subject. ‘The servants are certainly very friendly at the castle, or stronghold, or whatever they call it round here.’

  ‘The servants,’ Gerens queried. ‘Have you met many of them, then?’

  ‘One or two,’ Brann said. ‘Well, one, really, to any great extent,’ he admitted.

  Gerens’s eyes narrowed. ‘And she was very friendly, was she, chief?’ He was clearly enjoying Brann’s discomfort. ‘Exactly how friendly are we talking about?’

  The smaller boy bridled. ‘Not that friendly. She was just helpful when I did not know anything or anyone. Don’t get the wrong idea.’

  Gerens’s laughter came in a snort, startling Brann as he had never even seen him smile before. ‘You’ve fallen for her!’

  A small stone ricocheted off his back. The pair jerked around in alarm, and saw the sentry glaring at them. ‘Quiet,’ he hissed. ‘Sound carries for miles at night up here. Whisper or nothing.’

  ‘Grumpy sod,’ Brann grumbled. But he did so in a whisper. The warrior was large, with more scars on his face than he could count. Even the snarling bear tattooed on one arm had a less fearsome demeanour.

  Gerens took the water container and sipped from it, before offering it back to Brann. ‘Take care. He is one to be wary of. The word among the slaves is that those tattoos are awarded, not chosen. A reward for an act of bravery. Looking at these people, I’m guessing the bravery involves chopping enemies into small pieces, not retrieving puppies that have fallen down wells.’

  ‘What has it been like for you?’ the smaller boy said, accepting the water.

  Gerens shrugged. ‘They do not seem to have slaves around here, same as at home, so they don’t know how to treat us. They just make sure we have enough food and drink, and leave us alone.’ He indicated the sleeping figures. ‘I think we should get back. It would not be a good idea to draw attention to ourselves, especially for a bad reason.’

  Brann nodded his agreement, and they returned to the fireside. The conversation had settled his swirling thoughts and, within moments, sleep had claimed him.

  A rough shake on his shoulder and a hand over his mouth wakened him what seemed like only a few minutes later. As his eyes cleared, however, he saw that dawn was breaking. The guard took his hand from Brann’s mouth.

  ‘A large animal has been heard,’ he said. ‘From the level of noise, it can only be a boar, bear or man. Lord Konall is anxious to move in case it is a bear. It is not yet quite time for hibernation, and many will still be roaming these hills, eager for food.’

  Not relishing the thought of becoming a bear’s breakfast, Brann quickly made ready to set off. The utensils from the previous night’s meal had been washed and packed as soon as they had been used in the event that a sudden departure proved necessary.

  Grakk squatted beside him and helped him to fasten the straps on his pack. ‘I can understand Konall’s anxiety,’ the boy said. ‘I don’t particularly want to meet a hungry bear, either.’

  Grakk’s eyes narrowed in amusement. ‘You misunderstand, little
one. We are the hunters. He seeks the bear. He would wear the skin it wears and, should he kill it, he will do this. Then he will be a man among his people.’

  Brann looked sceptical. ‘Where I come from, it takes four, maybe six, men to tackle a bear. Even then, men have died.’

  Grakk shrugged. ‘This is not where you come from.’

  Konall called the group together. He was trying to appear calm and authoritative, but his eyes were shining with excitement.

  ‘Whatever the creature, it is close,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We may be lucky. I had expected to have to descend below the snowline, but it seems that my bear may be coming to us. Perhaps that is an omen, perhaps it is merely good fortune. Either way, it matters not: I want my bear.

  ‘So we will move to a larger clearing a short distance from here. We have snared a rabbit – we will use it to attract the beast. And we will wait.’ He looked at the foreigners. ‘Silently.’ His words came quicker as his excitement grew. ‘If it is any creature other than a bear, we kill it as quickly as possible and move below the snowline as we originally intended. But if it is a bear, no one will come near it but me. Only the guards will be permitted to become involved, and even then only if it is necessary to encourage the bear in my direction. They know what to do.

  ‘Anyone else who interferes, will do so knowing he faces execution as a result. But, most of all, remain silent. If this is my bear and you cause me to lose him, I will wear your skin instead of his.’

  They were dispersed to make their final preparations for leaving. As they strapped on their packs, the guards produced strips of cloth and used them to muffle anything that may make even the slightest noise. As a warrior attended to his load, Brann murmured to him. ‘What if the bear is about to kill him, and we could distract it, or scare it away? Lord Ragnarr would have our heads if we stood by and let his son die.’

  The huge man grunted. ‘Lord Ragnarr would do worse than that – but only if you stopped the bear,’ he growled. ‘It is a straight fight, boy and bear. If the bear wins, Konall was never meant to be a man. If the boy wins, he walks away a man. It is no more complicated than that. It is the way of our people.’

  Brann was stunned at the cheapness of life. It showed on his face. With a hint of a smile, the warrior said, ‘Do not worry. We are not monsters. Our boys are trained all their lives for this. It is a necessity. If any of us finds ourselves alone in wild country, and we know we can kill a bear single-handedly, then there is nothing really to fear.

  ‘This ritual proves as much to the boy himself as it does to others. Some die, yes, but some people die slipping on the ice in a town street.’ He finished his work and slapped Brann’s pack to signify the fact. ‘I believe he will be fine, do not worry.’ He moved on to help Grakk.

  Brann nudged Gerens, and gestured at the young nobleman standing separate from the rest, aloof and arrogant. ‘I am not worried. If it is a one-on-one fight, bear against brat, and we are just spectators, I know who is getting my support.’

  Gerens nodded, his face as serious as ever. ‘Agreed. After all, it has probably got better breath than he has.’

  Remembering their admonishment from the guard during the night, Brann stifled his laughter.

  They left in single file, moving slowly and quietly through the trees. They had been told it was only a short distance to the clearing, but the need for silence was paramount, forcing them to creep forward, watching the ground as they placed each step. After around three hundred yards, they encountered a difficulty. The snow in this area was more a result of drifts from higher ground as it was of fresh snowfall. As such, its depth was unpredictable. The section they were about to cross presented more of a problem. Protruding occasionally were black, slick rocks, a sign of what lay under the snow. With the depth of the crisp, white covering impossible to gauge, they did not know if they would step into several inches of snow, giving them a fairly secure grip, compacting around their feet, or if a rock was concealed by only a thin veil of snow. In such cases, feet would stop unexpectedly soon, and the rock underneath was as slippery as ice.

  The party’s nerves were already on edge, making their movements tight and their balance less likely to be caught quickly on any occasion that it was lost.

  And so it happened. Konall’s page, burdened by a heavy pack with a large, round shield strapped to it, stepped on a barely concealed rock. His foot shot to the side, striking his other leg, and he flipped, with the iron-embossed shield foremost, towards a large rock.

  With scarcely believable reflexes, Grakk, who was next in line, was already diving to divert the boy into soft snow. He succeeded but, in doing so, a small shovel strapped to his pack glanced off the rock with a resounding clang.

  The party froze. Konall, at the front, wheeled around, his eyes wild with fury. ‘You careless fool!’ he spat at Grakk. ‘You will pay for that. You had better pray to whatever gods you follow that you have not scared off my bear.’

  The two warriors at the rear had been scanning the way they had come to guard against them being surprised from behind and had missed the incident, and the group moved on – even more carefully. Impassive as ever, Grakk fell back into line.

  They reached the clearing without further mishap. The freshly killed rabbit was placed in the centre of the open area, and Konall smeared its blood across his face, giving him a macabre look as he stood just inside the treeline. He had cast off his heavy cloak to ease his movement but, despite the sharp cold, he stood unmoving, his gaze fixed across the glade with almost fanatical eagerness and a spear with a thick haft and a broad, flat blade, designed to slip between an animal’s ribs, cradled in both hands.

  Three of the warriors positioned themselves strategically around the clearing, hidden within the trees but ready to step forward to direct the bear back towards Konall if necessary, while the remaining guard shepherded the pages and slaves into the cover of the undergrowth – but not so far in as to obstruct their view.

  They did not have long to wait. The sound of heavy movement through low-hanging branches grew closer as a soft breeze carried the scent of the dead rabbit and its fresh blood away from the clearing. Then, sooner than the noises had suggested, the animal appeared from the trees.

  The guard beside Brann sucked in his breath sharply. It was indeed a bear, and bigger than any that Brann had ever imagined, never mind seen. It moved slowly towards the rabbit, its snout lifted and its head swaying from side to side as it followed the scent. Satisfied that there was no danger – or its caution overpowered by hunger and the proximity of food – it speeded up, its rolling gait covering the ground surprisingly quickly and sure-footedly.

  When it reached the centre of the clearing, Konall stepped forward, roaring his defiance. The bear, almost upon the rabbit, bellowed in anger and warning to whoever may challenge it for the food, and cast about for the source of the sound.

  Brann felt sick. He glanced at Gerens. The boy’s face was impassive. Although they had joked about the outcome of the encounter, in reality he had no desire to watch anyone being savaged by such a beast. And he was unable to bring himself to believe that Lord Ragnarr’s reaction to news of his son’s death would be anything less than fury and retribution aimed at those who were with him at the time.

  Horrified and nauseated at the thought of the carnage that was about to ensue, Brann nevertheless found himself unable to prevent his eyes being drawn to the scene at the centre of the clearing.

  Finding its enemy, the bear launched itself at Konall. Brann urged the boy to turn and run, but he knew it was already too late. The bear would have been on his unprotected back within a few paces.

  Instead, with a calmness that stunned Brann, the tall boy stepped one pace forward to meet the attack, levelled his spear and braced himself for the impact. Rather than running straight onto the spearpoint and obligingly impaling himself, however, the huge animal reared up in front of Konall, teeth bared and dripping with saliva and eyes glaring. Blasting the boy with another b
aleful roar, it swiped a massive, clawed foreleg at him. For an animal so large, its movements were astonishingly – and terrifyingly – fast but Konall, his gaze cold and calculating, merely swayed back, allowing the paw to miss him by the merest distance.

  Again it swiped and again, with either paw. Each time, Konall moved out of reach, either leaning or stepping back as necessary, his spear held ready as he waited for an opening to attack. Enraged, but mystified at its lack of success, the animal pulled itself fully upright to assess its prey, never considering that such a puny creature could possibly be a danger to it – only a victim.

  Seizing on the moment, Konall sprang forward, thrusting his spear at the bear’s chest. In the instant that the tip pierced its hide, however, the bear’s paw moved in a blur, snapping the shaft neatly in half like a twig.

  The force of the blow knocked two segments of spear through the air. The butt end fell from Konall’s hands into the snow beside him, while the other half, its spearhead flashing as it caught the sun, spun end over end to embed itself a little more than twelve feet away.