Hero Grown

‘You are tired because you have worked; water cannot fix that. It is unfortunate, and you would have benefited from a rest day today, but you will be better tomorrow tired with muscles that know how to move than fresh and flailing.’

‘So how does this help then?’

‘This, curious one, is to let you move tomorrow. Were you merely to sleep now, you would wake with limbs stiffened to immobility. The hot lets your blood flow, the cold tightens your muscles in. One then the other flushes the blood through the muscles, like bellows sucking in air then shooting it out, taking with it all that should not be there. Your muscles will be clean and ready for tomorrow.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do. Now, clothing, food and sleep.’

As soon as he woke, he could feel the wisdom in Salus’s words. He started a stretch, and was immediately reminded of the heavy wood attached to his wrists.

He had slept soundly. Even the prospect of what lay ahead when he woke and the awkwardness of having a wooden sword and shield strapped to him hadn’t managed to stop him from sinking into deep slumber as soon as he had laid back. That was the benefit of exhausting himself. He had no exhaustion now to overwhelm his thoughts. His breathing quickened and his stomach clenched. Today was when it happened. Today, he could push away the prospect into the future no longer.

He had been wakened by the sound of the men in the cots around him waking and rising, and he grew jealous of the ordinariness of their actions. He ached with a yearning for mundane daily life and felt tears of despair fill his eyes. He sat up, swinging his legs to the floor, and blinked in time to see two familiar figures approaching, wiping the back of his right forearm across his eyes before anyone could notice the moisture, and cursing silently the stupid blunt weapons he was forced to grip.

‘Excellent, you are eager for the day,’ Salus boomed. Brann didn’t feel it was worth disagreeing with the assessment, though it could not have been further from the truth. His guts were trying to force themselves up through his throat and he lurched slightly.

If Salus noticed, he chose not to acknowledge it. ‘Marlo, if you could be so good as to help our young friend dress?’

An under-tunic, open almost from armpit to waist, allowed him to dress without removing the shield, and the weight-laden padded tunic was laced onto him once more. Numbly, he followed Salus to the rope-wound post, stopping only to eat briefly the same food as had been his lunch the previous day, turning away from those around him to mask the sight of Marlo feeding him like a baby.

The movements against the post were fluid, much to his surprise and Salus’s delight. When he swung at fresh air, it seemed easier to drag the sword back than it had been just the evening before. Right, then left, than right again. As he started to bring the heavy wood back again, Salus flashed the rod forward. He flicked up the shield, knocking the rod skywards, then crashed the sword into it on the swing that followed. He wasn’t sure who of the pair of them was more astonished.

Salus waved away the clod-throwers who were about to start launching their missiles. ‘Thank you, but if he can do that with his shield, not necessary.’ He turned to Brann. ‘What made you think of that?’

Brann managed a small smile. ‘I thought of it yesterday, but my arm wouldn’t do it. To be honest, I had forgotten it again until my arms did it.’

‘Today is a good day to start doing it.’ Cassian’s voice behind him made him jump. There was a woman with him this time, tall and willowy, dark of skin and eyes and with hair that was a mass of thick tendrils, halfway between black and white. ‘Thank you, good Salus. Your work has been well done. The results have exceeded expectations.’

Salus nodded his head. ‘You are kind, boss, but the boy did it. I hope there is a chance I will see him again today.’

Brann felt his eyes filling up again. He suddenly felt very young. Too young to be facing this. But Salus could not have done more to help him. He turned to the large man. ‘I, er, I…’

Salus grinned. ‘I know. You love me, of course you do. Now come back and make me my dinner tonight.’ Before Brann could answer, he was walking away.

The woman cut in, turning the boy by the shoulders and looking him over. ‘Strong for his size. You have rowed?’ Her voice was cool and measured. Brann nodded. ‘That helps. Let us visit the pig.’

Brann wondered who warranted this name, but was almost disappointed to find it a literal description. He was taken to a side room in the building where he had eaten and found the carcass of a pig hanging from the ceiling.

Cassian nodded to Marlo. ‘Relieve our young friend of his practice weapons.’

Considering the ease with which the boy’s knife sliced through the leather straps, the knots having been tightened beyond unpicking by the bathwater the night before and the movement before and after, Brann was relieved that his speed of use was matched by a surety of movement. The wooden weapons fell to the ground and Brann looked at his hands in surprise as they rose towards the ceiling of their own accord, as if he were a puppet operated by an invisible giant.

Marlo laughed. ‘Fear not, they will settle in a moment. But wait till you feel this real sword.’

A broadsword of simple but functional quality was tucked under his arm, and he offered it to Brann.

‘Take it, and strike the pig,’ Cassian prompted.

He grasped the hilt and swung. His eyes widened as the blade, feeling as light as a switch and just as manoeuvrable, slammed into the side of the carcass, biting deep into the flesh.

‘Now you see the value of the heavy wood, but also the problem,’ the old soldier said.

‘The problem? What problem could there be in swinging a sword like that?’

‘Pull it out.’

Brann dragged it back the way it had swung, but it stuck hard and tried to pull the full weight of the pig with it. He wrenched it straight towards him and, eventually, as he grunted in triumph, it squelched free.

‘Now stab it.’

He thrust, the blade sinking deep. Again, when he tried to pull it free, the flesh sucked it close. He rolled his hand right and left as he hauled it and the pink meat reluctantly released its grip on the blade.

‘You see?’ Cassian’s look was earnest. ‘This is most important. Were this a man, not a pig, while you were fighting the grip of the body, all of your right side would be inviting him to hit you as many times as he liked. I have seen men killed after striking a killing blow. Not every fatal strike kills instantly, and a dying man will fixate on taking you with him as his last furious act.’ He took the sword. ‘Strike shallow and fast, like this.’ His blades flashed in and out, stabbing twice on the front of the pig. ‘And this.’ Surprisingly quick on his feet, he moved in and swung fast at the side of the carcass. The blade bit, he twisted his wrist and withdrew, and he was back at Brann’s side in an instant. ‘As you started to do, twisting releases it quicker. And causes more damage, which is helpful. Remember that blood vessels, ligaments, sinews and muscles are often near the surface, so damage is caused as soon as you strike. There is seldom a need to go deep.’

He picked up the practice shield. ‘Don’t forget, either, that you have two weapons. This has a face that can smash,’ he slammed it straight into the pig, ‘like so. With the shoulder and the hips. Drive from your legs.’ He angled it and swung it sideways into the solid meat. ‘And an edge that can bite. This is a fight where he will die or you will; there is no other outcome. You must fight any way that presents itself.’ He handed over the weapons. ‘Now you try, over and over.’

Cassian stopped him, however, as soon as he was satisfied the technique was right. ‘Good. Now we are done. Let us eat. Lightly, in your case.’

They stepped from the doorway, the light bright. ‘Cassian, sir,’ Brann said. The broad frame turned. ‘How did you learn…?’

A roar burst from Brann’s right. Steel flashed on high.

He pivoted, dropped into a crouch and brought up his shield, blocking a blow that jarred his arm to the shoulder. In the same movement, his sword thrust forward. The wooden practice sword swung down and Cassian knocked Brann’s blade aside before it reached his attacker. He looked up to see Salus’s grinning face.

‘Not bad, though your opponent will not hold back as Salus did.’

Brann flexed his shoulder. ‘He held back?’

Cassian ignored the comment, and patted him on the back encouragingly. ‘You will not die overly easily. Now, you were asking?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Brann cast around for other attacks as he spoke. ‘How did you learn all that? The things you showed me in there. Was it in the army?’

‘I learnt to swing a sword in the army. I learnt to fight on the battlefield. I learnt to survive from opponents and comrades who didn’t.’

‘And the stuff about sinews and tendons and blood… things?’

‘From my wife.’

Deep in the corridors of the Arena, the noise from the crowd above was muted but was all the more terrifying for it. When it loitered on the edge of your hearing, it caught your attention all the stronger. And reminded you what was coming.

Brann had spent the journey to the massive stone-built amphitheatre in a daze, carried with three other fighters in a small covered wagon pulled by a single horse. Grakk was presumably in another, similar one. His throat wouldn’t let his voice emerge, but one of the men had noticed him looking at the canvas cover.

‘It’s for the way back. We might not present such a savoury sight on that journey.’

The way back. That seemed like a fantasy. He felt like he was going to his execution. He felt that he was going to his execution. Back at the compound, he had been occupied by work and distracted by novelty. The Arena had seemed a world away. Now it was close; now there was no way back. His head closed in, as if a vice for his brain. His guts were like a snake wriggling in his belly. His eyes stared blankly. Why was this happening? After everything, why? He hadn’t asked for any of this. He was only a boy, learning a miller’s trade. And, somehow, it was going to end like this. In a land where everything was strange and unreal, not least that he would die at the hands of a man he had never met. For sport.

Now, shuffling through the corridors, the cool felt dank and foreboding rather than a welcome respite from the searing sun. He was numb, but not from the temperature. His mind tried to stretch every second, as if he could prolong the time before he must face his fate; his opponent; his death.

They walked alone, just him and the guard. He and Grakk were fighting in the only two death matches that day. They were rare, and conversations overheard from the other side of the wagon’s canvas had attested to the excitement brewing amongst those whose blood would not be risked but whose hearts beat faster at the prospect. Those fighting in a death match did not await their moment with the mainstream fighters. They were treated as different. They were different.

He was shown into a room with a domed ceiling of bricks, dark-flamed torches sputtering for air and casting light and shadows equally.

‘We meet again, young Brann.’

Grakk sat cross-legged against one wall, a simple breastplate lying beside him and the two swords he had chosen the day before lying across his lap.

Brann said nothing. His mind was blank. He looked around the empty room and found his voice. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Our opponents? We will meet them on the sand of the Arena. Until then, it is just you and I. You are feeling fit?’

‘What does it matter how I feel now? In a short time I won’t feel anything.’

Grakk unfolded himself and stood in one fluid movement. He stood in front of the boy and looked into his eyes. ‘You will die today, undoubtedly.’ He tapped one finger against Brann’s forehead. ‘If you think in this manner. Should you enter the Arena already defeated, you will exit it dragged by the feet, trailing your blood behind you. But you are a silly boy, for I feel you will win. Unless your thoughts defeat you.’

‘You think I will win? Are you mad?’

Grakk shrugged. ‘Some say so. But in this I have reason. I have seen you fight. You are perfect for this. You do not know your opponent. You cannot plan for his style, his methods. But you do not plan anyway – you react, you adapt. There is an instinct in you, a voice that speaks to your hands before your head has heard. But not just this. Your eyes also notice things, chances, opportunities that others do not see. This is a good combination.’

‘But if he is better than me? I am on the far side of the world, dragged halfway as a slave and the other half as a silly naïve boy thinking he was on an adventure. Only to die in some stupid entertainment.’

Grakk gripped his head and stared into his eyes. For the first time since they had met, Brann heard an intensity in his voice. ‘Listen to me, young Brann, and listen well. There are no rules, no restrictions, no limitations. You will face a criminal, whether it be a former soldier who will show no mercy or a gutter rat who lives by fighting dirty. Whatever or whoever he may be, he will do whatever he can. You must do the same. You must face him with a craving for life, a desperation to keep a heart beating in your body. You must do anything, use anything, to stay alive. The man in front of you will be wanting to kill you. To kill you. Feel rage at that, turn it on him. Don’t believe you will die, but don’t think about winning. Don’t think at all. Live in the moment. Live each action and reaction as it happens, then live the next. Live. Always fight to live. Always fight.’

Brann nodded.

‘Good. Now you get dressed.’

‘Dressed?’

‘Dressed.’ Grakk turned him around, and he saw the sword he had used against the pig’s carcass, a shield – similar to the one he had practised with but studded with iron and emblazoned with the symbol of Cassian’s school – and a shirt of chain mail.

Grakk saw him looking at it. ‘It is a…’

‘A hauberk.’ Brann looked at him. ‘We don’t fight naked where I come from, you know. Just because we choose not to fight every day, it doesn’t mean we are centuries behind the rest of the world.’ He remembered a conversation with Einarr on the trip to the city, when the wind had filled the sail, the oars were rested and life seemed good. ‘Our smiths are renowned, you know.’

Grakk was pleased. ‘That is more the spirit you need. And your smiths are indeed regarded with admiration. This mail is a good choice. Light enough to afford mobility and, while it will not stop a weapon used full-strength, it is strong enough to deflect a glancing blow. For it is the small wounds that are often the lethal ones.’

‘I know, I know. Tendons and blood vessels and things like that.’

‘Good boy! You see, your prospects are more than you thought.’

As they had been speaking, Grakk had lifted the mail over Brann’s head. It reached to his mid-thigh and was short-sleeved. Grakk was right, he could move freely. He could feel the weight of it bearing down on his legs, and Grakk smiled. ‘Now you see the reasoning behind the tunic with weights.’ He fastened a belt around Brann’s waist. ‘This will keep it from shifting at an awkward moment.’

Brann tried moving in it. It felt awkward, but reassuring. He looked around. ‘No helmet?’

Grakk shook his head. ‘The good people of this city like to see the faces of those who may die. They like to see the faces as they die. Any sort of light armour is permitted, but only light. In heavy armour the combatants may die of exhaustion before a single drop of blood is spilt. That would not do at all.’

‘I feel ridiculous. Like a child at play.’

Grakk grunted. ‘Well I suggest you play at being a winner.’

Satisfied with Brann’s preparations, he moved across to the breastplate and slipped it on. Brann moved to help him fasten it. ‘It is fine. Pick up your sword and shield. Become accustomed to the movement in your new attire. Do not put them down from now until the fight is over. They are a part of you for this time, and they must feel as such. And remember this. Lengthy fights, ebbing and flowing and replete with excitement, they are for the sagas. In life, it is the most exhausting time you will ever live, even were you not encumbered by mail and baking in the heat. It will last minutes, but it will feel like hours. Take your chance whenever it presents itself. Kill if you can; if you cannot, weaken; if you cannot, worry. Learn quickly of his style. Trust your instinct, and act.’

Brann looked at the lean tribesman, a man he had grown close enough to call friend over the course of months and through more than a few deadly situations, and realised that he barely knew anything of Grakk from before the moment they met. And now he may know nothing more. He pushed down the surge of emotion and replaced it with simple curiosity. ‘Have you fought in a death match before?’

Grakk stared calmly into his eyes. ‘Not precisely as this. But, yes, I have fought to the death in circumstances of many varieties, and I have watched men fight also. One thing I have noticed often: it does not always finish the way onlookers would expect at the start. Do not panic at the sight of a man in front of you with sharpened steel, for once it starts, your mind will empty of all apart from the danger you face. Move, anywhere and in any way, and you will not freeze. Your desire to live will do the rest.’

Brann nodded, at a loss to imagine any way that he would not freeze, but grateful for the words. If nothing else, they had filled the time. He tried a few experimental swings and thrusts, and, to his surprise, the mail afforded him more freedom of movement than the padded tunic had the day before. Grakk merely flexed his shoulders and resumed his cross-legged position.

A guard appeared in the doorway. ‘You two. With me.’ Brann jumped, feeling foolish at being seen practising his sword strokes. The guard ignored him and turned on his heel.

‘Advisable to follow him if we don’t want to get lost, young warrior,’ Grakk suggested from beside him. They did so.

The noise of the crowd, borne on the constant draft blowing down the bare passage, was different. A chanting that, though the words were indistinct, lent a primeval atmosphere to their journey. Brann felt his legs dragging and his knees buckled slightly. He felt Grakk’s hand in the small of his back, a steadying presence.

‘Hold your head high, and your pride will follow. If your father, and his father, and his father, and his father were in the crowd, here to see you, how would you conduct yourself? Well, those who have passed to the next life, they are watching you today. Show them what you can do. Show this crowd, who are here to see you die, that you will not bow to their will. And show Loku, for there is no doubt he will wish to see his designs for you succeed, that he cannot beat you.’

Brann felt an anger begin to grow in his chest. His eyes felt an intensity he had not experienced before. But still his stomach heaved, his hands shook and his legs were weak.

They stopped before heavy double doors. The chanting was like a drum beat. Six beats in two threes. Over and over. And over. And over. Growing, swelling, pounding the stone structure till it shook in time.

Grakk turned to him. ‘All is order in this land. In a death match, for every killing, there is a life. For every life, there is a death. In a death match there are no rules, you do what you do to make the life yours, and the death his. There are no rules, but there are two laws: it finishes only when your opponent dies at your hand; and for every one that falls, another must stand. If two fight, one only must die. If a hundred fight, fifty only must die. So if four fight, two only must die. We both win, we both live. So think on this: I will finish my man as expeditiously as can be achieved, then I will join you. No rules, remember? I will help weaken him, but the killing blow must be yours. Stay alive and it will be so.

‘You will live, young Brann. You will live.’

Horns sounded, and the chanting burst louder still in response. The guard nodded to two men at the doors, and they were swung outwards, flooding them with light and noise. Grakk stepped forward and, with a shove from the guard, Brann stumbled after him.

The chant was a hammer blow harder even than the wall of heat. But now the words were clear.

‘… walk out. Four walk in, two walk out. Four walk in, two walk out…’

Huge drums, spaced evenly around the circular stadium, thundered out a steady beat but were almost drowned out by the voices they sought to lead. Brann realised his feet were keeping time, as were those of the squad of eight soldiers marching in line immediately to their right.

The floor of the combat area was wide and hard with packed sand, and Brann felt the vast bareness opening away from him. Never had he felt so exposed, so visible. The spectators crammed the benches, a mass of teeming humanity so vast that he was unable to register individuals. The sight and the sound combined to make them a single entity, all seeming to watch him, all seeming to hate him, all gleeful for his death.

From directly opposite, their opponents had entered. Both looked like common criminals, but of the most ferocious and murderous sort. The type of men who killed for a purse rather than stealing it by guile, who fought others for their spoils and who survived amongst others of their ilk by being nastier and more brutal than those they fought. Brann was sure they were not a random choice. Both were lean and strong, one with a moustache that reached the bottom of his chin and a scar that ran vertically from the corner of his mouth to bisect an eyebrow and finish at his hairline, carrying a sword and shield similar to those Brann bore, and the other larger and more powerful, turning as he walked to wave a longsword and an axe high to the crowd. As the groups closed, both men leered at Brann and Grakk with obvious pleasure.

The two pairs, with their escorts, met in the centre and turned to walk together towards one side, where Brann noticed a more sparsely populated area. Rather than the bench seating elsewhere, this section was furnished with individual chairs of a size and ornateness that grew further, the closer placed they were to the centre. Perfectly in the centre was a plain stone throne. Lounging in it was the Emperor, smiling as benignly as if Brann were being presented as a desirable suitor for his daughter, waving his hand absently along with the chants. Behind him stood his impassive Scribe, to either side sat the four who had sat with him the previous day, to the side of them sat the frail old man Brann had seen near Loku at the Throne Room and behind them sat Loku himself, his smile triumphant and his eyes bright with anticipation. The chanting had reached a crescendo.

A horn cut through the roar, silencing the throng in the beat of a heart. The silence was just as overbearing as the noise had been.

A herald, fat, shiny with sweat and lurid in a shirt, pantaloons and imperial tabard of colours that clashed so violently they jarred the eyes, stepped forward onto a platform at the front of the Emperor’s section. His voice, though, was as true to the ear as his clothes were offensive to sight.

Almost singing, such was his lilting tone, his words rang to every nook of the Arena. ‘What is your purpose today before His Magnificence, Emperor of the all the Civilised World?’

The other three started to respond, and with a jolt Brann recalled the words taught to him by Salus shortly before they had left the compound.

‘Lord of Lords, our lives are yours. We fight, win, die for your glory. Death is our master, Death is your servant. Our blood is your power.’

The Emperor smiled down at them, genially.

The herald continued. ‘Today we witness a death match. Four walk in, two walk out.’

The crown thundered in response. ‘Four walk in, two walk out.’