Hero Grown

‘Narut?’ Einarr said. ‘Why is there no one here?’

The Scribe looked as if only his professional pride prevented him from sighing in disdain. ‘There are three throne rooms: the Throne Room of the Empire, where you now stand; the Throne Room of Sagia, which affords a more intimate setting; and the Throne Room of the Heavens, which we would now be approaching had you not halted our progress. I am surprised that your free man has not prepared you with this information. Now, if we may proceed…’

The last was too close to an instruction and too far from a request for Einarr’s liking. He casually turned to Grakk. ‘Indeed, Narut. Did you know of this, Grakk?’

The tribesman’s face was solemn. ‘I regret to say that I did not. My learnings have leant more towards the external aspects than the internal.’ Grakk nodded towards the outlook beyond the balconies where open dry land, cleared flat initially, turned to a scrubland of bushes and trees, all dry twisted wood and dry dark-green leaves, that stretched to the horizon.

Einarr raised his eyebrows at the sight. ‘I have never seen this side of the city in the past. The seat of the most powerful man in the world is directly exposed to that outside world?’

Grakk nodded. ‘The four great walls meet at the back wall of the keep, and that back wall does, as you say, face onto the ground beyond. However, the city fills the top of a bluff that is a long and gentle slope to the shore but which, on its landward side, drops sheer to the flat ground beyond. The rock of this feature raises the defences high above the reach of siege engines, ladders or towers and extends the range of the catapults of the defenders and is impenetrable to siege mining. It was a feat of magnificent and long-forgotten engineering skills merely to sink foundations into it. There are natural caverns beneath the citadel and city alike that were linked by tunnels cut in the time of the grandfather’s grandfather of the current Emperor’s grandfather’s grandfather, but not one tunnel leads to the land beyond.

‘Were an army to attempt to cross that desert, in their desperate state they would face the massed ranks of the Imperial Host on the cleared plain of the Tournament Grounds you see before you. That is why not only has no foe ever taken this citadel, but no foe has ever even attempted to do so.’

Einarr nodded. ‘Indeed. I can understand why. And if I am to request the aid of the Emperor, it is comforting to know his people have such an eye for military matters other than merely weight of numbers. So Narut, if you would care to lead us to the Throne Room of the Heavens, I would be most grateful.’

The tall man’s robes swirled as he whirled and stalked down the hall without further ado.

A wide opening in the left wall, slightly higher than a tall man but previously hidden by two statues of curious creatures that were men from the waist up but had the body and legs of huge cat-like beasts, became obvious as they drew closer. A broad and shallow stairway rose before them and turned right halfway up, blazing bright sunlight across their path as they started to climb. On reaching the second flight, the deep blue of the mid-afternoon sky filled the opening ahead.

They emerged on the rooftop of the keep. Exposed without mercy to the full force of the sun, the heat of the air struck as if they had walked into the brick wall of an oven and Brann’s eyes stung from the harsh brightness. It took a wipe of his sleeve before he could take in the view but, when he did, it took away his breath more than even the searing heat had done just seconds before.

They had stepped out onto the precise centre of the roof area. Directly ahead of them, far ahead and almost at the edge of the roof, sat five thrones on a raised dais, one large, the rest uniformly smaller and all replicas of those in the room below. But, this time, they were occupied.

The Scribe led them into the space between them and the thrones. While it lay empty but for a line of warriors standing before the dais, to either side a throng, garbed in a multitude of colours that reminded Brann of the meadow of wildflowers that sat behind his village, stood silently behind a further row of warriors. All in the crowd wore fine robes similar to those of the Scribe, some with long, loose sleeves and others that ended at the shoulders; on closer inspection, he saw that the lack of sleeves matched the presence of a slave chain around their necks. Some of the free men and women wore tall, slender, brimless hats; some had a soft fabric wound intricately around their heads and ending in a veil-like gauze that hung across their faces; some were bare-headed. All appeared to follow one fashion or another, with no style of clothing seeming to attach to one gender or the other, and every one of them exuded wealth.

The soldiers were identical to each other in garb. Over light, pale-coloured tunics, sleeveless vests formed of overlapping horizontal strips of shining metal encased their torsos, while identical metal strips hung loosely from their waists almost to their knees. Each rounded helmet, extending down their cheeks and over the back of their necks and with a grill across the mouth and nose to leave only the eyes clearly exposed, was topped by a plume of green bristles. Each held a tall shield that was rounded at the top and arched at the bottom and a stabbing spear roughly his own height, much like Brann’s people had used to hunt boar but with a narrower head. A broad shortsword and a long slender knife were strapped at either hip. Short or tall, broad or narrow, each was clad the same as his neighbour. Behind the dais, a row of archers stood, their armour identical to the other soldiers and one arrow held ready should the occasion demand it.

‘The statues!’ Brann gasped. Despite the imaginative range of beasts, plants and people at leisure, and other than the giant statue in the first hallway, every stone soldier he had seen had been identical to those he saw before him in the flesh.

Exasperation filled Konall’s sigh, but his voice was quiet. ‘It has taken until now to see it? Did you not listen to your friend the tribesman? They do not have warriors. They have soldiers. All are part of the whole, and must act as one. There is no scope for exploiting opportunities. That is their way. All is ordered. All is for the Empire.’

Grakk coughed pointedly behind them, and their conversation ceased.

The silence as they walked towards the thrones was overpowering, the oppressive atmosphere heightened when the first soldiers they passed moved to close off the rectangle behind them, with the crowd pressing in behind. Those to the sides were unmoving, so when Brann’s attention was caught by a figure keeping pace with them, he was intrigued. Reminded of the first time he had clapped eyes on Konall what seemed a lifetime ago, he watched but, wary of alerting the person to their discovery, he let his gaze wander over the crowd in general. He caught sight briefly of someone around his height but with a slightness and grace of movement that indicated a woman beneath the dark-blue robes and matching veil.

Unable to watch more closely without staring, he returned his attention to the way ahead. Their steps quickened as, with their goal in sight, the dire memories of the events brought about by Loku in the North seemed to sweep over the group. Exposed to the watching crowd and staring at the line of thrones, the ground was taking an eternity of frustration to cover. Frustration, but also mounting excitement, as the opportunity to enlist the help of such power drew closer with each rapid step. The exotic alien sights that had met his eyes since he had stepped from the ship, and which had built to this crescendo, filled him with a burning and breathless anticipation. He may have had to endure horrors and terrors to reach this point, but there was no denying that his fate had brought him to an experience that he could never have imagined, were a whole tribe of storytellers to try to describe it to him. Here was he, an apprentice miller from a small village on what seemed like the other side of the world, walking into the court of the fabled Emperor of the mightiest Empire their world had ever seen. Forcing himself to breath, he dared to look at the ruler himself as they approached.

The man was more normal than he had expected. His clean-shaven face was coloured by the sun to a hue that matched the dark sand of the land they had spied from the windows and creased by smile lines that lent amusement to his eyes and cheeks. Black hair was cropped efficiently short and cut straight across his brow, just above calm brown eyes and, as his head turned, a circlet flashed golden as it caught the sunlight. Clad in robes of pale blue, edged in gold and with a heavy chain of thick links of gold, he sat as easily on his massive throne of stone as though it were filled with cushions.

The four who sat to either side were of such similar appearance to the Emperor that the family resemblance was unmistakable. Their white robes were also edged in gold, and while they lacked the chain and circlet, they exuded the same air of easy authority. A Scribe stood at the shoulder of each of the five and a portly man, lavishly dressed in blue and crimson, was demonstrably stating a case to the Emperor but, on their approach, a slight flick of the Emperor’s fingers was all it took for the man to be ushered to one side. As their eyes followed the man’s movement, Brann saw an elderly man, his beard long, wispy and white but his back straight and his dark eyes keen, sitting to the side of the dais.

Shock hit him like a hammer between the eyes. Standing beside the old man, one hand resting casually on the high back of the chair, was a man Brann had last seen leaping from a window to his escape, a man who had engineered a plan that had come close to wiping out the rulers of Einarr’s people, a man who bore a scar the height of his left check given by Brann on their last meeting. Loku had somehow travelled to Sagia before them and, more astonishingly, he had inveigled his way into the court of the Emperor.

Einarr noticed the man a moment after Brann and, without a hint of recognition in his expression, immediately extended a hand back in Konall’s direction, a clear sign to his young cousin to hold himself in check. Brann glanced anxiously at the tall boy, but years of training ensured that, while his face had drained deadly white and his jaw was clenched with the effort of containing his fighting rage, his step never faltered and he made not a sound.

Grakk moved close to Konall and spoke so quietly that even Brann, walking beside the boy, barely heard the words. ‘Patience, young lord. This is to Lord Einarr’s advantage: he can discuss the matters in the North with the Emperor and at the same time expose the man who is linked with them. And it saves us the time and effort of hunting down the dog for vengeance.’

They halted in front of the dais. The Scribe held his right hand in front of his heart before sweeping it forward towards the Emperor, turning his palm to face upwards. He held the pose until the Emperor nodded, then intoned, ‘Heart and Head of ul-Taratac, Ruler of the Civilised World, His Majesty the Emperor Kalos, Fifth of that Name, may I present Lord Einarr Sigurrson, Heir to the Territories of Halveka and the Seat of Yngvarrsharn, his cousin Lord Konall Ragnarrson, Heir to the Seat of Ravensrest, and their party.’ He inclined his head to the Emperor and Einarr in turn, and walked smoothly around the end of the line of soldiers and behind the dais to appear behind the Emperor’s right shoulder. The Scribe who had held that place moved quietly away and stood to one side.

Einarr, who had stopped a few paces ahead of the rest of the group, stood still, head bowed. He only lifted his eyes when the Emperor spoke, his voice warm and full of welcome.

‘Lord Einarr, it is good to see you here. I have heard much about you.’ He waved a hand in an arc above his head. ‘Welcome to my Throne Room of the Heavens, where all are reminded of the vastness that is the one ceiling for all citizens of the Empire.’

Einarr was respectful. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, I am grateful for your prompt granting of our request for an audience. My only sadness is that the purpose of my visit to your court is to bear grave tidings from the North.’

Inwardly, Brann smiled as glee coursed through him. Loku was to be revealed for what he was at the first opportunity. The man must feel desperate to flee, were an escape route possible. Which there wasn’t. Which made it all the more enjoyable.

The Emperor smiled, his eyes creasing in friendship. ‘Be not sad, Lord of the North. I know exactly why you are here. I like your directness, and feel I already like you also.

‘Which makes me, in turn, sad. Sad that you should die.’

At the last word, the weapons of the soldiers around them snapped down, caging them in a box of spear points. Instinctively, the hands of Einarr, Konall and their two warriors dropped to their weapons, while the other three, unarmed, felt helplessness join the shock slamming against them. Spears plunged into the two Northern warriors from behind, Magnus dying instantly and Torstein suffering a further thrust to the chest before his gasping croaks of rage and swinging sword were stopped. Scattered shrieks from the gathered throng were surprisingly sparse, and there was none of the scrambling for safety that Brann would have expected from such a gathering of affluent citizenry, people whose self-regard generally equates with overwhelming self-preservation. Instead, an excited curiosity seemed to suffuse them.

‘I find that I like you, Lord Einarr, so I would advise you and your young cousin to remove your hands from your weapons, otherwise you shall, indeed, share the fate of your two men. Had you listened properly, I said that you “should” die. I have yet to decide if you will.’

The battle-experience Einarr had gathered over the years had kept him focused. His eyes fixed on those of the Emperor, he eased back to beside Konall and rested a hand on the boy’s right arm, gently easing it away from his sword hilt.

His voice remained calm and controlled. ‘Can I ask your thinking, Emperor? Two good men have just bled out their lives over what I can only imagine is a misunderstanding.’

‘There is no misunderstanding, Lord Einarr. I would invite you to walk with me. Your party may accompany you.’

He stood, the Scribe following his every pace as he moved towards the edge of the roof. Soldiers moved in around them and expertly and quickly divested them of weapons. They were allowed to walk to beside where the Emperor stood facing the view, kept by a row of gleaming metal several paces from his right side. Such had been Brann’s fixation on the people until this moment that it was only now that he became aware that the rooftop was exactly that, and no more: a perfectly flat surface, unadorned with any protuberance and, most significantly, no wall around its edge. The sides dropped abruptly away to the ground far below, escalating the impression of height and overwhelming him with vulnerability. He was acutely aware of the hot wind that plucked at his tunic but felt like a gale, and of the grainy surface that now seemed as treacherous as an icy slope. Born in a country of hills and dales, he had never been one to be nervous while standing at the edge of a drop. Until now.

The Emperor was unperturbed. His voice was calm. ‘The city you passed through, that lies below us, is the greatest in the world. The land you see stretching before you, as far as your eyes can see from this loftiest of viewpoints, is but a grain of sand to the expanse of my Empire. Your mind cannot comprehend the number of people who fall under my control, who rely on my will. This,’ he touched the circlet nestling among his thick hair and which Brann now saw was wrought to resemble a twisted branch that almost met at the front, ‘reminds me of the first olive tree our forebears planted here when they ceased to wander these lands and settled this spot.’ Brann had no idea what an olive tree was, but the meaning was clear. The Emperor lifted the links of the heavy gold around his neck. ‘And this reminds me of the fact that I may have been elevated to be the first of all in this Empire, but in doing so I am in thrall to the Empire, a slave in service to the survival and flourishing of ul-Taratac.’

He turned slowly to face them, still toying with the chain. His smile was genial, disarming. ‘And in all this expanse of land, in all these teeming hordes of people near and far, do you not think that there will be some who will wish me ill, for whatever reason? Every day, there are attempts planned on my life, but few have made it as close as you did.’

Einarr’s composure slipped at the implication, and his tone was aghast. ‘An attempt on your life? On the contrary, Your Imperial Majesty, as well as the events in the North, I would tell you of a viper in your midst.’ He pointed directly at Loku, who looked worryingly unconcerned. ‘That man is the danger to you. That treacherous dog is one of the reasons we are here.’

The Emperor laughed. ‘That treacherous dog, as you describe him, is the reason I stay alive. How do you think I avoid these many and ofttimes highly ingenious attempts to kill me? Because I know of them. And how do I know? Because this treacherous dog, or Taraloku-Bana, to afford him his real name, operates for me a wonderfully efficient and effective network that gathers information from every conceivable source. His people bring me the real news of my Empire and, when the situation warrants it, he will gather the information for me personally, as he did in this case. I have him to thank for knowing of the discord you and your family have sown in the North, to try to lure my millens northwards to restore the order necessary for trade, whereupon, claiming invasion, you would seek to weaken my forces. On finding that my man had discovered your purpose, you tried to kill him and instead came here to seek to kill me directly. It is not complicated.’

‘Why in the name of all the gods would we want to do that?’ Einarr was incredulous. ‘What could we gain from it?’

The Emperor looked puzzled. ‘Ah yes, of course. We Southerners are slow of thought. We could not see your purpose. We could not envisage that, were the Empire to be destabilised, even short-term chaos would open up trade routes to your people currently controlled, carefully and for the benefit of all, by Sagia. The more you profited, the more powerful you would become, and the more you could work to establish your trade in the South. And so on, and so on. You would never rise to rival the might of the Empire, but you would have become strong enough to hold an influential bargaining position when the Empire settled back to normality.’ His hand fluttered on high, as if scattering thoughts to the wind. ‘But of course, we Southerners could never have divined that. Our arrogance would have convinced us that nothing could affect the Empire.’

Einarr’s eyes blazed with cold fury. ‘Emperor, you have been duped.’

There was an angry growl and the spear points surged forward. Kalos raised a hand and they stopped in an instant, but still the tension hung heavy. The smile remained, as easy and warm as ever. ‘Have a care, Lord Einarr. Speak like that to an Emperor and you risk your life being measured in seconds.’

‘Are we not dead men regardless, Majesty?’ This time the title was spat out.

‘Not you, nor your cousin. To put to death such high-ranking nobles as yourselves would be as much an act of war as anything else. I would be forced to acknowledge the attempt on my life and would be expected to send my soldiers north as a result, thereby allowing your people to achieve their original objective.’ He sighed. ‘Much as I would relish your death, I must place the good of the Empire ahead of my personal enjoyment. Far better to hold you and your cousin here as our, shall we say, guests until your father confirms in writing what your plans had been, then you can be ransomed back with certain conditions attached. So you two can be taken below to your chambers. The others can travel down by quicker means.’

He waved a nonchalant hand at the roof’s edge as he turned back towards his throne. Brann’s knees almost buckled at the horror and he fought to prevent his stomach from heaving, determined not to disgrace his people in the face of such injustice. Levelled spears prompted a shouting Einarr and Konall in one direction and Brann, Hakon and Grakk on a very different path.

A scream rent the air, followed by horrified shouts from several directions. Every second spear switched in unison towards the sound, the remainder staying with their original orders. More anguish filled the air. Unperturbed by blood and potential execution, members of the watching crowd were apparently able to be shocked by other means.

‘My purse!’

‘My gems!’

‘My Scribe’s satchel!’

‘My purse, too!’

Similar cries came from at least a dozen sources, and Brann saw the blue-clad figure he had earlier noticed moving through the throng slipping quietly towards the edge of the roof. She was spotted and shouts alerted all to her presence. A man of astounding obesity was closest to her, and she slipped, encouraging him to lumber towards her. When he was almost upon her, she spun, her hands a blur and her robes whirling as they unwound around her. She stopped, clad in a close-fitting black outfit, a well-filled bag attached to her waist and her hands filled with the full length of the strip of fabric that had formed the robes. She looped the strip around the fat man and ran backwards, the loose ends of the strip feeding through either hand. She reached the edge and without hesitation dropped from sight, the fabric still running through her hands, leaving Brann with a fleeting impression of dark hair tied back to hang to the nape of her neck and even darker eyes flashing with triumph. The fat Sagian fought in a panic to avoid the drop and used his considerable bulk to resist being pulled by the slight girl towards the edge.

Hakon was the only one who reacted to the commotion. Knocking one spear aside with his right hand, he threw himself past it and barged the soldier’s unsuspecting neighbour in the back with his shoulder, his weight and strength combining to knock the man to the ground and his momentum carrying him clear of the guards. He raced the short distance to the point of the girl’s exit, arriving a moment after she had dropped from sight.

The archers drew, but with the primary function of protecting the Emperor, they were stationed behind him to have a target area covering any who would come straight at him, and their view of Hakon was blocked by scores of people.

With the briefest of glances back, he shouted, ‘I’ll alert our crew,’ and dropped over the edge, grabbing at the strips of cloth that had, a breath before, slowed the thief’s descent. His large frame was, however, more of a challenge for the bulk of the fat man who had been used by the girl. His eyes wide and his face the same crimson as the sleeves of his robes, his feet scrabbled desperately at the treacherous purchase on the sand-strewn smooth stone of the roof, but it was a battle he was fast losing. As Hakon disappeared from sight, the man abruptly shot forward and was cast, like a boulder from a giant’s sling, into the void beyond the edge of the roof.

As his howl receded with him, Brann had rushed to the side of the building, his terror of the emptiness beyond forgotten as he saw his friend disappear. On hands and knees, he craned his neck to see the girl thief on one of the balconies of the Throne Room below them, black rope in hand, astonishment written clear on her face as she didn’t know whether to look first at the fat man in billowing robes, screaming and grasping at air, who was plummeting past her, or the large Northerner who had landed beside her. The disappearance of the former and the continuing presence of the latter, who grinned cheerfully, clapped her on the back and pointed helpfully at the rope, returned her attention to the task at hand and, with the quick hands of the skilled thief she had already proved to be, the rope was looped around the balustrade and secured to itself with a metal hook at one end. Before it had even finished uncoiling, she was already sliding down it, swinging inwards as she neared its end to land on a similar balcony two floors below the one they had started from. She was followed closely, but rather less gracefully, by her new companion and, as soon as Hakon landed, a practised snap of her wrist set the rope to snaking above her until the hook flicked free and the line dropped. She was already using a hook at the other end to secure the rope to that balustrade and, in seconds, the pair of escapees was five balconies below the rooftop.