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Hero Born
Andy Livingstone


It’s in the darkest hour, when all hope is lost, that heroes are born.After witnessing the deaths of everyone he holds dear, Brann is wrenched from his family home and thrust into a life of slavery. Now he must do everything he can to survive.Miles away, word is spreading of a growing evil; a deposed and forgotten Emperor is seeking a weapon to use in his bid to rise once again to power. Ruthless and determined, nothing and no one can stand in his way. Especially not a galley slave like Brann.But heroes can be forged in the most unlikely of ways, and Brann’s journey has only just begun.









Hero Born


Book One of The Seeds of Destiny Trilogy

ANDY LIVINGSTONE







HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk (http://www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2015

Copyright © Andrew Livingstone 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015. Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Andrew Livingstone asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 978-0-00-759306-4

Version: 2015-04-28


For Valerie


Table of Contents

Cover (#uc707b81d-fe5a-5cc5-87b4-6a96df8b7d4d)

Title Page (#u8f5fe692-1ba2-55a8-a98b-082e3ec03f3a)

Copyright (#u1da5e949-8545-5abd-8117-d75901ad94b2)

Dedication (#u57689839-84c4-5bbd-b489-52c8f4088e04)

Prologue (#u8f1990ce-d836-5814-9450-0d9929f88692)

Chapter 1 (#u04627cce-c521-55e0-a923-0d0cadfaf90a)

Chapter 2 (#u0f6d3f87-42e8-57e1-a623-3e9bbb6d360e)

Chapter 3 (#ubf701c17-ea74-52a8-b85c-f8cac48ccda3)

Chapter 4 (#udf9bac94-8665-58d8-bef1-486ee9f87837)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)



Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)



Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue (#u98b62f7b-ff8a-5d58-bc43-f3d3cf30a897)


‘When hope is dying, we crave inspiration. And at that hour, we look to heroes.’

The storyteller paused. The ensuing silence spoke as eloquently as the lack of comprehension on the face of the boy behind him. Just moments before, the young voice had cut through the first haze of dusk, stopping him in mid-pace.

‘There aren’t really any heroes, are there?’ It had been a simple question, a challenge born of childish bravado. But the storyteller could no more leave that seed of doubt behind him than a dog could ignore the scent of a rabbit. It was not his nature. Instead, he must plant a seed of his own.

He drew the sounds and the smells of the early evening deep within him: the wheat in the surrounding fields stirred by the breeze; the vestiges of the cooking fires; the heavy musk, the stamping and the grumbles drifting from the stables; the lazy drone of the insects and the cries of the birds seeking them one last time before handing the predators’ dayshift over to their nocturnal cousins.

It was a land basking in the contentment of peace, when heroes were not needed. When heroes were forgotten. There are some who say that peacetime is a curse; that we only appreciate what we have to fight for. He had grown to see much truth in that in recent years. Although he would never welcome a return to even the slightest of the horrors he had witnessed on these and other shores, still he marvelled at, and despaired over, the human spirit’s desire to dismiss and trivialise that which it did not see for itself. And, therefore, to lower its guard.

It was the mind’s greatest defence against terror turning to madness. It was also its greatest weakness if the cause of that terror were ever to return.

Still the storyteller paused, fewer than a dozen steps from the village hall. The weakening autumn sun was setting behind him. That was the way he liked it. Inside, the villagers would be waiting, packed on benches around the concentric circles dug down into the ground, galleries that focused on the stage below in unconscious and incongruous mimicry of the gladiator pits of the southern continent. The world over, people desired performance, whether the blood was in the words or on the earthen floor.

It was an oppressively atmospheric arena. And, tonight, it was his arena.

He would enter with the sun behind, a silhouette in the doorway framed by the deep amber rays. And so the performance would begin. The performance of a master craftsman, and one who loved his art. They would share that love, for they always did. That was what fed his soul, what pulled him from village to village, town to town, day after day, night after night, telling after telling.

He turned, a smooth and balanced movement. Three boys sat on a broken plough propped against the wall of the blacksmith’s workshop. The largest, slightly older and perhaps trying to impress, stood up awkwardly but with determination.

Clearly deciding that failing to understand the storyteller’s reply rendered the man’s words irrelevant, the boy pressed on. ‘You must know that. It’s just all stories to entertain people, isn’t it? You add things into it and make it more exciting. You make one person amazing to make it a better story. Admit it.’

The storyteller cocked his head in curiosity. What sunlight was left managed to reach far enough into his deep hood to reveal wry amusement. ‘Is that really what you think?’ His voice was soothing, measured and cultured, with a foreign hint to his speech.

The boy was defiant. ‘I asked you first. Tell me you admit it.’

The man smiled. ‘What I think is irrelevant; it can be dismissed. But what I know is different. It is fact, and can never successfully be disputed.

‘And I know that there can be heroes.

‘They are born, but often the potential they possess never meets with the circumstances that offer it release. Indeed, often when those circumstances arise, there is no one who happens to be there with the qualities needed to face them and triumph.

‘A hero’s light is always shining, but it is most bright when the world around is in its darkest hour.

‘And so, occasionally, perhaps just once in several lifetimes, fate allows the circumstances and the one person to coincide. And when that occurs, the hero is born.’ The smile became a grin, and he crouched before them, beckoning them closer.

‘Picture it: there is a battle, a vast battle, and the fate of a nation rests on its outcome.’ His voice lowered, drawing them in. ‘There is no glory, there is no honour, there is no chivalry: it is horror, it is terror, it is screaming and dying with your face pressed in the mud and the boots of friends and enemies trampling you as your tears run into the mire: it is war. And in the midst of the mayhem, there is an island of order: a group of men moving with calm assurance through the carnage. They use their weapons with the economy and efficiency of master craftsmen, with a skill born of years of surviving where others have perished, despatching all in their path as they move steadily and irresistibly towards the leader of the host opposing them. And at their head strides a figure, of no special height, of no special strength, hair plastered black on his face by the grime of battle and his pale eyes fixed, unwavering, on the enemy leader. His sword, a curious black blade, is in his hand, but he swings at no foe. He walks directly at the leader, and the men with him follow, and still they kill all in their path. And the leader turns, and notices them. He pauses as his eyes lock with the stare of the figure bearing down on him, then barks an order and the forty men of his personal guard, the finest warriors of his huge army, turn to meet the small band. The one at their head, eyes locked only on the enemy leader, seems oblivious to the death confronting him. The men beside him roar and run past, closing with the élite guards. Despite the overwhelming numbers, they clear a path for the bare-headed youth. The leader, a great champion of his people, tall and broad-shouldered, his blond hair oil-slicked back from his angled, handsome features, cradles his great war axe in his arms. The merest gesture of his head restrains his guards. He studies the youth, and laughs. He enjoys his sport. With contemptuous ease, terrifying skill and more speed than the eye can follow, the heavy axe swings up and slices down at the centre of the youth’s head. But, with all eyes on the flashing weapon, almost imperceptibly the youth sways. He turns, the axe missing by the width of a blade of grass. The youth continues to spin, his movement as fast as the axe itself had been. Even before the axe has embedded itself in the turf, his sword has flashed in the sunlight and he finishes his turn, facing the leader once again. It takes a moment for all to realise that the leader is not as he was. His head is spinning over his guards. It bounces once, and rolls, coming to rest face-to-face with a dead farm boy who had left his parents that morning full of ideals to fight the evil of the man now facing him in the mud. A silence has fallen over this small part of the battlefield, an unreal island of hush amid the clamour of men straining to kill one another, and the youth starts walking again, between guards too confused by the inconceivable to know how to react. As word spreads of the leader’s death, so also spreads panic and fear, and his army starts to flee the field in disarray. The youth ignores them. He walks, still, to the body of the farm boy and the head of his former foe. He kneels and, oblivious to the tear running down his cheek at the sight of the dead boy, no older than himself, he closes the eyes of the lad so that, even in death, he need not look upon the face of evil.

‘Then he stands and, looking neither one side nor the other, walks from the field, to be where only he knows.’

The storyteller rose, and smiled gently, an amused glint in his eyes. ‘So tell me: would it not be a terrible shame if his story were not to be remembered? Say someone knew such a hero and knew that the deed just recounted was not even the greatest of his achievements. Such a man would be bound by his conscience to tell his story, would he not?

‘So that is what I do.’

The boy’s resolve faltered under the storyteller’s piercing gaze. ‘Do you mean that you knew such a man? It is all actually true?’

The man turned to the waiting doorway. ‘Oh, yes. And you should thank your gods that it is so.’

Now the curious one, the boy stepped forward. ‘Why is that?’ His companions stood silently, drinking in the man’s words as much with wide eyes as with their ears.

The storyteller started forward. ‘If you want to know, then step inside, and let the story begin.’

He unlatched the door and pulled it so that it swung slowly open as far as it would go. A haze of smoke drifted into the opening and mingled with the sun’s rays as he stepped into its midst. A hush settled like a blanket over the packed interior. From deep within his hood, he stared slowly around the waiting faces, before starting down the stairs.

He murmured softly to himself, ‘Indeed. Let the story begin.’




Chapter 1 (#u98b62f7b-ff8a-5d58-bc43-f3d3cf30a897)


He stumbled, just enough to tip him beyond the point of balance. He knew there was no stopping the fall. There never was, these days. And he knew to brace himself against the impact would be too much to ask of old bones. Instead, he dipped and turned his shoulder, hitting the ground rolling. Instincts that once saved him on the battlefield and in the duelling circles now served to save brittle bones. Momentary pride at avoiding injury gave way to irritation at the irony of the comparison. His roll had left him with his cheek pressed against the cold flagstones of the floor, the breath punched from him, and wishing he could somehow move himself forward to a time when the pain coursing through his shoulder might have dulled to a throbbing ache. Maybe he could lie here until then. The floor was cool enough, respite from the searing heat of the balcony he had been escaping when he fell. He twisted, enduring the sharp sting from his shoulder in favour of a more comfortable position on his back. He could easily lie here, watching the dance of the dust in the single shaft of sunlight that entered the gloom of his chambers. There was plenty of it to watch, after all. The layer was thick on the floor, as it was everywhere else in his sparse rooms, and the area around his fall was swirling with it. Pity it had not been thick enough to cushion his fall. Why not just lie there? His two criteria for a successful fall had been fulfilled: break nothing and do it when no one was there to see. Why not lie there, indeed? What else did he have to do but watch the dance of the dust? He sighed, and brushed a long lock of white hair from across his eyes to allow him to better see the dust. Hair that had once been not white, but as deep brown as the soil under the freshly watered plants in the garden far below his balcony. Hair that had once been held in place by more than just the plain leather strap that bound it now. His eyes hardened at the thought.

No.

This was no way for one born to rule to behave. To give in. To be found.

He levered himself onto his front, gritting his teeth against the pain, and gathered his knees under him. Slowly, he raised himself to his feet.

‘Always get back up,’ he growled. ‘Always.’

Carefully, he moved to the full-length mirror at the far side of the room. He drew himself erect, and looked the image in the eye.

‘If I never see you again,’ he said, ‘be sure that the last time we met, my head was held high.’

****

The boy stumbled, then went down hard as several larger bodies hit him in close succession.

His cheek pressed into the hard-packed dirt, the precious bundle of rags clutched to his chest, the wind knocked out of him and the shouts of opponents and team filling his head, he wished he could somehow move himself forward an hour when the game would be just a pain-fuelled memory.

One of the large boys lying on top of him pushed his face harder into the ground and seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Why don’t you just give up, little boy?’ he snarled. ‘Give us the head and in minutes we can all be off enjoying the Midsummer Festival.’

He cursed the stubborn pride that never seemed to let him back down; a trait that had done him more harm than good, but one that he had found as hard to change as it was to fathom. Not pride, stupidity, he corrected himself. He desperately wanted to give his antagonist a smart reply. Instead all he could manage was a suggestion as to where the boy could stick his suggestion. Not exactly witty, he supposed, but it would have to do, as his face was, predictably, pushed into the earth again.

‘Have it your way,’ the youth smirked as several of the village boys pulled him away. ‘Next time we’ll hit you so hard they’ll need to scrape you off the ground to take you home.’

Climbing to his feet, still slightly winded and unsteady, he believed them. He felt a hand on his arm, and looked up to see his older brother, a tall lean boy, built for both strength and agility, universally popular and everything his smaller sibling wished he could be. But where the pair contrasted physically, they shared a quirky sense of humour: something that had made them easy, and inseparable, companions throughout their childhood. Inseparable even on the sporting field: with only eleven months between them, they had been born in the same year and were therefore of an age to play in the same fixture of the annual apprentices’ game.

The tall boy half smiled. ‘Enjoying being a punchbag today, are you, Brann?’

Brann grinned. ‘I am used to it.’ He started to move back towards the rest of his team, then stopped. ‘Callan, call Gareth over, will you? We have a few seconds before we restart and I have an idea.’

Under normal circumstances, Brann would quite happily avoid Gareth whenever possible. The apprentice blacksmith tended to determine the worth of his peers by their strength and size: a formula that left Brann firmly at the bottom of his popularity stakes and meant that the small boy was usually treated with little more than contempt… on a good day. But Gareth was also the leader of their team and so, unfortunately, Brann faced the uncomfortable prospect of speaking to the oaf face-to-face. Spitting out some stray dirt and rubbing his bruised shoulder, he was reminded that there were worse things in life.

Gareth skidded to a halt beside him. ‘This better be quick – and important. If we don’t start now, we’ll have to hand the Head over. What is it, runt?’

Maybe it was stupid, Brann thought. It would be easier just to let them get on with the last few minutes of the game and be done with it. But he could not stand the thought of not knowing if it would have worked or not.

He looked up. ‘I’ve had an idea.’

Gareth snorted. ‘I knew it was a waste of time. There are no “ideas” in this. You take the Head, get it passed them, go up the cairn and put it the basket. That’s it.’ He turned away. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have bothered with anything the feeble runt had to say.’

Brann grabbed at his arm in desperation. ‘No, wait. It is not complicated.’

Gareth wheeled round, his look dangerous. ‘Are you saying I’m stupid?’

Self-preservation and general love of life just managed to overcome Brann’s temptation to answer with the truth. Callan stepped in quickly. ‘Of course not. He is saying it will not take long to explain it.’

Gareth sighed. ‘What is it, then? And hurry up.’

Brann took a deep breath. ‘Look, we cannot batter through them. Too many of them are too strong, or too quick, or both. And they are organised. Once they get set in place, we’ve got no chance of getting through them.’

‘So? We know that. Spit it out, man.’

‘So we have to try something else.’

‘But there is nothing else. All that anybody has ever done in this game, we’ve tried today.’

Callan smiled slowly. ‘But that does not mean we have to do just that, does it? If we do something new, they will not be ready for it.’

The two tradesmen appointed to enforce the few rules the game possessed had started to shout across to them. Gareth stood up. ‘We’ve got to get on with this. If you have anything of value to say, say it now, and quickly.’

‘Right.’ Brann took a deep breath. ‘This is it. Pretend I am injured, and that is why you are over here just now. Restart the game, and work the Head round to the other side of the cairn.’

‘And?’ said Gareth.

‘And throw it over here.’

‘Throw the Head away? Are you mad? We might as well tell them we’ll put it in the basket for them.’ Gareth was disgusted.

But Callan grinned and slapped the ground in glee. ‘Not if we get it over the cairn. There will be no one here.’

‘Except him,’ Gareth grunted in acknowledgement. ‘I know I’m slow, but I get there eventually. Is that it?’

Brann shrugged. ‘That’s it.’

Callan looked at Gareth. ‘Are we going to try it?’

Gareth unceremoniously shoved Brann back to the ground. ‘Not just try. Do. There is no way we’re going to lose to those towny scum.’

Brann felt the baking earth pressing against his face again. Gods, I hope not, he thought. Please don’t let all of this be for nothing.

The dark-haired man stumbled, slightly, as the crowd jostled and surged with excitement.

He moved, but only in the manner of one who allows himself to be moved, just enough to regain his balance and then brace himself. Somewhat in the manner of an experienced warrior, an observer might think.

But no one was watching him. All eyes were fixed on the game unfolding before them as they shouted themselves hoarse. The man, too, watched the sport intently, but there the similarity with his fellow onlookers ended. He stood, silent and impassive, absorbing every detail. And finding more of interest than he had expected.

He had seen more spectacular sport in cities near and distant, from the magnificent gladiatorial arenas of the sun-hardened Empire far to the south, where decadence was masked by a veneer of civilised laws and customs, to the tracks where humans and animals raced, sometimes even against each other, in the more fertile lands at nature’s border where sensible weather stopped and the short sea-crossing began to these rain-drenched islands. Lush and green they may be, but damp and miserable they were, too. He had grown up in a land where the winters were cold, deadly cold, but at least it was honest cold that you could clothe yourself against. Here, the insidious damp worked its way past however many layers you piled on, and seeped into your bones, setting you shivering with an unhealthy regularity.

Which was why he was thankful that his work had brought him here during what must be their meagre summer. A scant few weeks of blue skies and heat that were welcomed with joy and appreciation by the locals but that, to a foreigner, were more of a taunt: here is what the rest of the world gets for much of the year.

And what lay before him was no grand arena, but a field of short grass and hard earth outside a market town in name and function only compared with the larger and more grandiose – but, if truth be told, more lacking in soul – settlements farther south in these islands; it was in truth a glorified village of no more than a thousand or so residents, although a suggestion to any of the inhabitants that it was anything less than a town would be met with outrage and suggestions of lunacy.

Heavy rope, dyed bright red, lay on the grass to mark out a circular area, around a hundred and fifty paces across, and along that boundary the roaring and beseeching crowd was gathered, three, sometimes four, deep and jostling each other as much from excitement as from their attempts to gain a better view. In the centre of the area stood a cairn of large rocks, roughly the height of three men and at least ten paces across the base, with a battered wicker basket (apparently a veteran of many such a contest) sitting at the peak.

The action raged around the cairn. As far as the impassive stranger had been able to determine, the idea was to scale the cairn and place a tightly bound bundle of bright-coloured rags, apparently weighted by rock or metal in its centre, in the basket. Two teams competed to do so: one defending the cairn while the other attempted to break through and scale the rocks. Rules seemed few, and were therefore easily deduced. The team in possession of the rag-bundle, which was around the size of a man’s head, attacked the cairn relentlessly until the defenders managed to wrest the ball from them – at which point the team’s roles were reversed.

Tactics seemed only slightly more numerous than rules. Either a player, or group of players, would attempt to force a breach in the line of defenders through brute force by becoming a human battering ram, or one player would dodge and weave his way as far forward as possible, usually aided by team-mates who would try to block, often violently, the defenders’ attempts to reach the carrier. If the player with the bundle looked as if he were about to be caught, he would try to hand it over to a colleague to allow the attack to continue. If, however, the player was caught by the defenders, or if the bundle of rags was intercepted or snatched, the fun began. An almighty mêlée would ensue, with players from both sides piling in to try to retrieve the rags in a maelstrom of flailing limbs and frantic dives.

If the attackers retained possession, the attack would resume immediately if possible or, if they were under pressure, the rag-bundle would be fed back to a deep-lying player to allow them to regroup; the defenders would not venture too far from the cairn for fear of exposing gaps in their tight-knit ranks.

Were the bundle of rags to be won by the defenders, they would be able to break immediately for the cairn. As soon as such a battle for the rags began, therefore, several attacking players would position themselves between the defenders and the cairn so that, in the event of a turnaround, they would be able to slow down such a break until their colleagues could reinforce them. In positioning themselves in this precautionary way, however, the numbers competing directly for the bundle were then weighted in favour of the defenders, so turnarounds were fairly frequent as a result.

And, as far as sport went, it was brutal. There appeared to be no limit to the amount of physical violence that could be used to advance one’s cause, save blatant attempts to seriously injure an opponent, such as biting or gouging. Kicking, punching, butting and the pulling of any available limbs seemed perfectly legitimate, and even encouraged.

And so it had continued, for almost an hour. The pace was fast and relentless, and the silent stranger was forced to admire the fitness of those who could maintain such efforts continuously at that level for so long. It was even more impressive, given their age: the players, numbering fourteen in each team, looked to be aged near enough fifteen years; probably final-year apprentices, he guessed, if their apprenticeship system conformed to the usual set-up.

A shorter-than-average boy had been hit hard by two much larger opponents, crashing to the ground and only just managing to hang onto the bundle by clutching it to his chest and curling up like a threatened animal until his team-mates could come to his aid.

A heavy man, in the apron of a baker, cheered beside the stranger and jostled him again in his excitement.

‘Apologies, my friend,’ he bellowed, ‘but that’s their weakest link down again. It’s only a matter of time before we win.’

The stranger looked round. ‘It is nearly over, then?’

The baker nodded. ‘You haven’t visited before, I guess?’ The town was boosted by travellers of all sorts throughout the spring and summer as traders brought this year’s wares, hunters trailed back and forth from the hills with fresh game and those who preferred to seek a new horizon every day made full use of the better weather; and every year brought most of the same old faces and a smattering of new ones. ‘Yeah, it’s nearly over. The score is tied, and the time’s up. There must be a winner, though, so the game plays on until the next basket is scored.

‘All we have to do is get the Head off them and we’ve as good as won.’ The man noticed the stranger’s quizzical frown. ‘The Head: it’s what we call the rags they fight over. They say it was an enemy’s head they used hundreds of years ago when the game started.’ He snorted in amusement. ‘It is slightly more civilised now. That was when it was played between the two villages in the valley. These days we are a prosperous town and they are still a village but still they seem to think they have a chance of beating us. Anyway, having that wee runt on their team is like being a man short for them. The others in the village team have given everything to get it to this stage, but that’s all they’ve got. Next time the runt has the Head, we’ll get it back. He gets knocked down every time.’

The warrior looked at him coolly. ‘True. But every time, he gets back up.’

The baker nudged him one more time, unconsciously taking himself one large step closer to an early death. ‘Nah,’ he grinned with relish. ‘The little runt is staying down this time. We are a man up now. It’s all over for this year, mark my words.’

That warrior turned to him as far as the tightly packed throng would allow. ‘This happens every year, then?’

The baker looked at him directly for the first time. His eyes moved over the carefully trimmed beard, the clothes and boots that spoke of efficiency as well as expert tailoring, where wear was obvious but tear was minimal, and the obvious quality of the longsword, dagger and boot knife, and his manner became more respectful. Or, at least, as respectful as an oaf such as he could manage. Even the L-shaped scar on the warrior’s cheek failed to diminish the impression of breeding. He nodded.

‘Every Midsummer’s Day, for as long as anyone can remember. The game takes place between this town and Twofords, the village further up the valley. Final-year apprentices show what they can do and, for the last decade or so, ours have shown they can do it better. The same again this year, as you can see.’

‘Because you’ve got more apprentices to choose from?’

‘Because we are better than those hicks from the village, of course. Class shows.’

The tall stranger nodded towards the game. ‘It is close so far. And not over yet.’

The baker grinned arrogantly. ‘It’s over. Believe me, my friend, it’s over all right.’

The warrior’s eyes darkened at the term of address. He returned to his gaze to the small figure lying alone as the action moved around to the other side of the cairn. There was something about the boy that nagged at him. Something to do with the fact that… He smiled. ‘He always gets up.’

The baker looked at him. ‘What was that?’

The warrior smiled. A cold smile, but a smile all the same. ‘Oh, I was just thinking that you are right. One way or another, it will all be over soon.’

Despite the noise saturating the air, Brann began to feel strangely detached as the action moved around to the other side of the cairn. The nature of the game meant that the players were always in one mass, all involved in one concentrated area. As a result, shouts of encouragement and instruction to team-mates, grunts and roars to prepare themselves for moments of impact and yells of abuse towards the opposition made for a constant roar.

To suddenly be set apart from that immediate clamour left him with a distant sensation. Insignificancies caught his attention: an ant crawling past his nose, twisting and turning as it explored its way about its own world; the heat of the hard-packed earth; the feel of his legs pulled tightly into his chest; the shape of a lone cloud against the deep blue of the sky. It was as if, in the absence of the immediate noise of the contest, the whole world had gone silent. With a wrench, he forced his concentration back to the game, berating himself for letting his mind drift.

Slowly, partly in the hope that no one would notice, and partly to give the impression of still being injured, he rose to his feet. He tried to look shaky, but felt certain that it was the most unconvincing and embarrassing display of acting that anyone would have seen. Instead, he bent over, resting his hands on his knees for support.

He risked a glance at the crowd nearest to him. Most were craning their necks to try to catch a glimpse of the action at the other side of the cairn. Some, however, had seen him stand and were shouting various forms of abuse at him.

That will be the good old townsfolk, he thought, wryly. Such sophistication from our larger neighbour.

His gaze was caught by the incongruous stillness of a tall man, dressed in black and with dark straight hair caught back in a serviceable ponytail that hung beyond his shoulders. He was impassive, an island of calm in the tempestuous sea of the crowd. For a moment, pale, calculating eyes locked with his, and Brann’s concentration was almost distracted again. A nod of the man’s head directed his attention to a dark speck arcing over the cairn, growing rapidly as it headed towards him.

The Head!

Slapping his thigh in annoyance – and grimacing when he hit a bruise – Brann moved to his left, trying to judge where it would land with a hesitancy that stemmed from years of knowing that his inability to throw with any effectiveness was exceeded only by his inability to catch.

He edged sideways, his eyes fixed on the object, knowing that, once it had landed, every second would be vital to him – and suddenly, and uncomfortably, aware of the world around him. On the edge of his vision, figures moved rapidly around the cairn. He did not dare take his eyes from the multicoloured bundle of rags. He was terrified of making a mess of what, only a few moments ago when he had been explaining his idea to the others, had seemed so simple.

And, most of all, he became aware that the silence that he had imagined in comparison to the noise of the game had become reality. In a sport where possession was paramount, the ball was only ever carried or thumped firmly into the hands of a team-mate; to lob the Head even just a few feet to a colleague, and risk losing it to the opposition, was unthinkable. To launch it nearly forty yards, as the crowd had just witnessed, was madness on a scale that had stunned the baying, bawling crowd into a shocked hush.

And the sight of that very object dropping towards a solitary, small, hesitant figure who, just moments before, had been curled up, insignificant and apparently useless merely added to the stunned disbelief of all those watching, regardless of where their support might lie.

The realisation of that silence was the worst thing that could have happened to Brann. He had, until then, been nervous merely about catching the Head. Now he also felt hundreds of eyes glued to him; most willing him to fail, others desperate for him to succeed. In many ways, it was the latter that placed more pressure on him.

In the last few seconds before the Head landed, one vision after another flashed through his mind – each one a different version of his failure. His mind raced so fast, everything else seemed to be happening at half speed.

Spinning lazily against the clear blue of the sky, the Head took an eternity to drop. The boys running towards him looked as if the air had become as thick as water. And his own legs felt as if he had two of the boulders from the cairn tied to them. Brann wished it would never land, that he could just walk away and leave it all to someone else who could do it so much better than he.

The Head hit the ground, and rolled. He stared at it, scared to move for it, to try to grab it and miss. It hit a stone and spun across in front of him.

Instinctively, he reached out and caught it. And the silence was shattered. The crowd roared. The players accelerated in alarm. His eyes fixed on the cairn, Brann ran.

Thoughts of weariness and aches were gone. Movement at the edge of his vision forced him to glance away from his target. The faster members of the opposing team were closing on him, arms driving and faces contorted with effort and aggression as they strained to block his path. He glared intently at the cairn, then back at his opponents. He might just make it. Forcing his knees to rise, his breathing loud in his ears, he pounded forwards.

Then, with the cairn just a dozen strides away, they were upon him. A figure flew at him from the right. Without pausing to think, he jammed his heel into the dirt and almost came to a halt. The boy, arms flailing, staggered in front of him, trying desperately to change direction. Brann swerved slightly to his right and ran behind him. Another opponent, only feet to his right, thundered at him, aiming to bowl him over. He was too close to avoid. Instinctively, Brann dropped to one knee, taking the force of the attack on his shoulder. He barely had time to tense, bracing himself, before the larger boy’s momentum bent him over Brann’s back. Driving down with his legs, Brann forced himself to his feet, flipping the boy into a somersault.

‘Forward. Must go forward,’ he muttered over and over. ‘Don’t stop moving. Must go forward.’

As he started moving, another opponent was upon him. Roaring – either in fury or anticipated triumph, it was impossible to tell – the boy thundered at him, this time from the left. All that Brann could do was drop his left shoulder and half twist, taking the hit on his shoulderblade. The impact started to turn him, and he continued the movement, rolling around the boy and leaving him sprawling.

He stumbled, regained his balance and looked up to find he was just three paces from the foot of the cairn… with a smirking, round-faced mountain of a boy, arms outspread, waiting right in his path.

Despair struck him savagely – but, just as savagely, a blur of movement saw Gareth strike the boy with his shoulder at full sprint, launching him into the air and, more importantly, out of Brann’s path. A hand grabbed the back of Brann’s tunic and heaved him forward.

‘Time to move, I think,’ Callan’s grinning face suggested beside him. Gareth’s huge right hand blocked another opponent in the chest with such force that the boy was left sitting, dazed and winded, in the dirt, while Kevern, the village’s apprentice baker, grabbed another by the hair and dragged him over backwards. The way was clear.

Breathing so deeply and rapidly that it hurt, Brann forced himself forward and, with Callan half-dragging him, he started to scramble up the cairn, the bundle of rags clutched tightly in his left arm as his right hand grabbed frantically at the rocks.

He reached halfway. The basket was only a few seconds from him. Something brushed against his leg and he turned. One of the town’s players, his face twisted by desperation, was right at his heels.

To look back had been a mistake and, too late, Brann realised it. The boy used the wasted second to climb the extra few inches and, as Brann hurled himself forward and upwards, his pursuer reared up, clasped both hands above his head and smashed the double fist into the centre of Brann’s back. He slammed into the cairn, a cry of pain bursting from him with the force of the impact. All he could do was clutch the Head to his chest with all the strength he had left while the boy grabbed him from behind in a bear hug. Callan tried to prise the boy from him. Brann glanced down. His team-mates were lined around the foot of the cairn, trying with the last of their energy to keep the town players at bay but, as he watched, two town boys broke through the thin rank of defenders.

His voice hoarse, he tried to shout to Callan but managed only a croak. ‘Take the Head.’

‘No,’ Callan yelled. ‘It’s your basket. I’ll get him off.’

‘It is their basket if you don’t take it now,’ he shouted back, finding his voice.

Callan started to object, but he knew it was true. He looked at Brann, took a deep breath and nodded. With a sudden movement that took his opponent by surprise, Brann rolled onto his back, trapping the boy momentarily beneath him. Callan nodded again, grabbed the rags and bounded the last few feet to the top. He briefly held the Head two-handed above him, and glanced around at the crowd. With a sudden grin, he slammed the Head into the basket.

The Twofords villagers, accounting for barely a quarter of the crowd, broke into a roar that started suddenly but seemed to go on forever. The townsfolk shouted in shocked anger or merely stood in stunned disbelief.

Rolling to one side, Brann freed the boy beneath him. Taken aback by the sudden end to the game, the lad sat up, swore once at Brann and started to climb down the cairn. Too tired to respond, Brann laid his head back against the rocks and stared at the blue of the sky, listening to the celebrations drifting over to him from one small part of the crowd.

Callan’s face appeared, blocking his view. ‘It worked!’ he yelled. ‘I don’t believe it. It worked!’

Brann smiled. ‘I don’t believe it, either. I couldn’t even think while it was all happening.’ He laughed, an intoxicating mixture of joy and amazement racing through him. ‘There just seemed to be bodies everywhere. Going at high speed. And doing their best to dismember me.’

Callan grabbed him by the front of the tunic, pulled him into a sitting position and enveloped him in a solid hug. ‘Well, thank the gods they couldn’t manage it, little brother. Mind you, they would have had to catch you first. You were dodging like a demon out there. It would have been easier to catch Kevern’s father’s hens.’

Brann grinned back at him. ‘It’s amazing what desperation does for your agility. And sheer terror, too. I just made it up as I went along.’ He grabbed Callan by the arms and shook him. ‘But we won!’ he yelled.

Callan laughed, a sound born of pure joy. ‘Let’s go see the oldies,’ he suggested.

They descended the cairn rather more easily than they had climbed it, and started across the deserted field. Most of the townsfolk had drifted away already, shocked by a result they had never considered to be a possibility. The pair’s younger brother and sister tore across the grass towards them, with their parents following behind. Brann had thought that he barely had the strength to walk, but he suddenly found himself running towards them, laughing loudly in a release of tension and joy. As the children met in a maelstrom of grabbing hands, dancing feet, and exultant laughter, the adults caught up. Their mother joined the celebration, her slim figure slipping easily between the cavorting children and her long blonde hair swirling in their faces as her easy laughter mingled with their celebrations. Brann and Callan looked to their father, standing to one side, watching the situation with his habitual dour appraisal.

He nodded at the two of them. ‘I would have preferred you to have won it conventionally. Trickery like that is not my style. But you worked well together, as brothers should. And after a dozen years of defeats, a win is a win. So well done.’ He turned to leave, and called over his shoulder, ‘Don’t get carried away with celebrating. We’ll be waiting with the wagon outside the town gate at six o’clock. If you don’t want to walk home, be there.’

The boys watched his retreating back until he was out of earshot.

‘Don’t you sometimes wish we had the sort of father who would go now and enjoy himself? You know, go and get blind drunk and lose control for once,’ Brann murmured.

Callan frowned, and Brann remembered his brother’s short-lived dalliance with Ciara, the tanner’s daughter, when he had talked of seeing first-hand the effect on a family of a man who habitually returned home of an evening after turning to too much ale to relax at the end of a working day.

‘No,’ he stated emphatically. ‘No, you don’t.’ His face brightened. ‘Anyway, did you hear that? He actually said, “Well done.” We are indeed honoured.’

He nudged Brann and, laughing, the boys turned back to the rest of their family.

In the sparse remnants of the crowd, the scruffy baker stood shaking his head, unable to accept what he had seen. ‘It can’t be. It’s not possible. And that little runt? What a fluke.’

The black-clad warrior’s eyes narrowed in a faint show of amusement. ‘He used three things: his head, instinct and determination. A powerful combination… if channelled properly.’

The baker turned away, his expression dark. ‘I still say it was luck,’ he muttered, trudging away.

The warrior looked back at a small group far out on the field, as the subject of the brief conversation was enveloped in his family’s hugs.

‘If it is channelled properly,’ he repeated softly. ‘May the gods do so, little one, and you could make your family prouder still.’




Chapter 2 (#u98b62f7b-ff8a-5d58-bc43-f3d3cf30a897)


He started awake, eyes wide, searching for danger. His right hand was on his left hip, reaching for a hilt that had last lain there more years ago than he could remember. He snorted in derision. His reactions mocked his infirmity.

He needed air. He rose stiffly, moving slowly past the brazier that was his barrier from the starkly chill night air. He slipped between the heavy drapes and onto the balcony, his skin prickling at the cold and the strands of his hair shifting against his shoulders at the merest touch of the soft breeze. Once that hair had demanded so much more of the wind or the gallop of a horse to lift it and when it had, it streamed like a banner behind him.

But times change, and men with them. Fight that change, and you lose. That much he had learnt. But observe the change, and you can use it. That much he was realising.

He returned to bed. But he did not sleep.

****

Brann laughed loudly and battered the ground like a drummer.

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ he shouted, lying back on the grass of an undulating hillside above Twofords.

Callan sat up. ‘I take it you are still a touch happy about the game,’ he said. ‘Last night’s celebrations not enough for you?’

Brann laughed again, exuberance bursting from him. ‘Nothing will stop me feeling like this, ever. I will remember yesterday for the rest of my life.’

Callan smiled. ‘Oh, it was good all right. I’ll give you that. Did you see the townies’ faces? If they had looked any more sick, old Rewan would have put them down like the animals that are too far gone for him to heal.’

Plucking blades of grass, Brann nodded. ‘They just didn’t consider that losing was possible. How could they be prepared in any way for something they had never even thought about?’ He laughed delightedly. ‘That’s what made it so wonderful.’

Callan stretched. ‘Oh yes, life is good. You’d better believe it, little brother.’

He stiffened, staring past Brann, his voice suddenly harsh. ‘Please tell me I’m seeing things.’

Brann twisted round squinting in the direction of Callan’s pointing arm. To the left side of the village, two fields separated it from a small wood. Beyond the trees lay one of the pastures where the village’s sheep occasionally grazed. There were no sheep there today. There should have been no movement. But there was. Sunlight glinted off metal, flashes of brightness that drew attention to the figures spread out across the field and moving with purpose in the direction of the village.

‘Armed men,’ said Callan, confused. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Maybe they are the king’s men, doing a check or a patrol in our area, or something,’ Brann offered hopefully.

Callan rose to his feet, shaking his head. There was urgency in his voice now. ‘No. Why not use the road then? They are using the woods as cover to get as close as they can without being seen. This is bad.’ He started to run down the hill, shouting over his shoulder, ‘Come on. The wood won’t just hide them – it will slow them down, too. If we hurry we can reach the village before them.’

The pair raced down the slope with the reckless abandon that only youth can make successful. They covered the ground in massive leaps and skipped over rocks in a way they had done many times before but this time, instead of the infectious excited laughter that usually accompanied it, their faces were set in grim determination. They reached the bottom of the hill and used their momentum to carry them on at speed as the ground levelled out into another of the village’s pastures. At the far side, they splashed through a stream and scrambled into a loose thicket of bushes, knowing that, when they emerged on the far side, they would be among the first houses.

Callan slowed down and turned. Crouching, he caught his breath as he waited the few seconds that Brann needed to catch up. He grinned, a sight that was as familiar to Brann as his own reflection. ‘We did it, little brother. We are ahead of them. Those bastards will find that we “soft” villagers can fight. Our men outnumber them, and they will be ready because of us. Come on, little brother, let’s go and be heroes!’

Abruptly, Callan jumped several inches off the ground. He returned to his crouching position, before sinking slowly to his knees. Brann was used to his brother’s light-hearted antics, but was still caught by surprise and burst into laughter. But Callan was not laughing. His grin had gone and his expression had faded into a glazed look. His eyes were just as blank – the first time Brann had ever seen them without a sparkle.

Brann’s laughter caught in his throat. Moving forward was an effort, as if the air had turned to treacle. He felt detached, as if he was no part of what he was seeing. His head swam and he had to force himself to start breathing again.

His brother tilted slowly sideways, then fell forwards. Brann forced himself to move and lurched into a kneeling position, catching him just before he hit the ground. Callan’s head turned, pressing his cheek into Brann’s arm and revealing the end of a short feathered shaft just above the back of his neck. Brann had been on enough hunts to recognise a crossbow bolt when he saw it. Dark blood seeped rapidly from it, dripping from Brann’s arm and starting to form a pool beside his knee.

Brann was vaguely aware of two figures around twenty yards ahead of them. If Callan had kept running, he would have blundered right into them. For a long moment, however, he was unable to force his eyes away from his brother. When he did turn his head – slowly and feeling as blank as Callan looked – he saw two men crouching in the undergrowth. One, holding a spent crossbow and wearing a garish red scarf on his head, started towards him but, as the crash and barely restrained curse of a falling man came from the wood, the other man grabbed the first and dragged him away. In seconds, they were out of sight, and the occasional receding noise suggested they were not remaining close. In a surreal moment, Brann was left, in the warmth of a glorious summer day, with the sounds of nature returning around him, holding his brother as Callan’s life dried into the hard earth beside him.

‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No!’ he implored to the gods, throwing his head back and roaring at the sky. ‘No, no, no don’t do this!’

Another muffled curse and increased movement from the nearby trees jolted him back to reality. His screams had been a signal to the incoming men that caution was no longer needed.

He needed to move for his own sake as much as the villagers’, but his screams had also been heard among the buildings and concerned village folk began to move towards the source of the sound. They were greeted with the sight of Brann, his tunic and breeches soaked with blood, emerging from the bushes. His chest heaved with sobs and he was raggedly gasping breath from shock and the effort of dragging his brother’s limp body at his side with all the strength left in his arms. A stunned hush fell as the close-knit community stopped on either side and watched, in shock, the boy’s determined progress along the dusty track between the houses. The invaders were gone from his head. All except one thought had left him. He was taking his brother home.

The silence couldn’t last. A woman screamed, breaking the spell, and the air was instantly filled with the sounds of horror and grief, mixed with calls for the boys’ parents. As Brann neared his home, his father emerged from the mill door, his heavy black cloak in his hands, but dread etched in his face. He saw his sons and his legs almost gave way beneath him before he caught himself and stumbled quickly to them. He gently, almost reverently, took Callan into his arms, cradling his son’s body like a small child, the cloak forgotten in the dust at his feet. Relieved of the weight and with his determination not needed anymore to lend him strength, Brann sank to his knees, sobs bursting from him savagely. His father’s features crumpled into sorrow – it was the softest emotion Callan had ever seen from him – and he pulled his eldest son’s head into his shoulder. As he did so, a man in the surrounding crowd noticed the crossbow bolt and realised that this had not been the terrible accident that all had initially assumed.

His cry cut through the assembly. ‘To arms! To arms! We are under attack! Defend yourselves!’

The villagers scattered, men scrambling for whatever could serve as a weapon and women rushing their children to any place of relative safety they could find. Brann and his father were left alone before their home. The man stood, hunched with deep grief, belying the fact that his build was a combination of that of his older sons, with Callan’s height and Brann’s broad shoulders. He slowly fingered the end of the wooden shaft and raised his head, just in time to catch sight of the men emerging from the wood at a run. His eyes darkened with rage and he rounded on the boy sagging on the ground before him.

‘Get off your knees, boy,’ he snarled, the fury that was in every syllable flowing through his muscles and drawing him erect as he pulled his dead son close into him. ‘Go!’ he roared. ‘Go away. Now. Go. Away. From. Here.’

Brann staggered backwards under the force of the rejection, almost falling. ‘Go away!’ his father bellowed, and Brann spun and ran from the words. He could understand. Callan had always been the perfect son. Why had the gods not taken him instead? If he thought that, why would his father not? But the words still stabbed through him with a viciousness that no amount of logic could prevent.

He ran, swerving away from the approaching men into the very bushes from which he had so recently emerged. He ran from everything: from the sight of his brother, drained of life; from the wild men charging his village waving swords and axes; from the noise of the screaming women; and, most of all, from his father’s words.

Another, smaller stand of trees lay near the thicket. Pausing as he reached their cover, he looked back at the village. Heavily armed men were fighting with the locals, but were finding that a daily routine of farming and hunting had honed muscles and reflexes that – when combined with spears and bows designed for tackling wild boar and wolves, and scythes and hammers wielded by those who used them every day for a living – provided formidable opposition.

His gaze drifted mechanically to his home, the tidy mill beside the river. His father was fighting in the doorway with the four of the raiders, thrusting and swinging grimly with a hunting spear. As Brann’s empty gaze fell upon him, he inevitably succumbed to the pressure and fell back into the building. The four men poured into the mill but reappeared a few moments later as smoke began to spill from the door and nearby windows. Two other houses were already on fire, and the wooden mill quickly joined them as the blaze took hold. As the raiders started to fall back, villagers raced to the mill as if trying to rescue those trapped inside, but were beaten back by the intensity of the flames.

Suffused with emptiness, Brann’s blank stare watched his life disappear as effectively as his home as the fire consumed it and his family. Overwhelmed by despair and dismay, he turned to flee from the destruction of everything and everyone that meant anything and everything to him… and ran straight into a meaty hand that slammed solidly into his chest, knocking him abruptly onto his back. Dazed as much by recent events as by the blow, he looked up to see a leering face under a garish red bandana looming over him. Amid foetid breath, words drifted down to him. ‘Thought we’d lost you, boy. So good of you to come running back to us. Lovely to see you again.’

Hard hands grabbed him by the arms and jerked him to his feet. Quickly and expertly, his wrists and ankles were tied and a heavy bag was dragged over his head, letting in little air and less light. He was lifted with apparent ease and carried a short distance before being slung face down over the back of a horse.

He had no interest in what was happening to him. All he could see was his brother’s corpse, his burning home and his father’s raging rejection. The horse moved off at a canter. His light-headedness grew. What little light the hood allowed receded, and all went black.




Chapter 3 (#u98b62f7b-ff8a-5d58-bc43-f3d3cf30a897)


He shivered. It was cold in his rooms, though the sun had risen high. It was always cold, now. Built to keep out the heat, the design took no account of the heat that the elderly crave once the cold starts to set into their bones. He shuffled towards the balcony, lured by the sunlight. He scanned the floor for dangers under the dust. He had had his fill of falling for a lifetime, no matter what little of that may be left to him. He watched the dust kicked up by the slippered feet poking out from under his ankle-length shift. Dry dust. Lifeless dust. He grunted. Just like his skin. But it had not always been so. Not like this. Far from this.

The heat hit him like a hammer. He had reached the balcony. It was too hot. And bright. He grunted again, the closest he could manage to humour at the irony. He forced himself to endure it, and gripped the heavy balustrade, the sun casting ornate shadows through the carved stonework onto the plain grey of his shift. Squinting against the glare, he peered beyond the gardens, past the high white walls, to the dusty flat area beyond, the sand hard-packed by generations of feet. He saw a rider, galloping in triumph, sword gleaming high as he circled the area, acknowledging the roars of the crowds. Royal crimson lined his billowing cloak, and crimson of another sort soaked into the dust beside the body slumped in the centre of the arena, a riderless horse standing disinterestedly nearby.

His eyes were wet. The sun must be particularly bright today. He blinked to clear his vision, and the scene faded. It seemed so, so long ago. It was so, so long ago. Who benefitted from memories? Would they give strength to failing muscles? Would they ease aching bones? Would they turn white hair brown?

He turned and shuffled back into the cold, taking care not to fall.

****

Brann shivered and spluttered as he was wakened by ice-cold water thrown roughly into his face. Sitting up, he tried to open his eyes but, before he could focus on anything, his stomach heaved and he vomited violently over his legs and lap.

A raucous laugh blared in his ear. ‘There we go,’ a voice as rough as his treatment sneered. ‘If I had a gold piece for every time that happened, I’d have my own boat by now.’

Another voice answered him. ‘Can’t have him going on board like that, though, Boar. Captain won’t thank us for attracting disease, and so on.’

The first voice was irritated. ‘I think I know what I’m about after the years I’ve had doing this. Better than someone like you who has never done it before. I don’t need you to tell me.’

‘Like when you released the horses we had taken as soon as we got here?’

The man gave a dismissive snort. ‘We don’t need them any more, do we? They could have been noisy and given away our position.’

The other voice was scornful. ‘If anyone was close enough to hear horses whinnying, we would be found anyway. Our position is much more likely to be given away by a couple of riderless horses roaming around. And where was your vast experience when you shot the other boy?’ he snapped. ‘All we were looking for was food and water. Others were taking what few slaves we need. Did you know what you were doing at that time?’

‘He would have seen us,’ Boar grumbled, although he seemed too wary of the other man to react with any aggression to the withering criticism. ‘I had to do it or they would both have raised the alarm.’

His companion’s tone was contemptuous. ‘That is not true, and you know it. We saw them coming and they were going too fast to notice us. If you had moved just a few yards into the heavier bushes when I told you, they would never have seen us.’ His voice dropped to a low, threatening level. ‘You know what I think? I think you enjoy it. I think you like the killing, just for the sake of it. And you saw the chance for it with the attack on the village. Just like you enjoy the misery of the slaves you take. Well, I don’t care who you sailed with before: you are with us now. And it will stop when you are with me, because the next time it happens you’ll know what it feels like to be on the receiving end, and you’ll have my sword to thank for it.’

‘You better not be threatening me,’ Boar objected hotly, but it was obvious that his tone carried more bluster than menace.

The first man was unconcerned. ‘Take it how you will. But if you know what’s good for you, you will remember it.’

‘Anyway,’ Boar objected, trying to salvage some pride, ‘you have taken as many slaves as I have on this trip, as many as any of us have.’

The first man paused, and when he spoke his voice was heavy and low. ‘That may be true, but none of the rest of us approaches it with your relish. It may be the way of the world in some parts, but not where I come from. If a man’s fate is to be a slave, so be it, but I would prefer not to be a part of fulfilling his destiny, thank you very much. All but you will be glad when we are free of this cursed contract at the end of this trip. Then, if you miss your slaving, you can go back to the pirate ships you came from. Though I’m guessing that whatever reason made you leave them and turn up when our Captain was recruiting might just still apply. What do you think?’

Boar fell silent. Whatever he thought, if anything, was kept to himself. The other man’s voice moved closer to Brann.

I should feel rage, or grief, or something… anything, Brann thought. He had just listened to a description of his brother’s death – and the futility of it. But, instead, all he felt was emptiness. The feeling seemed to grow from a lump in his stomach and spread through every part of him, leaving him light-headed and almost dreamlike. A hand grabbed his tunic between the shoulderblades and hoisted him to his feet. His vision started to clear, and he shook his head as if to try to help his eyes focus more quickly as his feet sank a fraction into rough sand.

He already knew he was beside the sea – the crash and hiss of waves breaking and soaking back into the beach and the heavy salt air in his nostrils had made that obvious from the start. He may have felt completely disinterested in his surroundings, but that did not mean that he was unaware of them.

Rough fingers gently prised at his hands. He looked down and realised he was clinging to a bundle of black cloth, his fingers clamped about it and his arms grasping it tightly against his chest.

The voice of the man was soft, soothing, almost caring. His surprise at the tone caught his attention. ‘It’s all right to let go. You’ll get it back, don’t worry. The gods know you may be glad of it. It’s not so warm out on the water.’

Brann looked at it. His father’s cloak, heavy, black and with a vertical rip near the hem at the back. His mother had urged him to look for a new one when they visited the town for the ball game, but he had resisted. For reasons he never explained, he loved it, and insisted on having it repaired instead. That must have been where he had been heading when he saw his two sons, only one of them alive. In his grief, he had dropped it. And in his grief, Brann must have picked it up. He had no idea why. He had no memory of even doing so. But he had it now. His only link to what already seemed a distant life. And he was not about to give it up.

The man eased at his fingers again. ‘You were the same last night. Nothing I could do short of breaking your fingers would let me get that from your grasp, even when you were out cold.’ Brann tensed, gripping it tighter to him. He sank back to the ground, his knees drawn up protectively in front of him. ‘I don’t want it, boy, fret not. I have my own, and so, if you’re interested, does Boar. I was only going to stow it safe on the horse last night, and now I just want to keep it dry. It is no use to you wet and you need a wash. But we have little time, so if you don’t let go now, it’s going in the water with you.’

This time he did not try to prise Brann’s fingers from the material, but simply held out his hand. Brann, staring only at the hand, slowly placed the cloak in it. The bundle was dropped on the ground at his feet.

The man grunted and stared at the boys around. ‘I keep my word,’ he said. ‘You’ll get it back.’ The instruction to the boys sitting beside it was clear, but they were too cocooned in their own misery to care.

Brann was hoisted to his feet once more. It was fortunate that the man was still grasping his tunic: as soon as he was pulled upright, his knees buckled and his vision began to swim once more. He was half-led, half-dragged into the shockingly cold water and, in only a few paces, he was thigh-deep. He thought the cold of the water might clear his head; it did not, it just left his legs numb.

Abruptly, the hand let go. His legs, with a lack of feeling now added to the weakness, gave way. Before he could even register that he was falling, he crashed into the water. This time, his head did clear. The anonymous hand grasped him again and pulled him up before he managed to swallow too much of the sea. He spluttered, the salt water making his stomach lurch again but, this time, he resisted being sick.

The hand held him up while its partner roughly rubbed his face and clothes with water to clean them. He could force himself to stand under his own strength, and he helped to wash himself. He staggered slightly in the swell, but determination let him catch his balance.

‘A little fighter, are you?’ the voice said. ‘We had to dunk most of the others four of five times before they came to. Keep it up and you might just survive all this.’ All what? Who were these people?And who were the ‘others’? Through the blank apathy in his head, the questions nagged him. But, because of that cold indifference, the answers were not so plain.

He wiped the water from his eyes, the manacles hindering even the simplest of movements. He blinked several times before his vision cleared. He caught his breath at the sight of the man beside him in the water: a mountain of leather, weapons, shaggy black hair and even shaggier beard. As he reached over to start dragging Brann back to the beach, his cloak moved to reveal a lean, muscular build; the cloak, worn over his multitude of weapons, had created a false impression of bulk.

‘I’ll manage,’ Brann croaked, staring down at the water.

The warrior laughed again. ‘We’ll see. Keep that attitude, and you might just.’ He slapped Brann casually on the back, almost launching him face-first into the water. ‘Anyway, you’re clean now, and awake. Enough of this idle chatter. Get back ashore with the others.’

Brann waded back to the beach, where five bedraggled figures huddled together for warmth and, probably, comfort. A quick glance told him no one else from his village had been taken. A quick glance born of cold curiosity, it was, but no more; he found he didn’t care whether or not any of the faces were familiar. Four of them, boys of around his years, were hunched in dejection. His gaze held on the fifth figure: a rangy youth, little more than his own age, with a shock of unkempt and probably untameable black hair that sat every way except flat, the thick tendrils exploding like dark flames from his head. Everything about him seemed angular, from his craggy face to long arms that hung, all bones and corded tendons, and from wide shoulders to legs that seemed as if they would have the co-ordination of a new-born foal. Despite wearing nothing but a rough tunic, he seemed oblivious to the damp chill that was forcing shivers into the others, and he exuded an indefinable strength that ignored the impression given by his gangly build. Most curiously, while the rest of the group exhibited a predictable mix of dejection and shock, he merely stared around him, as if nothing untoward at all had taken place. On closer inspection, an aggressive intensity burned in his glare. It burned, but its fire was cold. The sort of look that Brann had spent his life avoiding. He had preferred to spend his time among those with open personalities, with friendliness that brought none of the intensity or false posturing of those who felt they had to be aggressive in life to hold the respect of others. He had preferred those with personalities like his brother’s. He forced his emotions back into numb emptiness, pushing back the grief that threatened to surge through him.

A second warrior – presumably the one called Boar – comparatively shorter than the first and this time genuinely broad, crouched beside them, smirking and enjoying their discomfort and dismay with obvious pleasure. At the sight of the smirk, memories of foul breath flooded Brann’s senses and he massaged the bruise on the centre of his chest. Even without the sight of the red scarf on the man’s head, he would have known he was looking at the man who had murdered Callan and rage and fear rose in equal violent measure, threatening to make him vomit again. Pushing the emotions deep down and locking them away, Brann stumbled the last few steps from the water, a receding wave dragging at his feet and, guided by an unsubtle shove from behind, he joined the group. A chain was looped quickly through his manacles; he saw that it ran similarly through the bonds of the others, linking them in simple, but effective, fashion.

He sat, watching, listening, but still feeling detached, as if he were not a part of the scene. Two of the boys whimpered softly; the rest, despite their differing demeanours, were silent, staring down at the sand in their collective misery and despair. Only the dark-haired boy looked up, his burning gaze locking for a long moment with Brann’s. Then he nodded at him, once, and looked ahead once more. It seemed appropriate to his situation that the one with the character he would normally avoid was the one who had connected with him. He spat the remnants of salt water into the beach between his feet. What did it matter? What did anything matter now?

Strangely, Brann felt lucid, to a heightened level. He could understand the reactions of the others, but not his own. Although distant, he was coldly logical, absorbing everything around him with frank clarity. He was an emotional boy (his father had often chided him for letting his heart rule his head, in the days before he had so quickly rejected him and sent him running into the clutches of the men who had murdered his brother) and it was an alien experience to find himself as he was now, without fear, nerves, anger, despair, horror: all of the feelings that he thought should be overwhelming him.

Instead, he felt a calm assurance with, perversely, a tinge of bitter amusement. Perhaps this is how you feel when you accept you are going to die, he mused. Or maybe I can’t be hurt any more. Or maybe both.

His mind turned back to Callan, replaying the images of his brother’s death. It must have happened so quickly yet – at the time and, now, in his mind – it seemed to take an eternity. Then, as a misplaced background to that picture, he saw his home ablaze, with his family inside.

Why am I not crying? Where is the pain? he asked himself, over and over. It seemed as if the boy he had been was a stranger, as if he had awakened beside the sea a new person.

You’re not you any more. You can’t afford to be. Face it, this is what you’ve got from now on. Get used to it. A hint of an ironic smile twitched one corner of his mouth, a distant relation of the broad grin that had always sprung so readily to his face. Oh, gods, I’m going mad. I’m talking to myself like an idiot.

One of the boys tried to speak, failed and cleared his throat. He tried again. ‘It’s freezing. Can we not have a fire?’ He indicated a bundle of wood and dry leaves that had been piled together just a few yards further up the beach from them.

Boar cuffed him roughly across the side of the head, knocking him into the sand. ‘Keep it shut, maggot,’ he snarled. ‘Speak again and you’ll get worse than that.’

The taller man inserted a foot under the boy’s shoulder and lifted him until the youngster took the hint and sat himself up once more.

‘Don’t lie down, boy,’ he growled. ‘It’s damp. You’ll only get colder.’ He looked back across the beach. ‘There will be no fire. We’re not exactly wanting to invite guests to our party, are we? Don’t worry, you’ll be dried off soon enough.’

His burly companion grumbled, ‘You talk too much, Galen. Leave them alone – they’re nothing but your next wage.’ His voice turned mocking. ‘You sound as if you’re starting to care for them. First rule of slavery: they’re nothing but pieces of meat.’

Galen grunted and turned away, walking to the edge of the sea and staring out across the waves. ‘Where are they?’ he hissed, exasperation heavy in his tone. He jerked round, his hand reaching for the crossbow slung across his back. Dunes separated the beach from the land beyond, and movement there had caught the edge of his vision.

Boar rose from his crouch with an exaggeratedly casual air and glanced lethargically across the sand. ‘It’s only Barak,’ he said. ‘You are a jumpy old woman.’

Ignoring him other than to murmur, ‘Better jumpy than dead,’ Galen walked towards the approaching figure, a small wiry man but no less festooned with weaponry than his two comrades. Boar spat forcibly and muttered unintelligibly. Brann guessed it was not a compliment. He also noticed that, whatever Boar had said, he had waited until Galen had moved beyond earshot before passing his low-pitched comment.

Barak reached Galen before the tall warrior had moved more than a dozen paces from the group and skidded to a halt. He nodded a greeting to the other two. ‘Light the signal,’ he said simply in a hoarse voice. ‘They’ll be round the headland in minutes.’

‘Not before time.’ Galen crouched beside the firewood and, in seconds, had sparked it to life. A trail of smoke quickly reached towards the clouds.

Barak looked at the bedraggled group chained before him. ‘An extra one.’ It was said as a statement, but it was clearly a question.

‘Boar,’ Galen said, without looking up.

Barak grunted, obviously needing no more explanation.

Boar roughly dragged the chain upwards, effortlessly pulling two boys clear off the ground. Not wishing the same treatment, the others stood by themselves as quickly as cramped legs allowed. The burly warrior barked a harsh and unpleasant laugh and started to pull on the chain to lead the captives to the edge of the sea. ‘Time for a lovely voyage, lads!’ he cried, revelling in their anguish. ‘Bet you never thought you’d get the chance to see distant shores and exotic lands.’

A ship, sleek and nimble, swept around the narrow rocky peninsula that formed one side of the bay. Its mast bare of sail, it cut through the water, driven by a single bank of oars on either side that rose and fell in perfect time to a relentless drumbeat. As it pointed itself directly at the smoke, Boar dragged the captives into the water, while Galen – who had kicked sand over the fire as soon as the ship had responded to the signal – and Barak kept pace at either side.

A double-beat of the drum was followed by a barked shout of instruction and the oars reversed their stroke for three long sweeps, churning and foaming the water and seeming to stop the craft almost immediately.

The wading group had reached deeper water and started, in their haste, to lose their footing. Brann, spitting out an unwelcome mouthful of water, looked ahead to see archers gather in two small groups at the prow and stern. Galen shouted urgently to the boys, ‘Kick your legs. We’ll pull you along. Just concentrate on keeping your faces above the water.’

None of them wanted to go to the ship, but the consequence of defiance was drowning. As if to inadvertently prove the point, one of the boys, obviously not a swimmer, panicked and started to thrash in the water, dropping quickly beneath the surface. With a pointed lack of haste, Boar moved over and dragged him up.

‘There’s always one,’ he moaned. ‘Why can’t you pathetic farm boys all make sure you can at least float?’

He grabbed the back of the spluttering boy’s tunic and held him clear of the water. For all of the man’s obnoxious traits, Brann could not help but marvel at his brute strength. It’s just a pity about the ‘brute’ part of it, he thought. All three of the warriors seemed oblivious to the weight of the host of weapons encumbering each of them as they swam, but to have the ability, as Boar was casually demonstrating, to support a mostly grown boy with one hand at the same time was more than impressive. Brann resolved that, for as long as he was in this predicament and in Boar’s company, he would keep quiet and try not to attract attention. Where Boar was concerned, the only consequences seemed to be harmful ones.

A net was thrown over the side to help the swimmers from the water. Hands reached down to pull them aboard, and the three warriors followed in an instant, hardly out of breath. A hoarse voice bawled ‘Row!’ and, as the drum started to sound, the three men on each oar bent their backs. With a beauty in its precision, the oars on each side rose and fell in a single motion and the ship seemed to leap forward.

As they picked up speed, a party of around a dozen horsemen, each with a short cavalry bow held ready in his hand, thundered onto the beach, drawn by the smoke of the signal fire. Brann realised why Galen had smothered the flames as they were leaving: it had seemed like a waste of time when the men were otherwise consumed by urgency but, in dissipating the tell-tale smoke as, unknown to them, the riders had been closing, he had made it slightly harder to pinpoint their exact location and had bought them precious time. If they had still been in the water when the men had arrived, they would have been as soft targets as there could be. He harboured no notion that the horsemen would have bothered about the boys in the water if they had a chance of striking back at any of the hated raiders.

Several of the horsemen leapt from their mounts even before the animals had come to a halt and, with the speed of professional soldiers, nocked arrows and let fly. The ship, however, had already cleared the range of the short bows and the volley dropped short.

With a shout and a gesture, one of the riders stopped the bowmen, realising the futility of the action and thinking, perhaps, of the cost of arrows and a quartermaster’s ire. Several of the group hurled furious insults at the retreating boat, their cries just audible above the creaking of the oars, the slapping of water against the hull, the grunting of the rowers and the thumping of the drum. Within seconds, they could be heard no more.

Galen stood at the rail, staring impassively back at the shore. ‘Soldiers,’ he said in a low tone. ‘A whole squad. See how quickly they came to the fire, lads?’ He nudged with his foot the boy who had complained. ‘Now you know why you stayed cold.’ He threw down a bundle of towels onto the deck beside them. ‘Now strip. Dry yourselves.’

Several of the boys looked hesitant at the thought of disrobing in public. Galen chuckled. ‘There is no modesty at sea. Dry yourselves or you’ll sicken. Don’t worry – I’ll let you keep the towels until your clothes have dried.’

Their sodden garments were taken and hung on a line near to the captives. The sun was beginning to climb in a sky that was largely unencumbered by clouds and, with the added help of the sea breeze, it would not be long until they could dress once again.

The ship hit deeper water, and Brann began to notice the feeling of the slow rise and fall as it rode the swell. A shout from the stern prompted several men to busy themselves with unfurling the sail on the single mast. Once the fresh wind caught in the canvas, causing it to flap and crack for a few moments before it swelled forwards, the drummer banged twice and a square-headed man with close-cropped grey hair bellowed, ‘Ship oars!’

With a rumble surprising in its brevity, the long oars were dragged on board and fastened into position. The rowers stretched muscles, settled more comfortably on their benches and caught their breath after the burst of hard exercise. The short intense nature of their effort had not allowed them to gain a second wind and, in the manner of men who knew not when their services would be called upon next, they seized without hesitation the chance to recuperate.

Brann sat on the deck and huddled against the other captives in the broad aisle that ran between the rowers. He hugged his knees to his chest, staring down at the planks of the deck. The wood was worn smooth, but was solid and tight-fitting; even that small detail suggested a quality ship, expertly crafted and carefully maintained. The easy confidence and efficiency of the men aboard, and the quality and condition of their weapons and clothing, added to the impression that he was among anything but a rag-tag group of outlaws and bandits. These were professionals, skilled and experienced – and Brann was unsure whether that was a good or a bad thing.

On one hand, he felt that his safety, while not admittedly at an all-time high, was more assured with such men in terms of avoiding either a shipwreck or harm at their hands than if they had been drunken unscrupulous oafs. And cleanliness and hygiene would lessen the chances of disease.

Alternatively, chances of escape would be virtually non-existent among captors such as these. They knew what they were doing and, in the case of Boar and most probably many of the others, had done it many times before. Whatever they were, they were good at it. Whatever their intentions for him – and, with a start, he realised that he had not even thought that far ahead – he was sure they would achieve them.

He was, to his surprise, not sure that he even wanted to return to his village, to the scene of the brutal deaths of everyone close to him. What was there for him to go back to, other than pain and grief? But where else did he have to go? His mind spun furiously. Shaking his head violently, he ran his fingers through his hair in anguish and confusion.

A pair of black boots stopped in front of him, breaking both his gaze and his whirling thoughts. A voice, cultured but anything but soft, said, ‘Welcome aboard. I assume none of you is a sailor. You have a morning to become accustomed to the motion of the ship, and to put your clothes back on. Then you will eat. Whether you feel like it or not.’

Brann looked up. ‘Why are we here? Where are we going?’

The tall man’s dark eyes locked with his and Brann’s stomach lurched with nerves at the intensity of the gaze, the first strong emotion he had felt since his capture. The man’s expression flickered, surprise momentarily evident. Brann cursed himself. A man like that would not be accustomed to being interrupted. So much for keeping a low profile.

‘You will find out soon enough. We have almost a full cargo now, and we are heading for port after just one more stop.’ He turned to go, then paused. ‘Rest assured, you will have more to concern you now than a ball game for apprentices.’

He brushed spray-soaked hair away from an L-shaped scar on his cheek, and returned to the rear of the ship.

The morning dragged by in a daze. At first, the movement of the ship caught Brann’s fascination. He’d known it would rise and fall, but he had never envisaged the rocking, both from side to side and front to back – or any combination of all of them. In the absence of any notable activity (with the wind filling the sail, the rowers were still taking the opportunity to doze and, of the crew, only the helmsman and a lookout remained in view) all he had to fill his attention were the noises – which comprised the creaking and groaning of wood and rope, the occasional sharp crack as the sail flapped, sporadic snores from the rowers and a soft whimpering from one of the boys beside him – and the sensation of movement. He tried to play games to relieve the boredom, predicting the combination of movements that would come next, or whether the boat would roll to the left before it rose. But it did not take long before he lost interest in that, also.

One of the boys retched, his body jerking forward and jangling the chains. Brann was relieved that at least he did not feel any sickness from the motion of the ship. Two of the boys spoke to their miserable and pained companion, trying, without success, to comfort him. It appeared from the conversation that the boy had nothing left in his stomach to vomit, having been brought over the course of a night and a day to the coast by captors who had lost all of their rations – and one of their number – in a fierce skirmish along the way. The boys had been left with Barak while the men left again to search for provisions, intending to meet up with the ship further up the coast. When Galen and Boar had arrived with Brann, Barak had left to find a vantage point to watch for the ship.

Brann watched the trio dispassionately, still feeling a detached onlooker. He was well aware that he was in the same situation as the other five, but still felt different from them in ways he could not rationalise, as if none of it was really happening to him, as if he were watching a performance by one of the groups of travelling players who would periodically visit his village.

‘Get a grip on yourself,’ he muttered angrily to himself, slapping his thigh as if to waken himself from a dream. You won’t find a way out of this unless you accept it is real, he thought.

The boy had stopped retching, and his comforters had fallen silent again. Now that the distraction of another in need was over, the captives were left to face their own misery once more, their hunched shoulders and hanging heads speaking more eloquently of their emotion than any words. And with the little tableau finished for Brann, he cast around the ship for anything else that could hold his interest.

A few warriors had returned to the fresh air of the open deck and were tending to their weapons, cleaning and oiling them to protect against the effects of the salt water and anything else that may have attached itself to them in their use over the past day. Those weapons that were not worn about their persons – and these seemed few, Brann thought wryly, considering the host of swords, knives and axes that festooned the men – such as spears, crossbows and bows, were carefully wrapped in lightly oiled cloths. Brann noticed, however, that even these wrapped weapons were never far from the warriors’ reach. Most of the men seemed to be from the same tall, powerful race as Galen, their pale skin beaten and scoured by the gods knew what sort of violent weather, by rain and wind or sun, by howling sandstorms or driving hail and lashing salty spray, until it matched the faded leather of their boots in consistency and colour. The remainder, few as they were, were from a variety of other origins, but they all had at least one thing in common: they were not men who would be caught unready.

The monotony was broken by the return of the boys’ clothes, but only briefly. Brann turned his attention to the rowers, sprawled against each other and whatever part of the ship was available as they took advantage of the chance to rest.

Brann had heard of ships that used rowing slaves, and had imagined such men to be huge muscle-bound hulks, selected for their stature and with their bulk increased by endless days of heavy toil. Instead, these men were of all sizes, but with a uniform leanness rather than being over-laden with bulging muscles. True, they looked strong enough – the ease with which they had handled the large unwieldy oars had been testament to that– but it seemed more of an adaptable strength that could cope equally well with short bursts of power or long stretches of steady rowing.

It seems obvious when you thing about it logically, he mused. I just never had reason to think about it before.

The ringing of a moving chain as one of the oarsmen shifted position drew his attention to their feet. The rowers sat in threes, and each man had a manacle on his left ankle with a short chain reaching from it to a ring at the other end. Under each bench, another chain ran, passing through each of these rings. This chain was anchored to the side of the boat at one end but, where it reached the aisle, it was linked by another ring to a long chain that ran the length of the ship.

The wild-haired boy beside Brann noticed his interest in the chains. ‘Clever, is it not, chief?’ he said, his voice as cold and flat as the sea around them. It was a statement of fact, not admiration. ‘Simple, but clever.’ The boy regarded him with a cold dispassion and Brann looked into the palest of blue eyes. They did not bore into him as the dark stare of the man with the L-shaped scar had done: instead, the intensity in this gaze was behind the eyes, a cold fire that burned within, never raging nor dying. There was something about him that suggested an older perspective on life. Perhaps it was his physical calm amidst the dejection of the other boys.

‘What do you mean?’ Brann asked. His voice was as low as his spirits and the aggression in the boy’s gaze indicated a temperament that he had always found irritating, but he welcomed any conversation that broke the tedium.

The lad nodded with economy of movement towards the rowing benches. ‘The chains. It is an old enough system, but it works, so why change it?’

‘What system? Surely they just get chained up and they row. That’s it.’

His companion shook his head slightly. ‘Simple, but not quite that simple.’ He spoke in short bursts, as if uncomfortable saying any more than was strictly necessary. It was so much in keeping with his appearance that Brann almost smiled. ‘My father rowed. On a galley bigger than this. An Empire one with three banks of oars. Until he escaped and tried farming instead.’

Brann’s eyes came alight. ‘Escaped?’

The pale eyes flicked his way. ‘Don’t get excited,’ he said. ‘It took more than a decade for the chance. Six tried; he and one other made it. That’s better than normal. We face a life of slavery.’ He snorted. ‘The son follows the father’s trade.’

‘So that’s what they mean for us? Galley slaves?’

The untameable hair quivered slightly as the head shook in reply. ‘Not right now, and not for you. Look around, chief: any spaces on the benches? It will be the slave markets of the Callenican Empire for us. A little lad like you? May be lucky and get a nice position as a house slave. Someone like me…’ He indicated his large ungainly frame, and shrugged. ‘People look at an oaf like me and think of heavy labour.’

‘Not all heavy labour is on a ship,’ Brann pointed out.

The boy spoke deliberately and patiently. ‘We will most likely finish in Sagia, the capital. They will look for a quick sale and Sagia holds the biggest slave market. There are no mines or quarries there. The farms are worked by families. The city is a port, so the work revolves around shipping. The Dockers’ Guild controls the jobs onshore, so all that’s left is a bench on some ship. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a watertight one.’

Brann looked more closely at him. The boy had noticed, and deduced, much in a short time. And he had knowledge that extended the width of a continent further than the half-day’s walk that had been the limit of Brann’s world until the day before. He could prove to be a valuable ally if they were ever to spot a chance to escape. ‘You know much about these distant places. Your father?’

‘Do you always ask so many questions?’

Brann grunted. ‘Only when I don’t know so many answers.’

The youth considered this, and nodded. ‘That’s fair enough. I was put to sleep each night with stories of his time at sea. Never thought I would get to see it for myself.’ He turned away and stared over the rail at the choppy blue-grey waves.

Emotion surged in Brann, taking him by surprise and forcing him to fight it hard. Somehow, what his companion left unsaid was more touching than if he had poured out his heart. For the first time since he had returned to consciousness, Brann felt empathy for another – and realised that he did not even know the name of the person who had awakened it. Unnerved by the combined power of grief, loss and fear, and lest it would overwhelm him, he forced the feelings back down, quickly re-establishing the cold, hard barrier. If he could not confront the emotion, it was better to avoid it. And, anyway, he was a little intrigued by what the youth had started to explain beforehand. Unlikely as it seemed, he was finding that he wasn’t quite so irritated by the boy’s personality as he had thought he would be. It was intense, but there was comfort in its straightforward logic.

‘What did you mean about a system?’ Brann ventured. ‘To do with the chains,’ he prompted.

The youth nodded at the rowers. ‘They are slaves… but valuable slaves. They do what they do, well. Their bodies have adapted to it. And, if they are rowing, the warriors can be warriors. So the warriors take care of the rowers. Do you see what I mean, chief?’

Brann nodded. He felt hollow, as if nothing really mattered but, under current circumstances, he had time to fill and he was at least learning about his surroundings. Despite the logic in the boy’s dismissal of any chance of escape, that course was exactly the one he intended to follow at the first opportunity, and the more knowledge he gathered about his captors and surroundings, the more likely he was to spot, or even create, such an opportunity. ‘I understand what you say,’ he said, ‘but what has it got to do with the chains?’ The chill eyes looked at him. ‘Sorry. More questions. I know. You must be tired.’

‘If I was tired, I would sleep. But I’m not. You have a question, I have the answer, and we both have the time.

‘At times, the chains need to come off quickly. A sinking ship, or an attack with hand-to-hand fighting.’

Brann was puzzled. ‘Why then? So they can be protected from harm?’

The boy shook his head. ‘Well-treated slaves are better staying with the masters they have. The alternative is to risk worse with someone else. If the attack is by pirates, the alternative is worse. So, in such times, they fight beside the crew and, when it is over, return to the benches. At sea, this is accepted.’

Brann considered this. ‘I count sixty rowers, and about twenty-five or so crew. Once the fighting is over, could the slaves not…?’

‘I know, chief. Could they not overpower their masters?’ He shrugged. ‘They need each other. And you have seen these warriors: weapons are their life. If the slaves did overcome them, it would be at terrible cost. And they would always be fugitives, hunted by those who would fear other slaves encouraged to follow suit. So why risk it? Anyway, after fifteen years at the oars, a galley slave is freed. They reckon you have deserved it if you live that long. The longer you row, the closer you are to that.’

Brann’s eyes narrowed. ‘So why did your father take such a risk to escape?’

The boy stared over the sea once again. ‘A valid question, chief. His circumstances changed. His ship was taken by pirates. Several slaves were tortured and thrown overboard to show the consequence of defiance. So he reasoned his situation had worsened. Yes, he had little more than two years of his fifteen left, but pirates tend not to adhere to that arrangement. They work their slaves till they drop. They can always pick up more. A small group saw an opportunity. It was a slight chance, but desperation drove them. He made it; all but one of the others did not. But they were under a death sentence anyway.’

He flexed his shoulders and arched his back against the effects of sitting still. ‘So, the chains. Do you see the two long chains that run fore to aft – front to back? In emergencies, the crew can unfasten those chains at one end and pull them through to the other. Each set of rowers can then pull out the chain that runs under their bench, linking their individual chains. They are completely unfettered in seconds. And, you will notice that the long chains running up the aisle not only run through the rings on each bench’s chain. They pass through several metal rings that secure hasps set into the aisle. Those hasps are for hatches into compartments containing weapons for the slaves. So, when the long chains are pulled free to let loose the slaves, they also give access to the weapons. The slaves can be unchained and armed in moments.’

Brann’s face clouded as a thought struck him. ‘These men don’t seem to be pirates, yet they have taken us as slaves. Surely they are pirates.’

‘Not all who take slaves are pirates. In the Empire, and the southern lands still more dusty, slaves are a part of life. They are traded and valued just as a horse or a sword or a house would be. These men here are seafarers, chief, and northerners mostly. They will be engaged by a slave-trader to fetch him goods to sell. On another day they would be transporting passengers or goods to a market or to a buyer’s estate.’

A warrior strolled down the aisle, checking the chains had not become tangled and kicking the occasional one. Brann looked at the legs of the men nearest him. ‘So, if I understand this properly, they can remove an individual rower by unlocking his manacles, or all three on a bench by unclipping them from the main chain along the aisle. So it can work for all of them or just one at a time, or almost any number in between.’

The boy almost smiled. ‘You seem to understand. But still I see confusion in your eyes.’

Brann nodded. ‘If there is such a special relationship that the slaves can be released and even armed if need be, why chain them up at all?’

‘Trust extends only so far, chief.’ The eyes burned with pale fire into his. ‘A wise man leaves as little to chance as possible.’ He shrugged. ‘And, in any case, it is expected. They are slaves. As, now, are we.’

Brann grunted. ‘Thank you for reminding me. For someone who is of few words, you speak at great length.’

‘I speak when I can offer something of value. Otherwise, I prefer to listen. Thus I learn what may be valuable. And you know more of your situation, which is no bad thing.’ His expression never yet wavered. ‘And it passed the time.’

Brann snorted, irritated by the reminder of his predicament. ‘At the moment, passing time is like passing water. I don’t particularly want to have to do either but, if the need arises, I’ll let you know.’

He was fixed with a curious stare, the head tilted to the side. ‘I would make the most of being able to pass time, chief. At the moment, it is the only one of the two for which you control the opportunity to do it.’

His childish pomposity was brutally exposed for what it was by simple logic. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. It was kind of you to explain it all.’

‘Kind?’ It was only one word, but his tone was such that a speech could not have better conveyed the boy’s confusion. ‘You asked questions, I answered.’

Brann felt his mouth turn into a half-smile, as if it were an awkward movement. ‘One last answer, then: your name.’

‘One last answer for now. I feel you will have more questions over time. My father named me Gerens.’

‘And mine, Brann.’

‘Right you are, chief.’ The boy clasped his hand in a formality that was as comforting as it was incongruous in their situation. ‘I feel it is good to meet you.’

A voice boomed above them, making them both jump. The fat warrior, Boar, stood over them.

‘Up, maggots,’ he roared, rattling the chain so violently that several of them flinched – a reaction that seemed to please the oaf. ‘Those who can walk, get to the stern. That’s the bit at the back. Your food is there. Those who can’t walk will be dragged by those who can.’ He sniggered at what obviously passed for humour in his warped mind and thumped back up the aisle, leaving them to follow in whatever manner they could manage.

The sorry little group began to rise, some slower than others as cramped legs objected to movement. As they did so, the boat lurched, causing them to fall against each other. Brann was knocked from his feet and fell painfully against the end of a bench. He banged solidly against a sleeping rower, a burly bald man with an incongruously bushy black beard, but the man’s slumber was so deep – or he cared so little about a slip of a boy falling against him – that he merely wriggled into a different position without waking.

As he did so, a hard object poked into Brann. Instinctively, the boy’s hand slid forward and found the handle of a knife, tucked discreetly into the waistband of the man’s breeches. Before he could think, he had grasped the bone handle, pulling it smoothly with him as he rose, and secreting it within his sleeve while he pretended to hold his stomach in pain. By the time he did think about what he had done, and about the unbelievable folly of doing so, it was too late to undo it.

Two of the boys were helping up the one they had earlier comforted while he had been retching, and the rest of the group had managed to stand and were waiting until all were ready to move off. Brann mingled with them as they shuffled forwards, using their tangle of chained limbs to conceal his movements as he slipped the blade into his own belt under his tunic, not so much out of a desire to keep the knife but more for reasons of keeping it better hidden until he could secretly dispose of it. His heart pounded as he came dangerously close to panic. He cursed his idiocy and tugged his tunic down, even though it was already more than adequately covering the incriminating object. With each pace, he could feel the metal digging into him and, with each dig, his stomach lurched and churned with tense fear.

He cursed himself. Why had he done something so stupid? Why? He had taken the knife automatically, his hand moving before his mind considered the idea. If it were found on him, the best he could hope for would be that his death would be quick. The rower he had taken it from had been courting that risk also but, whatever his reason for doing so, it was immaterial now – the risk had passed to Brann. Yet he could not get rid of it at the moment without being caught. He would just have to remain alert for an opportunity… and he prayed that moment would come soon.

They reached the rear of the ship. A steep stairway led up in front of them to the raised area and two closed doors faced the group, one set either side of the steps. Before them a small table bore bread, cheese and water. The boys hurriedly grabbed some of each, and forced it down. With the exception of Gerens, who wolfed it down with all of the relish but none of the manners normally reserved for a finely prepared banquet, not one of them had much of an appetite, but they had no idea when they would next eat. So they ate.

Boar clambered clumsily down from the area above. ‘Through the door,’ his voice boomed. The boy at the front of the group reached for the nearest latch.

It was hard to believe Boar could shout any louder – but he did. ‘The other door, fool! If you step into the Captain’s cabin, you’ll spend the last two seconds of your life thinking about your mistake. Now move before you die of stupidity.’

The sorry group passed through the other door, discovering another steep set of stairs – almost a ladder – leading down below deck level. They found that the chain linking them was just long enough, if they were careful, to allow them all to climb down one by one.

‘Keep moving, maggots,’ Boar said, his voice relatively quieter but no less bullying.

The boys shuffled along a short corridor dimly lit by a single lamp, passing doorless portals that let them glimpse the rooms inside and, Brann realised, would allow any occupants to exit rapidly if necessary. No light burned in the first room they passed, but Brann was just able to make out the figures of those warriors not on deck who were grabbing, like the slaves above, the chance to sleep. The next room seemed to be used as both a kitchen and storeroom and, like the first, was in darkness. Dim light did come, however, from the room that lay straight ahead, which seemed to be their destination.

Boar confirmed it. ‘Straight ahead, maggots. Keep going. Welcome to your new home.’

They stumbled towards the room, steadying themselves against the walls that were conveniently close on either side. As they neared the doorway, Brann could see two rows of faces, all belonging to boys of around his age, lined along the walls to each side of a long narrow area, staring at the newcomers. Boar shoved them roughly towards the room.

‘In you go, maggots,’ he growled gleefully. ‘We’ll get you chained up with your new friends. You couldn’t ask for better quarters – it’s clean, dry and there’s even a latrine.’ He indicated a bucket beside the door. ‘If you’re good, we might even empty it now and again.’ He sniggered, once again finding himself highly amusing, although Brann suspected that this was not the first time he had produced this particular witticism. The whole procedure bore the hallmarks of a routine that the fat oaf thoroughly enjoyed.

As the boys started to file into the room, an eldritch screech burst from a room to their right. They stopped in terror. Like the others, Brann’s attention had been drawn by disconsolate curiosity to the room that was to be their temporary home to such an extent that he had not noticed this other room, let alone its occupant.

The scream started again but, this time, words could be made out. ‘Bring him to me! Bring him now!’

The man with the L-shaped scar stepped from the room. ‘Hold them there, Boar,’ he said. His order was unnecessary: the captives were rooted in terror, each hoping desperately he was not the subject of the ear-splitting demand.

The voice started again. ‘The little one. The little one at the back.’

Brann’s breathing froze and his chest constricted in fear. The tall man nodded to Boar. ‘You heard Our Lady,’ he said simply.

‘Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain,’ Boar said, the whine of his deferential tone a stark contrast to his previous bullying bluster. He knelt and hurriedly released Brann’s manacle.

The Captain waved Brann forward. ‘Come,’ he said, leading the way into the room as Boar resumed ushering the remainder of the group to their original destination. Gerens cast a look in Brann’s direction, his eyebrows raised. Brann knew that the boy was as mystified as he, and shrugged in reply. His initial fear had subsided greatly, mainly due to his emotionally dulled state of mind and the belief that his situation could not, conceivably, deteriorate to any great extent. Maybe he was taking Gerens’s implacable logic to heart.

The room was more shadows than light. Two candles flickered shapes on the walls, a worrying hazard on a ship, Brann thought, where all other light was provided by oil lanterns that were sturdily constructed and designed to avoid spillages. The Captain was standing beside what appeared to be a pile of rags. Assuming this to be the source of the voice, Brann continued towards it and stopped several feet short, unsure what to do.

The words did, indeed, come from the rags. ‘Come closer, boy,’ it said. It was the voice of an old woman and now had, to his surprise, a gentle tone, almost kindly. The most astonishing thing about it was not the dramatic drop in volume, however, but how normal it sounded. He had expected a mysterious whisper or, at least, a demented growl. Certainly not something that sounded like a benevolent grandmother.

‘I don’t always screech, you know. Terrible sore on the throat, so it is.’ She laughed, softly. ‘But it surely catches people’s attention, so it does. It catches their attention. And it does me no harm to have a certain reputation. I like to keep them on their toes, so I do. Unpredictable tends to work well in my profession. Mad and mysterious, that’s me.’ She laughed again, almost a giggle this time. ‘Just you remember that, little one, when they ask you what I said. And they will ask you, so they will. So tell them I was mad and mysterious. Mysterious and mad. And terrifying. Terrifying is good, so it is.’

She coughed, a dry, dusty old sound. ‘Come closer again, boy. I will not bite. No teeth, see: makes it difficult, so it does.’ She laughed again.

Brann shuffled forward, beginning to make out her wizened face: sunken, watery eyes amid protruding cheekbones and creases upon creases. White hair hung limply, held in place by a thin gold chain that dangled an assortment of charms across her forehead; they jingled musically at the slightest movement.

His foot brushed against something, causing a slight rattling sound. The Captain had been standing, silent and still, while she spoke but, at the noise from the floor, he flinched with a sharp intake of breath.

The old lady was, however, more calm. ‘Mind the bones, boy, mind the bones,’ she said equably.

Brann looked down with a nervous jerk to see a selection of small rune-engraved bones (animal or human, he did not know – did not want to know) lying scattered on the floor. One of the candles had been placed to cast light on the area, but he had been so intent on the woman’s face as he walked forward that he had stumbled right into the macabre relics.

He drew back in horror. Stories abounded about the folly of incurring the wrath of women like this. Call them what you will – seeresses, witches, wisewomen, earthmothers, oracles – it did not do to cross them. No one knew for sure if tales of mysterious retribution held some truth or were exaggerated fancy but, by the same token, no one was willing to take the risk of testing the theory. To anger them was a bad idea, but to touch, and therefore sully, the individual tools of any of these women, whether it be bones, animal entrails, embers of a fire, sacred stones or any one of myriad other objects, dead or alive, that were their means of divining anything – from the future, the weather or the chances of crops failing or cows calving to the prospects of armies triumphing or women conceiving – was sacrilege.

And he had just stood on top of them.

But the old woman did not cast a spell. She did not fly at him with talon-like nails scratching at his eyes. She did not even scream.

She chuckled.

‘Calm down, child, calm down.’ The charms strung across her forehead tinkled delicately as she leant forward and gathered the bones from the floor in one long-fingered, sinew-ridged bony hand with a quick and well-practised sweep of the other. ‘My fault, so it is, my fault. Forgot they were there when I called you nearer, silly me. Not to worry: not in use just now, are they? No, no, just bits of creatures that long since ceased to need their outer shell in this world, so they are. Nothing more, nothing less.’

Her eyes grew distant, her voice low and heavy. ‘When they are in use, though, it is different. Then, they are alive; alive and so very powerful.’ She opened her hand to reveal the bones and stroked her fingertips across them. ‘Oh yes, so very powerful.’ The hand snapped shut, and her head jerked up, as if she had abruptly awakened from a dream. Her eyes focused on his once more and her voice grew gentle again. ‘No harm done, is there, little dear? No need to fret, no need at all.’ She laughed softly.

Brann was unsure how to feel. He had seen his home set ablaze with his family inside and his brother brutally slain just feet from him; he had been dragged away from everything and everyone he had ever known; he was a slave bound for a future that only the gods could predict in a place he could not envisage; his immediate future was to live, cramped with others like him, beneath the decks of a slave ship under the total authority of a bullying oaf; and now, in a dingy, musty, gloom-laden room, watched by the most quietly menacing man he had ever met, he had trampled all over the sacred bones of an ancient crone who was held in fear and reverence by the battle-scarred crew who shared a ship with her. And her response? To sweep aside those relics as if she were a grandmother brushing away crumbs on a table.

Yes, indeed, he had no idea how to think. He continued to feel nothing. His head was light, and he swayed slightly as he stood, arms hanging limply by his sides, staring blankly at her.

She patted the now-clear floor in front of her, a soft sound. Disturbed dust swirled in the faint candlelight.

‘Here, sit,’ she said, her voice as gentle as the tap on the floor. ‘Sit, before you fall.’

He realised as she said it that his head was spinning more than he had realised, or cared. He stepped forward slightly to the indicated spot, his movements clumsy and his senses deadened, feeling as if time, for him, were moving slower than for those around him.

She patted the floor again, twice. He sat, cross-legged like a child, so close to her that his knees brushed her robes.

‘Look at me, boy. Look at me.’

He lifted his eyes to hers and was locked into her gaze. His consciousness seemed to be drawn by her and his mind felt as blank as his emotions. He was aware of her eyes but, beyond that, he saw no more: not the Captain, watching silently; not the dancing flames of the candles; not her robes, many and smoke-thin; not the skin stretched across her face, as fragile-seeming as her clothing; only her dark, dark eyes.

He was aware of her voice but gone was the creaking and groaning of the ship, the calls and footsteps from above, the coughing and whimpering from the neighbouring room, even the faint sound of his own shallow breathing. All he could hear, all there was to him, was her soft, mellow, soothing voice.

‘A melancholy right into your bones, you have. Much have you seen, so you have, that should never have passed before such young eyes, and much will you go through again, of a weight a babe should never have to shoulder. But you must release, so you should, you must release – the smallest kettle or the largest volcano must obey the same laws: neither can be sealed, for the force within will only grow and the release will be worse and not of your choosing. So let it out, boy, let it out or it will fill every part of you, and it will leave room for naught else within you. It will destroy you and those you hold close.’

She stared at him in silence, waiting impassively for the emotion to burst from him.

But it did not. A solitary tear gathered at the lip of one eye before slowly drawing a silver line down his cheek. His face, as blank as before, looked back at her, his gaze still locked with hers.

She sighed heavily, and shook her head slightly. ‘It is deeper than I feared. As deep, perhaps, as that consuming you, my Captain. So many questions waiting to be asked, pain like a thousand blades, a yearning that tears you asunder but, for now, nothing but emptiness of the soul. Not today will it be filled, for better or worse. Not today and not tomorrow.’ She sighed again, a mournful sound. ‘So sad, in one so unprepared.’

A shadow of a smile drifted across her lips. ‘One answer, though, there is. One answer to a question not yet asked. Know this: not your fault, no, it is not your fault. Remember that, my dear, remember that you could have changed nothing. When fate draws a map, man must follow it, so he must. Man has no choice but to follow it.’

She took his hand in both of hers, stroking the back of it gently. ‘Have peace, now, little one, have peace. Go, now; eat and sleep. Best thing for you, so it is. When in doubt, return to the basics of life. Eat and sleep.’

Still clasping him in her grasp, she reached with her other hand and, with surprisingly soft fingertips, gently wiped the tear from his cheek.

She froze. Tensing, with a sharp hiss, she gripped his hand so violently that his attention was snapped away from her eyes. He looked questioningly at the Captain who, silently and intently, nodded Brann’s attention back to the old lady.

Slowly, almost tentatively, she drew her hand away from his face and lifted it to her mouth. The moisture on her fingertip glistened in the candlelight with a magical air. She touched the single tear to her lips and, tentatively, brushed her tongue against it.

A scream of pain wrenched itself from her. With her back arched, her body jerked upwards. Her eyelids fluttered erratically, her pupils rolled up, and she began to moan, a low drone that filled the room with an uneasy dread.

The Captain nudged Brann with the toe of one boot. He looked up. ‘Listen carefully, boy,’ he cautioned. ‘What she says, you will hear once, and once only. When she returns to us, she will know nothing of what passes her lips. So listen carefully.’

Brann returned his attention to the old woman. She was mumbling without pause, a stream of incomprehensible sounds that ran into each other. At best, what she was uttering was a monotone of gibberish. What was there for him to listen carefully to?

Her grip on his hand redoubled, and the moaning stopped. She became still, eerily still. Her eyes opened, wide and unblinking, and she stared directly at him. There was silence. Bran realised that he had stopped breathing, and forced himself to draw in air. His hand was in considerable pain, but he dared not do anything that might disturb her.

She spoke, her voice that of a young woman, clear and strong.

‘Paths you will travel, in many a realm,

You’ll be blind to the journey, trust to Fate at the helm,

But you’ll know you are standing in Destiny’s hall

When heroes and kings come to call.’

Her eyes rolled up once more but, this time, her lids shut peacefully. Her grip eased and her hand slipped from his. With a long, dry sigh, the tension seemed to flood from her and she relaxed, almost sagged, where she sat.

She opened her eyes, and saw Brann massaging his aching hand. Taking it gently in both of hers, she lifted it gently to her lips and kissed it softly.

‘Apologies for the pain, my dear, many apologies,’ she said so softly that he had to strain to make out the words. ‘I know not what I am doing at my special times. I have no memory of my words or actions, no memory. I have only an echo of the memory, a picture in smoke, and the more I try to grasp it, the more it fades.

‘But it does leave me with a feeling, so it does. Like a tracker with the indent of a footprint, after the foot has passed. I cannot see the person, but I see clues to the person in the footprint, so I do, I see clues in the footprint. And what I see is your fate lying heavy on your shoulders. Yes, heavy it will lie.’

Brann felt himself sagging as despair plunged down upon him. She took his hand again. ‘I know, young one, I know. You have faced so much in a short time, and you are living so much more. Destiny has a habit of arriving slowly. When it comes, you think it is suddenly bursting through the door, but most times it has been building, and making you stronger all the while.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘Do not despair. When fate visits you, your shoulders will have grown stronger to bear it.’

Her hand drifted down and brushed against the knife hidden under his clothes. He tensed in fear, but she merely smiled quietly, and her eyes narrowed in amusement as they met his.

‘You already show me a hint of the man you will need to be. Be careful, and it will serve you well, so it will, it will serve you well. Be complacent and, well… you live in a dangerous world, so you do. We all act sometimes without knowing why; only in later times do we see the significance. Do not be over-hasty to rid yourself of that which may be the saviour of your life. That is all I will say.’ She traced a finger down his cheek. ‘Take care, little one, take care. It would please me to see you prosper. Yes indeed, it would please me.’

She patted his hand: a simple but surprisingly reassuring gesture. ‘Now I must rest, so I must. And so should you. Go now.’

She lay back on cushions that had gone unnoticed in the gloom, her features disappearing into deep shadows where the clutter blocked the candles’ meagre reach. The Captain gestured to Brann to stand up. Despite a stiffness in his legs, he did so quickly and followed the tall man, who had started from the room without a word. In the corridor, they found Boar. The Captain headed for the ladder leading to the deck and, without turning, said, ‘Put him in with the rest. Make sure he has food and drink.’ Boar barely had time to acknowledge the order before he was up the ladder and out of sight.

‘You heard the man,’ Boar rasped. ‘What are you waiting for?’

Brann stumbled into the small hold, realising how exhausted he was. Boar gestured towards a space beside Gerens, where Brann would originally have been installed had his progress not been interrupted.

Boar grunted, ‘Better late than never.’ He smirked as his gaze passed around the small room, crammed with pale and harrowed faces. ‘You’re mine, now. Don’t you forget it. Especially you, late boy.’ His foot flicked out and nudged Brann’s side to indicate the object of the comment. ‘Don’t you be getting any ideas about being special just because the old crone shared her ramblings with you. You’re all the same, now: all maggots under my boot.’ He used that very boot to emphasise the point again, but this time it thudded into Brann’s ribs in a full-blooded kick. The boy cried out before he could stop himself, and curled up, praying that the fat bully would go away.

But Boar was still speaking, enjoying lording it over his captive audience. ‘Remember, you are our pay-day. So eat and drink when it’s given to you, and keep yourselves clean. I don’t want to go home to my wife with my pay short just because any of you fall sick.’

Brann was unsure which was the worse thought: the idea of what it must be like for some woman to be married to such an obnoxious oaf, or the image of the sort of woman who could place Boar in a state of fear.

Boar reached into a heavy canvas bag and produced a loaf and a hunk of cheese. Breaking off part of the bread, he threw it and the cheese into Brann’s lap, before picking up a wooden bowl. He leant back out of the doorway to fill it from a barrel of fresh water that stood in the short corridor.

Setting the bowl down beside Brann, he grunted. ‘Make the most of the bread and cheese. Fresh food don’t come your way very often at sea. But you maggots weren’t the only things we brought back from our fun ashore.’

He turned away and snorted hugely in amusement, the noise lasting the length of his passage to the ladder. The sound would normally have blunted Brann’s appetite, but not today. The appearance of the food in his lap had awakened a hunger that had been lying dormant until now, but had re-emerged with a vengeance. He picked up the cheese but, as he chewed it, his arm drooped and the food fell and rolled against Gerens’s leg. Gerens turned to see Brann slumped, deep in slumber and snoring gently.

Gerens carefully wrapped the remaining cheese in as clean a rag as he could find and picked up the bowl of water. Lifting Brann’s head upright, he touched the rim of the bowl to his lips. In a reflex action, Brann drank.

A boy close by sniggered, nudging the lad beside him. ‘Look,’ he snorted gleefully. ‘He’s trying to get him to wet himself.’

Without looking up, Gerens said darkly, ‘I am trying to keep him in health. But if you favour sport of that sort, wait until you sleep yourself and I will see what I can arrange.’

The laughing stopped. The boy looked at Gerens. ‘Why do you help him?’

Gerens shrugged. ‘I feel like I should. So I do.’ His stare swept onto the boy. ‘Are you saying I should not?’ The boy shook his head, but Gerens had already turned back to Brann and helped him to two further swallows. In a lower voice, he spoke again. ‘That will do, chief. Enough to keep you going. Any more, and those fools will have their entertainment.’

As he put down the bowl, Brann mumbled in his sleep. It was almost incoherent, but Gerens could just make it out. ‘Thank you, mother.’

With a hint of a smile, the boy replied softly, ‘Thank the gods you did not say that loudly enough for the others to hear. I do not know which of us would have suffered more if you had.’

On deck, hours later, the slow, steady drumbeat was muffled, for sound carried further at night and it was not generally wise at sea to advertise one’s presence unnecessarily. It also helped any of the crew who were managing to rest, to do so.

The night was clear, the stars sharp, the large moon bright enough to give visibility to the horizon, the sea peaceful and – most relevantly – the breeze gentle, so the oars were needed to maintain their progress, albeit at a reduced rate. Every third bench was rowing, while the others slept; the remaining slaves would follow suit in two further shifts, so that all would be able to rest for the majority of the night.

On the raised deck at the stern, Boar broke wind violently. ‘There,’ he declared. ‘That’s what I think of those maggots in the hold.’

The steersman grunted, glad he was upwind of the foul oaf, who smelt badly enough without the aid of flatulence. ‘That’s what you think of everything, Boar.’

The fat man spat over the side. ‘Nah, these are the worst ever. We’ll be lucky to clear our wages this trip. And there’s one wee runt thinks he’s better than us, away chatting to the old witch below. He’ll be the first I break, wait and see. He’s no better than Boar, that’s what he’ll learn.’ He spat again.

‘Would it not be better to keep them healthy, Boar? You know, keep them looking good for the market,’ the steersman suggested. ‘More money for us. Better idea, no?’

Another voice spoke from the shadows. ‘And a better idea to show more respect for Our Lady. Would that maybe help, Boar?’

Had there been more light, it would have been clearly visible that the colour had drained from Boar’s face. The steersman, without being able to see it, knew it to be so nonetheless, and smiled his amusement.

Boar spluttered. ‘Yes, Captain. Good idea. I mean, sorry, Captain.’ He regained his composure, such as it ever was. ‘Got to catch some sleep, Captain. Better go below. G’night.’

‘Another good idea, Boar,’ the Captain said evenly. ‘Good night.’

Boar stomped off. The deck was silent again, but for the soft drumbeat and the creaks and splashes of the oars. The steersman broke the silence. ‘Why do you keep him, Captain? Few skills, too many weaknesses, potential for trouble. You know that if you want his throat cut and him dumped over the side there will be no shortage of volunteers.’

The tall, black-clad figure looked at the veteran warrior. The man was one of his oldest companions and an astute reader of men, although this assessment of Boar had hardly taxed his talents in that respect.

‘I know, Cannick, I know.’ He sighed. ‘And you know he is not the sort I would normally choose, had I the choice. But also you know that circumstances do not, these days, allow me to be over-particular. And you know men well enough to understand we have been lucky with the standard that fate has, mostly, given us.’

Cannick spat over the side. ‘We have been lucky, Einarr.’ The Captain did not stir at the use of his name. ‘From the first campaigns I fought with your father as young mercenaries who needed only the promise of gold and excitement to turn our faces towards lands we had never even heard named before, to the time when your grandfather’s death called your father back home, I served with men good and bad. Sometimes the bad are the ones you want more at your back in a fight; some of the worst have saved my life. But some of the best have stood by me when the worst have run, and your father was the best of those. When disease robbed me of my family and someone else’s war took my home, I had nothing. I was freed by the worst of fates to determine my own path, and I could have gone anywhere. But the path I chose was to your father’s home, because all have their benefits, but the best have the benefits that sit most comfortably on your shoulders.

‘These men you have here, you have indeed been lucky to find signing up with you. All are true, most are good men and all will stand by you. All except one. He is as rotten as I have come across, but we are in a dirty business. Everyone in this business expects to get his hands dirty, but there’s always a need for someone who will shove his hands in shit without a second thought.’

The Captain sighed. ‘We have indeed been lucky with them, Cannick. You and Our Lady downstairs are the only ones I trust with my name, but these men I trust with my life. They are capable in combat and are generally a good bunch of lads, caught, like us, in something we’d rather not have to be a part of, had we the luxury of choice. Which is why I wonder why we need a man like Boar. He is different from the rest of us: he belongs in this life. If truth be told, he enjoys it.’

‘You are right, old friend,’ the veteran warrior agreed, his gaze lingering on the moonlit horizon. ‘And that is exactly why he has his uses at the moment – because he belongs in this life. We are in it, whether we like it or not, and we need men like him to make it work until we can be rid of it. But you are right: he does enjoy it… too much. His use will continue until fate decrees that it should stop. He will push someone too far one day, he will become too much for someone, and it will be surprising how quickly his advantages become less important to us. In the meantime, though, you need to treat him as you would a fighting dog – keep him on a short leash and watch him carefully until the times arise when he is of use. Do you know what I mean?’ Cannick smiled again, but this time grimly. ‘But I do hope I am around to see it when the gods decide he has outlived his usefulness.’

The Captain looked at him. ‘As usual, you are right. But, as for the last, who will be their tool, I know not. I only know it will not be me. I will kill a man in battle without hesitation, but I will not end a man’s life merely because I do not like him. However, when his end comes, I am sure it will be of his own making and we will not need to prompt it. He is good enough at that himself. And, when it does happen, I will trust that the gods have indeed decreed it, and who am I to judge against their decision?’

‘Who indeed, boy, who indeed?’ Cannick said softly as the tall dark figure descended the ladder and made his way forward to check with the lookout, as he did every night at this time, before retiring to bed.

The Captain reached the prow and held himself steady beside the warrior on duty. The ship reared up at the front into an ornate figurehead of a blue-painted dragon, rearing in silent fury to the height of two men and half as much again. On the back of the head was a small platform that was only a few feet higher than the raised area at the stern; but even just a few feet made a difference in the distance a man could see over the waves.

The lookout was expecting the visit. ‘Just one thing, Captain,’ he reported, pointing. ‘A ship to port, keeping close to the horizon.’ He pointed almost due east, back towards the land. ‘It has been there a while. I would have called you if it had got any closer, but it has kept its distance and I knew you would be coming by at this time anyway. It’s closer to the coast so it may just be a fishing boat. Thought I’d better mention it, though.’

It was not unusual to see other ships at sea – this was a well-used area, after all – and it normally sufficed to keep a wary eye on other vessels until they passed out of sight. ‘That’s fine. Watch it closely. Have me wakened if it does get closer before dawn. And pass on that order to your relief.’

The Captain returned to the stern, stopping at the base of the ladder. ‘Steersman, one degree towards the east. There’s a ship out there, to the west. See if it has matched our change of course when the sun comes up, after you have rested.’

‘I can see the shape, now you point it out,’ Cannick confirmed. ‘Thank the gods for the light nights; in a few months we wouldn’t have known it was there at all.’ He squinted. ‘Couldn’t have said it was a ship, right enough. Lookout has good eyes.’

The Captain paused as he opened the door to his cabin. ‘We may all have cause to be thankful for that before long. Pass on the orders when you are relieved. And if any of the men come up on deck, send them back below and tell them I said they should get as much rest as possible. Best to be ready.’

He was in his bed in moments; the advice on rest applied to him, too. But sleep did not come as quickly. He lay, his eyes fastened on the ceiling but seeing nothing but the faces of an old woman and a frightened boy. And a phrase rang, over and over, echoing in his mind: ‘When heroes and kings come to call…’

In a dark, damp, crowded room below the Captain’s cabin, a boy, confused, battered in body and mind, numb shock his only defence against unbridled terror and despair, slept the deep, dreamless sleep brought only by utter physical exhaustion.

But had he known the day that lay ahead of him when he woke, his eyes may never have closed in sleep at all.




Chapter 4 (#u98b62f7b-ff8a-5d58-bc43-f3d3cf30a897)


They were coming, he knew that. No messenger had forewarned him, but living for years, so many long years, in a world limited to the dust and gloom of these few chambers perversely had brought with it an acute sense of the wider place around him. Servants and retainers moving about their daily routines around his quarters, unseen beyond his doors but betrayed by their soft murmuring and quiet tread, created a rhythm that needed only the merest change to attract his attention. He had listened.

At first, there had been abject dejection that his existence had descended to such banality but, before long, there was a resurgence of the curiosity of his youth, the voracious appetite for information that had been far more the reason for his success than the chilling ruthlessness for which he had been known to the public eye. He became absorbed in the noises, the movements, the rhythms. Over time, the changes, and not just the routine, brought understandable meaning and, bereft of any distractions, he had become adept at reading that meaning. And it had helped the hours to pass.

From time to time, they would come for him. When they remembered that he could be of some use. And they would be surprised at his knowledge of the world outside his chambers. Not of the movements of servants – such trivialities were so far beneath them that they had no interest in that class other than knowing that the required services had been performed even before they realised they were needed. No, their surprise would be at his knowledge of the machinations of court politics, and even of the swirling currents of affairs within and between nations. But, then, he had never seen servants and their movements as trivial. Not in the sense that he had appreciated them, of course, but rather in the sense that every one of them was an opportunity to be exploited: the wine-bearer waiting behind the pair of nobles deep in conversation; the ostler helping an ambassador dismount while he dropped his impassive visage and ranted, safe from the gaze of the court; the handmaiden in the bedchamber of the visiting king’s wife; the concubine in the bedchamber of the visiting king. He had, in previous decades, made it his business to know by name every servant in the palace. Few of those were still in service, but enough remained to paint a picture of the world near and far. Whenever he was summoned, he revealed only a fraction of what he knew – it went against the grain to do otherwise – but he gave them enough to engender a sense of wonder, or suspicion, at his knowledge; he cared not which, he enjoyed both. They concealed their surprise, of course, but he had spent too many years reading other men to miss the glimpses of their true feelings. He had so few moments of genuine pleasure any more, but these times were counted among them. He, too, would never reveal such emotion, but he was well-practised at concealing it, and they were mere novices in reading it. And an air of mysticism was always handy.

Nevertheless, as he left them, they would always see him as their fool. And he would always see them as his puppets. And he despised them for both.

Unseen knuckles rapped softly at the door. They had come to summon him to the court. He rose and grunted acknowledgement. By the time the servant entered the room, the smile that had played around the corners of his eyes had been replaced by his familiar cold mask.

He was ready.

****

Shortly before dawn, the Captain woke from a fitful sleep. Sitting up, he pulled on his boots and shirt and reached automatically for the sword from lying beside him in the bunk. Some old habits refuse to die. He buckled it on as he left the room and, in moments, was below deck.

He hesitated. Even after all these years, he felt a touch of nerves before entering her presence. Taking a breath, as Brann had done only a few hours before, he walked in. He stood, looking down at the bundle of rags, unsure if he should wake her. As he watched, however, he gradually became aware of her face, eyes unblinking, staring calmly back at him.

He jumped. Slightly.

‘Think you I was unaware of you, boy?’ she said softly. ‘Much use to you I would be, were I not even able to notice your approach. Much use indeed.’

He bowed his head, a faint smile twitching the corners of his mouth. ‘Apologies, my lady,’ he said. He was about to continue, but she pre-empted him.

‘Want to know what the day brings, do you? Want to know of approaching others?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You know the other ship?’ he asked.

She shook her head slightly, the charms tinkling gently. ‘I see many things, my boy, ships, weather, mortal spirits among them, but I recognise the identity of no ship but this one,’ she said quietly. ‘But sometimes I cast the bones for myself, not just when you ask, so I do. Today I did. And so already I know of others approaching. Would you know more?’

He nodded, once. ‘I would, my lady. As ever, anything you can tell, I would know.’

The bones were lying on the floor in front of her. With a surprisingly deft sweep of her arm, she caught them up and cast them in a single movement. They rattled to a halt and, without taking her eyes from them, she reached to the side and drew one of the candles closer. ‘Danger approaches, twofold,’ she said.

He stiffened. ‘Two ships?’

She shook her head. ‘Specific, it is not. But men or weather, all that approaches means this vessel harm, so it does. Take care, so you should.’

‘We have few friends in this world, and none out here in this sea,’ he murmured. ‘Is there anything else?’

She poked one long finger at two of the bones, staring intently at them. She brushed the other relics aside, as if to concentrate on the pair. Silence hung heavy as she stared, unmoving. The Captain checked himself, feeling the urge to hurry her, but knowing the futility of doing so.

She nodded once, as if now sure of something that she had suspected. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There is more. If conflict there is, I cannot say the outcome, neither I can. Conflict will swing many ways, at the whimsy of fate and the decisions of men. But one thing is clear: if you fight or if you run, you will lose some in your charge. How many, and who, is down to you. Down to you, it is. But this much is clear: men will die today.’

He cursed the capriciousness of Calip. Why could the god of luck and chance never allow anything to be straightforward?

She spoke again, her tone final and dismissive. ‘I see no more. Take care and think clearly, so you should. Think clearly as you battle nature and man. Perhaps you can use one against the other.’

‘Use them to fight or to run?’

‘I see no more,’ she repeated, sweeping up the bones and watching them as she fiddled with them absently. ‘Take care, boy.’

He thanked her, and turned to go, his shadow flickering in the candlelight. As he reached the doorway, he stopped, his fingers tracing the scar on his cheek as he stared, his eyes on the floor but his mind clearly elsewhere.

Without looking up, she murmured, ‘Something else bothers you?’ She almost sounded amused.

He turned. ‘It does, and that you well know.’ He could have sworn that she smiled in the dim shadows. ‘The boy. What is it about him? What did you see, and why did he affect you so? Why does it trouble me? I cannot rid my head of it.’

She shrugged, a strangely normal-looking gesture from one such as her.

‘I saw what I said, and I said what I saw,’ she said simply. ‘I know it troubles you, as it troubles me and it troubles him, so it does. Do not forget that: it troubles him, most of all. It is never pleasant or easy to be introduced to your destiny, even if you know not what it will be. Especially if you know not what it will be. Just knowing it is there, that a choice awaits you, is not welcome for anyone, let alone one so young.’

He crouched in front of her, a move that was almost imploring. ‘But who is he? Is it good or bad for us that he is here? What will he do? What should I do?’

She laughed, quietly and briefly. ‘Who he is, is less important than who he will be, so it is. And good or bad for us, depends on him. And what he will do, will be his choice, so it will. And what should you do? Nothing. Nothing that you would not do otherwise, had you not heard of any destiny. Do not free him, if you would not otherwise free him. Do not speak to him if you would not otherwise speak to him. His destiny is not yours to influence, not yours, no. If his fate is now to be a slave, so be it. If there comes a time when you would use him otherwise, so be it. Cera will sit in the Hall of the Gods and spin the thread of his destiny accordingly, so she will. She will spin as she spins for all of us now and before and all who ever will be. She will spin, she will spin, she will spin, and we all must accept our place on her tapestry.’

She cocked her head to one side and looked at him in amusement. ‘But why ask me of him, when you have the boy on your ship that you can ask yourself?’

He stood. ‘As ever, you are right. Apologies, my lady. I am thinking so deeply about it, that I cannot see the most simple truth. I thank you, as ever, for your assistance.’

He made to leave once more, but her voice stopped him. ‘Take care of him, while you have him. Tomorrow, especially. And take care of yourself, Einarr.’

He froze. Without turning, he said, ‘I will do my best – on both counts,’ and left.

Brann stirred and, as memories flooded back, he jerked into a sitting position, discovering that he had acquired new aches from his awkward sleeping position to add to those from his journey draped over the back of a horse. At first disorientated, he peered around the cramped hold at the sleeping boys. The last of the drowsiness left him, and he reacquainted himself with his surroundings, examining the room and its inhabitants in the detached way that was becoming so familiar that it had almost moved to his subconscious. Almost. He felt sure he would never truly be at ease with the feeling of separation.

Discovering a hard lump under one leg, he fished out the cheese in its rag covering. Remembering the way that Boar had thrown it down, and noticing the careful way it had been wrapped, he guessed that Gerens had stored it for him. He silently thanked the sleeping youth beside him, still not quite sure why the brooding, in many ways intimidating, youth had chosen to take him, to whatever extent, under his protective wing. His hunger overwhelmed his thoughts, and he wolfed into the food. He noticed the bowl on the floor, and greedily gulped down the water. It was lukewarm, but it still tasted sweet and precious. He leant back against the wall, and the hilt of the stolen knife dug into the small of his back, reminding himself of his folly. Fear swept through him and he cast about for somewhere to dump it, but the room was so bare of all but sleeping boys; it would surely be found, and that could mean the death of all of them.

He pulled out the knife and twisted it in his fingers. A cold melancholy sank over him, and he ran a thumb along the sharpness of the blade. The death of all? Or the death of one? With interest, he found that the prospect of death did not concern him, one way or another, but the ease with which it could be achieved fascinated his darkly dispassionate mind. He ran the keen edge across his wrist. The slightest of pressure, the least of effort, the simplest of movements would be all it would take to make the most momentous of impacts of a life.

The approach of unmistakable footsteps jerked him back from his introspection and he shook his head, thrusting the thoughts back down, buried alongside his suppressed emotions. As quickly and quietly as he could manage, he slipped the knife once again into his waistband and curled up on his side, closing his eyes in the hope of avoiding Boar’s attention.

It was in vain. A heavy boot in the small of the back, no more than two inches from the knife, made him yell in pain.

‘Morning, maggot,’ Boar said with satisfaction. ‘Time to get up. For some reason, the Captain wants to see you.’

He unfastened Brann’s manacles from the chain on the floor and, grabbing the front of his tunic with one hand, hoisted him to his feet. His knees immediately buckled and he fell back to the deck.

Boar grinned maliciously with the few teeth he possessed. ‘Better get the legs working. Easier to walk than be dragged – especially on the ladders. Mind you, more fun for me that way.’ He laughed, amused at his own wit.

He grasped the back of Brann’s tunic again and, lifting the boy’s torso from the ground, started dragging him along the short dusty corridor, his legs trailing behind him. Mindful of the comment about the ladders, Brann forced his stiff limbs to move and scrambled until he was upright.

‘There you go,’ Boar smirked. ‘Got you walking again, didn’t I? Can’t say I’m not good to you.’

Thinking it unwise to offer any reply, Brann climbed the ladder and waited at the top for Boar’s massive form to emerge. The huge oaf pointed him to the door of the Captain’s cabin, and knocked on it three times. At the sound of a voice from within, Boar opened the door, pushed Brann through, and followed him in.

‘You wanted the boy, Captain,’ he said.

Rising from behind a simple rough desk that seemed, to judge from the remains of a meagre meal left from the night before, to double as a dining table, the Captain moved towards them.

‘That will be all, Boar,’ he said, dismissing the man.

Alone with the man responsible for the loss of everyone and everything he held dear, Brann stared at him. He should have been overwhelmed with rage, or terror, or hatred, or all of these. But all he felt was a dull resentment, as if the world he was in was unwanted but unreal. He stared blankly at the Captain.

The subject of his stare drew a chair up to the desk and gestured to Brann to sit. Placing food in front of the boy, and nodding in reply to Brann’s questioning look, he said, ‘Yes, eat. It is just the leftovers of some bread and cheese from last night, but I am guessing you have not seen much food these past couple of days.’

As Brann launched into his second breakfast of the morning, the Captain sat down opposite him.

‘Slowly, slowly,’ he cautioned. ‘If you throw it back up, you would be as well not bothering to eat it.’

Brann forced himself to take the advice. He felt conscious of the man staring at him, as if he were assessing him, and looked up at him. What could the man tell from the way he ate? Why watch him now? Feeling that he had no way of knowing the answer, he shrugged slightly and returned to the food.

For a few long moments, the sound of his eating was the only noise in the room, and as Brann became aware of it, the noise seemed to become louder with each bite. The tension was eventually broken by the Captain.

‘Apologies in advance,’ he said. ‘You will find me blunt. Too many years in the company of professional men who expect orders and know nothing of small-talk.’ He stood up, and spoke abruptly. ‘I am wondering what you made of what Our Lady said to you.’

Swallowing a mouthful of bread, Brann said, ‘Your Lady? You mean…?’

The Captain cut in. ‘The old woman below deck, yes. She is our wise woman. She reads the bones, as you saw, helping us prepare for changes in the weather or…’ He paused. ‘Or other things.

‘But the vision she had with you – I have never known it before. That reaction, the strength of that trance… I have never known it to be like that.’

‘Maybe she has not been well,’ Brann suggested, noticing that the ship had started to rise and fall more violently. ‘The movement of the ship, sea-sickness, and things like that.’

The Captain laughed, a natural sound that was startlingly at odds with his grimly efficient appearance. ‘Oh, boy, if only I had your innocence around me more often. No, no, she has been at sea, with us and many others before us, for at least seventy years now – well, seventy that we know of. No, that reaction was something different, and powerful. Do you remember what she said?’

Brann nodded, not realising that he had stopped eating. ‘I cannot forget it. Do you want me to repeat it for you?’

The Captain sat down again. ‘No need. I, too, cannot remove it from my head.’ He leant back, running his hands through his now-unruly black hair.

Hesitantly, Brann asked, ‘Do you know what it means? All this talk of destiny and suchlike? Is it real?’

‘That you can be sure of,’ the Captain nodded. ‘If she says it, it is real – in some fashion or another. She sees future possibilities, but what actually transpires depends on so many things: random occurrences, decisions – considered and intuitive – of many people, twists of fate, the whims of the gods, and on, and on. So she cannot say what you will do, only what you will face. So, whatever happens to you, at many points you will have to decide what path to take. And one of those decisions, one of those paths, will be one on which hangs the fate of others. That she knows. What that decision will be, may not be decided yet – it may change several times according to the way your life goes between now and then.’

He sighed, then leant forward, his eyes boring into Brann as if gauging his reaction. ‘Everybody faces decisions on a daily basis. But in your case she knows that one moment of great import will come – and when she speaks of that, she speaks of importance to a great many people. Who are you? What is it that you offer? That you can offer? What are you?’

Brann felt himself go still. His tone was as dull as his feelings. But there was bitterness in the truth of the words. ‘I have no family. I have no life of my own. Your men saw to that. You made me what I am. I am nothing.’

An edge crept into the Captain’s voice, but too slight to tell whether it was from frustration or anger. ‘That may be your fate now, but according to Our Lady, it is not how you will be in time.’

Brann felt sick at the thought, lurching in an instant from a complete lack of care to overwhelming waves of emotion. It seemed as if the world was closing in on him, and he felt very small. Tears started to well up.

The Captain moved around the table and patted his shoulder, awkwardly. ‘If you want to, cry. Let it go. It is shock – you have been through much, and it will take a while to get over it, as she told you. If you want my advice, try to let it out – but not in front of the others. Weakness is not a good thing to show around here, but I guess you have worked that out for yourself.

‘I have worked with many warriors in my time, so I have seen many people go through what you are feeling just now. Some find it helps to take one day at a time. Treat everything you do as the most important thing in your life and devote yourself to it until it is done, then move on to the next.’ He laughed briefly. ‘You may end up an obsessive, but at least you’ll get through the days.’

Brann, however, did not cry but instead finished the last of the food and caught his plate as it threatened to slide from the table. The rising and falling of the ship had now been joined by what felt like a sideways buffeting, giving a distinct feeling of being tossed about by a playful giant.

‘Did something bad happen to you?’ he asked, taking a deep breath as if sucking his self-control back inside him. ‘Is that how you know what to do?’

The Captain stopped, his face set grimly. ‘Another piece of advice, boy. It is seldom beneficial to your health to pry. Try to avoid doing so.’ He grunted. ‘Anyhow, that is all. I merely wanted to make sure that you did not say anything to anyone – and I mean anyone – about Our Lady. The less that people know about her, and the more mystery that surrounds her, the more she is revered, or feared… and the better it is for her, for me and for the ship.

‘And it will be better for you, too, not to talk. You will find that, when someone is the subject of a prophecy, good or bad, small or great, it tends to breed jealousy and resentment. At the very least, others will never look at you for the person you are: you will just represent the prophecy to them.’

He walked to the door and shouted for Boar. Brann cast a look around the room, realising that he had been so intent on eating that he had never bothered to examine his surroundings. It was basic: a wooden bed, the desk and chairs, a long chest large enough for weapons and clothes and, curiously among the bare efficiency of the rest of the cabin, a small bookcase. He could not make out the titles of the books, but they looked both well-read and cared-for.

Then Boar had him gleefully back in his clutches and prepared to drag him roughly from the room, squeezing his arm so hard that Brann caught his breath.

‘Hope you don’t mind me holding so hard, only we don’t want you to fall over in the storm, do we?’ he growled happily at the boy. Brann thought that he would rather fall, but felt it wiser not to suggest it to Boar.

Before they could leave the room, however, a bell started to ring. The Captain froze in the doorway, holding one hand out behind him to tell Boar to stay where he was. A warrior skidded to a halt in front of the door, as others tumbled from below decks, weapon-bearing belts in their hands rather than having wasted time buckling them on until they could determine the nature of the alarm.

‘Pirates, Captain!’ the warrior shouted above the noise of the sea and the bell. ‘To the port side, and closing fast.’

‘How did they get so near?’ the Captain yelled back. ‘I gave strict orders to watch them and rouse me if they approached.’ He paused, and his eyes narrowed. ‘To port?’

The warrior wiped his soaking long hair away from his eyes and, with a practised hand, tied it behind his head as he spoke. He nodded, confirming the Captain’s suspicions. ‘That ship was a decoy, Captain. It moved closer, then dropped away. Then closer, then away, all the while to make us wonder. While we watched, the other one crept up on the other side. With no lights and dark hull and sails, they managed to stay under cover of the waves as they rose higher, whipped up by the storm as it came in from the wide sea, and fast with the wind behind it.’

The Captain nodded curtly. Whatever the reason, and no matter his anger at himself for allowing them to be duped, they had a situation to deal with. It had been admirable sailing, whoever his foe was, and if their fighting in any way matched that level of skill, they would have a job on their hands.

‘Get to your position,’ he shouted. ‘You too, Boar. You,’ he pointed at Brann, ‘stay here.’ He slammed the door shut. Brann raced over to it and opened it slightly. He was damned if he was going to miss whatever was going on. His right hand went instinctively to the hilt of the knife at the small of his back. Then his common sense took hold and he realised how ineffective the small weapon would be in anything that was about to transpire. Very quickly, however, his foolishness was overwhelmed by his curiosity, and he returned his attention to the scene unfolding beyond the door.

The Captain was roaring, ‘Cannick! Cannick!’ The old warrior appeared at his side. Despite having finished his shift at the steering oar only two hours beforehand, the Captain could see he was still one of the first on deck. ‘What’s the situation?’

‘Pirates, Captain,’ Cannick shouted. ‘One hundred yards out, and closing fast. Not enough time to arm the slaves. The other ship is not immediately within dangerous range, so I’ve readied the men for any attack from the one side, and I’ve sent the archers to the bow to oppose their crossbowmen.’

The Captain assessed the situation in a sweeping glance. ‘We cannot afford to arm the slaves, anyway; we need them to keep us steady in these waves. In any case, this weather will see that there will be no boarding unless we are defeated first. No one could successfully cross to another ship in these conditions if they had to face armed men to do so.’ His eyes swept around the ship. ‘Good, Cannick, well done.’

‘So why attack?’ Cannick was confused. ‘Pirates steal. If they can’t board, maybe they won’t attack.’

‘Look at them, they are attacking. They will be close in minutes. The time for wondering is by. If we stop to wonder why, all we will know for sure is how we are to die.’

He started to climb the ladder to the platform at the back of the ship. Without warning, he reversed his decision and dropped back down beside the veteran.

‘Cannick, change of plan. Bring the archers to the stern.’

Cannick was astonished, but masked his expression instantly. ‘All six of them, Captain?’ he shouted. ‘What about the enemy’s crossbows? It gives them liberty to loose untroubled, if ours are not giving them something to think about.’

Although he was voicing his misgivings, he had already signalled to the archers, who were by now running towards the stern.

The Captain looked at Cannick. For anyone else, questioning his orders would have brought a harsh penalty, but this war-hardened old man had taught him most of what he knew about battlecraft. He started to climb the ladder again, shouting back over his shoulder, ‘I don’t want stalemate. I need to win, and fast.’

He knew it was a gamble, but he had no choice. Most, if not all, pirate ships were bigger than his and more heavily armed, and usually with some sort of artillery. Reaching the rail, he saw that this one was no exception. The heavy ship was indeed closing fast, and its crossbowmen were readying in its bow. At the stern, however, was mounted the real threat: a springald – a huge crossbow-like weapon that had been swivelled towards them. It was pointing, it seemed, straight at him; they always seemed bigger, he thought, when they were aimed at you.

The Captain turned to the drummer. ‘Signal reverse stroke, for three strokes, then resume.’

The order was obeyed instantly. As he had hoped, his ship had slowed slightly – not enough to lose its momentum, and therefore control, in the stormy waters, but enough to cause the other vessel to overshoot slightly. They were still facing the springald, but at least the change had altered the part of his ship that the fearsome weapon was aimed at, and the pirates would have to decide whether to shoot at a target other than their first choice or go through the process of unlocking the springald’s mounting, reaiming it and locking it down again before letting loose its missile – which, particularly given the tossing conditions, would buy them some extra time. He fervently hoped it would be the latter.

As if to mock his tactics, the springald loosed with a chilling twang that could be heard above the storm, arcing the giant bolt at the mast. It struck the furled sail, ripping it, and carrying on into one of the benches. Screams rang out: not of pain from those hit, but of horror from those around them, hardened men as they were. The two rowers who had been struck had died instantly, and horrifically.

The archers had arrived beside him. ‘Aim for the steersman,’ the Captain shouted. ‘Start as soon as they are in range.’

One of the archers replied, ‘That would be now, Captain.’

They let loose their shafts immediately, desperate to end this as soon as possible after witnessing the destruction wrought by the giant bolt. Probably through luck, considering the movement of the ship and the high wind, their first volley flew towards its target, with one shaft catching the steersman square in the throat as he turned to look their way. The force of the blow flipped him backwards, and he disappeared into the sea.

The Captain shouted, ‘Shower arrows on anyone who comes to take over. Until they do, feel free to target the weapon.’

The springald’s crew had taken cover when they first saw the arrows fly but, under the persuasion of a huge man with a bared cleaver-like sword, they had quickly reappeared to reload the weapon, furiously cranking back the wire and slotting another bolt into place. Bellowed orders saw them lower its aim. Having witnessed the effect of their first attempt, they were abandoning the difficult shot at the mast and aiming for the rowers directly this time. It was a quick adjustment to make, for the vertical angle could be altered without unlocking it; although the mechanism allowed it to slide back to absorb some of the energy and reduce the chance of it ripping up the deck to which it was bolted, the massive power it released meant that it had to be anchored against lateral movement. As four arrows flew towards them, the men around the fearsome device took cover again but at that time a pirate could be seen running in a crouch for the swaying tiller and the archers switched their aim back to the steering arm and, as they did so, one of the men operating the springald took his chance to dive at the murderous weapon and hammer at the release mechanism.

Perhaps mercifully, the rowers were facing away from the other ship. Again, those killed never knew that it was coming. The devastation at that short range was, however, horrific. The huge arrow smashed directly into two benches and ploughed into the side of the ship, taking a chunk of the wooden wall with it into the heaving sea.

Three men died instantly. Another two had their heads bludgeoned and shattered by an oar whipped around by the passing missile. Incredibly, no one else was injured. The bolt had been eerily precise in its destructive passage. The ship’s drummer, well aware of the need to keep the vessel pointing into the maliciously relentless waves, beat relentlessly, bellowing at the rowers to keep working to maintain their position. Fortunately, and almost unbelievably, their discipline held in the face of such horror. They knew they had no option: to stop rowing would mean death in either case, from the sea or from the pirates.

The Captain had only glanced at the impact, his attention solely focused on determining the damage to his ship, for the moment at least. If it had been mortally holed, he would have had no option but to change his tactics and attempt to board the pirate vessel. In the current stormy conditions, that was a move that could sink both ships.

One of the archers turned to him. ‘Should we go for the springald, Captain?’ he shouted. ‘We can’t afford too many more hits like that.’ The Captain shook his head. His opposite number on the pirate ship was no fool and had quickly seen his ploy and, although the enemy crossbowmen themselves had been slow to react, they had clearly now been ordered to make their way aft as quickly as the conditions would allow.

‘If we do not get lucky soon, you will have their crossbows to worry about as well,’ the Captain yelled back. ‘Concentrate on the tiller.’

The archers had long since abandoned ordered volleys, and were now loosing as fast as their ability allowed, with arrows being shot before the previous ones had landed. Many were being carried adrift by the blustering wind, but enough were reaching the area of their target to give them hope.

The crew of the springald, however, were busy reloading, and the crossbowmen were nearing the stern. The replacement steersman crouched low, determinedly holding course; the Captain could not help but admire his courage. Behind the group around the springald, a man was trying to push past. The Captain stared through the driving rain, and saw a large shield in the man’s arms.

‘Shoot faster,’ he yelled. ‘They are bringing protection for the steersman.’

As he shouted, however, the instruction became unnecessary. An arrow – ironically one blown slightly off course – struck a metal fitting on the springald. It careered at a sharp angle and streaked a few short yards before spearing into the chest of the crouching steersman. The deflection had robbed the arrow of much of its speed, so it did not strike as hard as the one that had launched the previous steersman into the sea. Nevertheless, it was instantly obvious that it was a fatal blow.

Without any control, the ship started to drift into a turn. The crossbowmen had reached the stern, and one realised the danger and started to throw himself at the tiller. He was too late. The life had run from the steersman and he was slumped on the arm of the tiller, turning the ship completely broadside to the massive waves. The desperate man hauled him to the side and wrenched round the steering arm, but he must have known it was already an impossible task.

It was over in seconds. Three massive waves in quick succession smashed into the wallowing vessel, both swamping it and rolling it to a critical angle and allowing water to pour over the side. For a moment, the stricken ship started to right itself, but the water already on board and the waves that continued to batter from the side, and fill it further, left it lying at a steep angle on its side with the stern slightly raised, and low in the water. Even the thunderous din of the storm could not mask the noise of everything above and below its decks that was not fastened down – and much that had been – crashing towards the lowest point. What they could not hear, but what was even more critical to the stricken ship’s fate, was the noise of the sea rushing into the vessel through every available aperture now open to it, as well as a few that the forceful water had opened up for itself.

It remained at that angle briefly until, without warning, it slipped quickly and quietly beneath the surface. Eight or nine pirates could be seen, when the weather allowed, bobbing in the water, although three were dead already.

One of the archers turned to the Captain, nocking an arrow to his bow. ‘Do we shoot them or bring them aboard, Captain?’ he asked.

His face impassive, the Captain stared for a moment at the figures in the water, then shook his head.

‘Neither,’ he said abruptly. ‘They seal their fate when they sail as pirates: no captain would risk the lives of his crew by taking on board any of those murderous scum. And we have used more than enough arrows already because of the weather and the need for fast action. The sea will take care of them, soon enough.’

He turned to call for Cannick, and found the veteran already standing attentively a few yards away. ‘The other ship?’ the Captain asked.

‘Gone, Captain,’ Cannick said. ‘They started closing in when they saw their friends attack, but then held their position, not wanting to risk anything in this weather, I guess, and waiting to pick up the pieces when we were finished. As soon as they saw the other ship go down, they disappeared the way they had come.’

His leader nodded. ‘I expected as much. They could be close enough to see it sink, but not close enough to see how we did it. If they had known how lucky we were, they maybe would not have left so quickly. But people like that only fight when they think the odds are heavily on their side.’ He smiled coldly. ‘The gods were kind to us today.’ He looked at the seven bodies on the benches. ‘To most of us, at least.’

Cannick nodded. ‘Indeed, Captain. Indeed. And for those others, it was quick. The only good death is a quick one.’

The Captain was watching as the bodies of the dead rowers were unchained and, unceremoniously but with quiet respect, were committed to the tossing sea. Others worked to take down the torn and flapping sail, clear the wreckage and patch up the damage until proper repairs could be carried out. Without turning round, he said, ‘I can see you have got the tidying up under control, Cannick. Just make sure the steersman and drummer work together to keep us afloat. We are damaged and have a bit of rough weather to deal with. We can yet follow the fate of the pirates.’

As he started down the ladder to the deck, he shouted, ‘Once the waves die down, give me a full damage report, on ship and people. And alert me at once, of course, if we have any more uninvited guests looking as if they want to taste our hospitality.’

Cannick grinned. ‘Of course, Captain.’

As the footsteps started down the ladder, Brann eased the door shut and moved back into the cabin, trying to look innocent. As he sat down, the knife prodded him and he realised he had passed up a perfect opportunity to secrete it in the Captain’s cabin. Frantically, he scanned the room for a hiding place for the weapon, but the footsteps outside the door told him he was too late. He dropped back into the chair, resuming his attempt at innocence, as the Captain entered and sat on the edge of the desk, easing off his boots, pouring sea water from them into a nearby basin.

Without looking up as he peeled off his sodden, woollen boot linings, he said: ‘Did you enjoy the view?’

Flustered, Brann floundered for an answer. ‘I… I don’t know what you mean.’

The man’s eyes narrowed in amusement as he walked across the room to hang his sodden and dripping cloak from a peg behind the door, his steps steady and assured despite the violent and unpredictable tossing of the ship. ‘Remember, boy, and continue to remember: it is my job to know everything that happens on this ship – and to notice everything. You would not have been able to see all of our little encounter from the doorway of this room, but you would have seen enough. And do not bother to deny it. Hell’s demons could not have stopped me looking, had I been in your place.’

Brann shrugged. He did not know what to say.

The Captain stared into his eyes, his gaze intense and penetrating as if he were trying to probe Brann’s thoughts. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked at last. ‘It cannot be something you will have witnessed very often.’

Brann fidgeted with his cuff, dropping his gaze to the floor. ‘I don’t know how I feel. Ever since your men killed my family and burnt our home, ever since Boar put a bolt through the head of my brother an arm’s length away from me, ever since I was enslaved, I have felt cold and emotional, opposites at the same time. Most times it feels as if I am just looking at things and working them out, but occasionally, without warning, I feel that I am about to burst into tears for no reason.’ He glanced at the Captain. Seeing his face impassive, he continued. ‘But when I saw all that, I was just numb, taking it all in and trying to notice everything. I was not scared, but I was not brave either – I just felt as if I was no part of it, as if nothing would happen to me.’

He shook his head in confusion. ‘But I should have been scared, and I should have felt sick when I saw what happened to those rowers. Anyone would have.’ He looked up at the Captain. ‘But I didn’t. Does that mean I am evil? Those men were torn apart, and I felt nothing. Am I evil, now?’

The Captain put a hand on his shoulder, as awkwardly as he had done earlier. ‘No, your mind has switched part of itself off because of all you have experienced. You could not have coped with the emotions created by even a fraction of what you have had to face, else you would have gone mad. It is too much, so your mind protects itself. You will learn quickly about everything you see, because you will analyse everything without emotion cluttering your thoughts.’ He moved to lean heavily with both hands on the desk, staring at the dark wood but seeing something far from the dim cabin. He sighed. ‘But we all need our hearts as well as our minds, so you will open yourself up again in time and, by then, you will be tougher and better able to deal with the more unpleasant side of life. Be careful. All men have a darkness within them, and a light, in differing balances. But if you create a void within, the darkness may fill it completely before you begin to let light back into your life once again. At the moment, you may not like your situation, but whatever point you are at in your life, the present is the only reality. You can work to change the future, but not the present. If it is your fate at the moment to be a slave, it is not my place to question the will of the gods, and neither is it yours. That is the belief of my people and, among the many races I have met in my travels, I have not found a reason that can invalidate its simple truth, so it will do for me. As it would serve you well, also.’

‘I understand that, but there is another thing I do not understand.’ Brann’s brows were furrowed. ‘I was told that the rowers were prized slaves, that their well-being was important to the ship. Yet those who lost their lives while sticking to their duty were just dropped over the side, like rubbish. How can you expect the others to give their all if that is how those men were treated?’

The Captain smiled. ‘Your feelings may have been put on hold, but you have been thinking about what you have seen. That’s a start, at least. And I can see how it would appear to you that way. But these men live in a hard practical world. Had those men been injured, we would have done all in our expertise to save them, or at least to ease their suffering. But they were dead. And what were we to do with the bodies? Store them on board to attract disease and serve no purpose? Quick clean disposal was right. They had no family here, and the gods already know them, so what would be the point of a ceremony when we are already battling a storm? The men they were in life will determine their passage to the next world, not prayers offered on their behalf once they are already travelling that road. To conduct ceremonies would merely delay us when it is folly to hang around at the scene of a fight. These men understand that. This is the world we live in: one where practicality helps you survive and sentiment kills you. This is the world you now live in, too. Remember that, and you will learn more quickly how to stay alive.’

The Captain moved to the door and sighed wearily. ‘If we can manage it without interruptions this time, I will have Boar take you back below. And, if anyone asks what passed between us, it is none of their business. If they persist, tell them to ask me about it. I do not expect they will do so.’

He opened the door and shouted for Boar. Before the fat bully appeared, the Captain turned to him. ‘And tell them I scared the hell out of you. After all, like Our Lady, I have a reputation to protect.’

The door closed and Brann was left standing on his own. At first, it seemed strange that he, a captive, should be left unattended, but then he thought, Where could I go? Footsteps approached, and his stomach knotted at the thought of Boar. Sure enough, his fear was borne out as the lumbering giant enjoyed bouncing him against every wall and sharp edge he could find on the way back to the hold.

As Boar fastened Brann back into the chains, he knelt beside him and leant close over him. The smell from his body or clothes – or both – was overpowering.

‘Don’t you be thinking you’re the Captain’s pet, maggot,’ he snarled, and Brann flinched as he realised that the smell of his breath was even worse. ‘You’re mine, and mine you’ll stay.’

As Brann jerked back from the stench, Boar mistook the reaction for fear. Satisfied that he had achieved his goal, he grinned, showing the few rotten teeth he had left. ‘Good. Remember that, or I’ll have fun reminding you, maggot.’

He stood with surprising agility for one his size – Brann reappraised his opinion of the proportion of the man that was blubber – and made his way, laughing, back up the dim corridor.

Gerens nudged Brann. ‘I see you have made a friend there,’ he said dryly.

Brann sighed and leant back. ‘Oh, Boar and I, we get on great,’ he replied. ‘You know, the sort of relationship where he makes my life even more of a misery than it already is, and I dream of killing him.’

A boy nearby spoke up. ‘You would have to join a queue for that. Remember, you have only had it from him for a day or so. Some of us have been here for more than a week.’

For the first time, Brann looked around the small room. Fatigue had driven curiosity from his mind when he had been brought in previously, but now he wondered if anyone else from his village, or even the town, had suffered the same fate. A quick glance, however, determined that he had the dubious honour of being alone in being brought on board from his valley. ‘What is it like?’ he asked the boys. ‘What happens to us?’

A second boy snorted. ‘Nothing, and that’s it. We are just left here and fed occasionally. The exciting times are when you get your food and when you use the bucket there, because those are the only parts of the day that you do anything other than sit on the one spot. Apart from once a day when they take us up to walk up and down the deck for a while to keep strength in our legs. Can’t sell us if we can’t walk, can they?’

The first boy barked a hoarse, humourless laugh. He was thin, almost skeletal, with sunken eyes that disappeared into shadow in the gloom and was, Brann realised as his eyes adjusted to what little light was afforded them, at most two or three years older than himself. His laughter turned to coughing and the boy cleared his throat before adding, ‘Sometimes they even stop us talking if any of them are trying to sleep. As if it was not boring enough already down here. But forget your questions. Why were you taken up there? And what in the gods’ names was going on?’

Brann shrugged and made an excuse that he had been asked about the land around his village in case the raiders ever wanted to pay a return visit.

‘I hope you didn’t tell them,’ the thin boy snarled. ‘Bastards.’

‘Not enough time,’ Brann said, and recounted the attack by the pirates, telling as much as he had seen and embellishing the rest. After the excitement of the tale wore off, the others around him were silent as it dawned on them that their fate could have been even worse.

‘I don’t know what I would have preferred,’ the thin boy said. ‘Drowning or being captured by the pirates. Suddenly boredom seems much more attractive.’

A slight, tousle-haired lad with an angelic face at odds with a voice that was deep in anticipation of the man he would become, but layered with the harsh tone of the adolescent he still was, butted in. ‘What about the old woman? What did she want with you?’

Brann shrugged. ‘No idea. She thought I was someone else. Who knows what she wanted?’

The thin boy stared at him, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. ‘Seems strange to me. I think you know more than you are saying. You’d better not be holding out on us, boy.’

Gerens turned his dark glare on the boy. ‘What do you mean? Did you hear the way that woman screeched when they took him in there? Made my blood run cold, so it did, and I was in here. Would you have liked to have shared a room with her? And how do you fancy being marched about in the gentle care of Boar? I know I’d rather be here. Would you have traded places?’

The boy grunted, coughed raspingly and lay back to doze, and the hold fell silent. The musty room was filled only with the creaking of the ship, a noise that was becoming so familiar to Brann that, most of the time, he was no longer aware of it. He leant back himself; he was exhausted again. It was not too long since he had slept, but he assumed the tiredness was due to the effects that the Captain had talked about. He tried occupying his mind, counting the lines of the grain in the floorboard beneath him but, before he had got far, he had drifted off to sleep once more.

He wakened twice and, each time, managed to eat a little. On one occasion, the captives were talking, but he lacked the energy, or will, to do anything more than idly listen before drifting back off to sleep. From what he could hear, the others were the product of raids further north up the coast. It made sense: the ship’s destination would be far to the south, where countries with the slave markets lay, so they would always be headed in that direction after each raid; were they to work their way northwards as they raided, they would be increasing the distance they had to run if anything went wrong, and would be leaving enemies between them and their haven.

The third time he wakened, it was as a result of being shaken roughly by Gerens.

‘At least look as if you are awake, chief, even if you don’t feel it,’ the youth murmured in his ear. ‘Boar approaches – you could tell his tread a mile off. And I would guess it is better not to give him the chance to wake you himself.’

As if to prove his point, Boar appeared in the doorway and casually kicked a sleeping boy in the guts. The boy awoke, coughing in pain, and Brann was thankful for the timely advice and the fact that, for some unfathomable reason, Gerens seemed to have appointed himself to watch over him, like a savage but attentive guard-dog. Still clutching his stomach, the boy lurched to his feet; he was one of several who had previously learnt the folly of staying down long enough to allow Boar a second kick.

‘Captain wants seven of you upstairs now,’ he growled, unfastening those nearest the door – the six in Brann’s group, and the next one along. He stood them in the corridor and looked along the line. His gaze stopped when it fell on the boy who had been sick when they first came aboard. While most of the others had adapted to the movement of the ship – in fact, some, including Brann, had actually found that it lulled them to sleep – the lad had continued to be ill without respite, and looked as weak as he must have felt.

Boar snorted in derision. ‘Captain asked for the seven most recent, ’cause he wants the ones who haven’t been weakened by all the sitting around you maggots do. But you,’ he prodded the sick boy in the chest with a force that rocked him onto his heels, ‘you won’t do, will you? Pathetic little worm.’ He shoved the boy back into the room and fastened him back to the chain, taking instead the next one available: the thin boy who had spoken to them earlier.

‘You’ll do,’ he grunted, dragging him from the room. The boy could hardly walk, but he forced his legs to work, mindful of the sort of ‘helping hand’ that Boar was likely to offer. The huge oaf, his constantly moist lips glistening in the lantern-light, peered into their faces, his foetid breath causing more than one of them to cough. ‘You’ll all have to do, won’t you?’ he sneered.

He pushed them to the ladder, and they climbed into the blinding sunlight. The storm had passed and a stiff breeze was filling the large sail. An older warrior walked over to the little group as they stood, squinting and shivering. He looked them over and stared at Boar with piercing blue eyes.

‘This the best you could do?’ he asked. Brann recognised from his voice that he was the one the Captain had called ‘Cannick’. He had seemed to be the second in command on the ship, and close to the Captain.

Boar nodded. ‘Just what the Captain wanted. Can’t bring better than I’ve got, can I?’

Cannick turned away from him. ‘That you can’t, Boar, that you can’t.’ He examined the group again. ‘Anyway, they are not your concern now.’ Noticing Boar’s glower at the edge of his vision, he added, ‘Do not worry, we should be filling the gaps for you soon enough. We may as well make use of the room in the hold and, more importantly, we need to fill our quota so we can be rid of this contract as soon as we can.’

Boar grunted something unintelligible – and probably obscene – and stomped off. Cannick stared again at the little group.

‘As you may have heard,’ he growled, ‘we had to deal with a little incident. What you will not know, however, is that we are short of seven rowers as a result. Those of you who can manage to count further than the limits of one hand will have noticed that there are seven of you. Work out for yourselves what happens next.’ He grinned. ‘Your pleasure cruise is over, boys. Now you start working for your crust – at least, until we can pick up some others more physically suited to the task. And, rest assured, you will work.

‘As you can see, there are three rowers to a bench. You will be put, mostly, in pairs with an experienced rower as the third member of the bench. The final one of the seven will, obviously, be with two existing rowers, but do not think that equates to an easy ride – you will just have two people to nag you rather than one.

‘Now, I know some of you will be looking at the condition of the men already there, and at the state of yourselves, and noticing a little difference. You may be feeling a little puny. There is a good reason for feeling that way: you are.’ They were indeed feeling more than a little inadequate compared with the lean, muscled men who were taking the chance to rest while the repaired sail did their work for them.

Cannick continued, ‘You may also be wondering at the wisdom of putting two of you with just one rower. Why not put two existing men to one new one to maximise the pulling power on each oar? It is simple: it would be too easy then for the one of you to let the two other men do all the work. Even if you were trying, you wouldn’t be trying as hard as you would if you felt that your efforts, or lack of them, would always be evident. If you pull your weight, however, it will not only help the ship, but it will help you, for you will develop physically more quickly. And do not worry about whether you are strong enough to cope. Rowing is more about technique and stamina than brute strength; keep pushing yourselves, and you will be surprised how long you can keep going. And it will get easier, believe me. You will pick up the technique quickly enough – it is not complicated.’ He paused, a mischievous glint developing in his eyes. ‘Oh, and do not worry yourselves about the crew coming down too hard on you if you are not trying hard enough. We will not need to. Your fellow rowers will let you know soon enough. I advise you not to let them down.’

He gestured one of the warriors forward. ‘Galen will allocate you to a bench. Pay attention to what he tells you, and listen to the rower you are placed with. It is the easiest way to learn, so take the chance.’

With that, he wheeled away to attend to some other matter. Galen looked them over and slowly shook his head.

‘I understand what Cannick was saying,’ he said. ‘But I do not share his confidence that putting two of you with only one rower is wise.’ He sighed. ‘But I suppose we have to fill the spaces, and cleverer men than me have decided how it is to be done. It is up to you to prove them right and me wrong. Let’s go.’

He started to lead them off, but spun back as a thought occurred to him. The group bunched up at the sudden stop, and he took the chance to lean in close and speak quietly. ‘One other thing, and I will tell you of it before we get into earshot of the rowers. What Cannick said about your effort was right. He has more experience than the rest of us combined, and he has seen more… let’s just say, “incidents” than he probably has cause to remember.’

He nodded towards the rowers. ‘These are hard men living a hard life. Just do not mess with them. Keep in mind that accidents happen at sea, and that you do not want to be one of them.’

He started off again and the seven, who had grown ever more nervous with each instruction or word of advice, followed him towards the front of the vessel. Brann watched the tall warrior, moving with a grace and assured balance that was unusual for a man of his size. It was strange: he did not like Galen – how could he? – but at least the man was fair to them and, whatever the reason for it, he seemed to care about their health and well-being. So did Cannick and the Captain; in fact, Boar, who most closely fitted any preconception that he might have had of slavers, seemed to be an exception on this ship. But what surprised him was that he did not hate them. They had murdered his family, destroyed his home, turned him into a galley slave and were intending to sell him in a slave market. On top of that, they were slavers: people who were abhorrent to normal folk. Yet, try as he might, he could not make himself hate them.

Why? Maybe he had nothing left in his life, and he was clinging to any crumb of kindness that fell his way. Or maybe I’m going mad,he thought with a smile.

Galen had noticed the smile. ‘I see you still have spirit, boy,’ he said. ‘Either that, or you are monumentally stupid. Either way, make the most of that smile. You are not likely to have the energy for another one for a while.’

They had stopped at the front of the ship. A group of warriors was waiting there, and one of them had started unlocking rowers from their chains at the boys’ approach.

The men and boys were quickly rearranged over the front benches on each side of the aisle according to Cannick’s instructions. Brann noticed that two of the benches looked new. It would have been there that the missile had struck, and he shuddered at the thought.

As they were assigned their positions, Brann realised that, while the warriors around them appeared to be lounging casually, their hands never strayed from their weapons and their eyes were watchful. The crew and slaves may have an understanding, but these were men who took no chances. They appeared more like professional soldiers than the lowlife vermin that he would have expected slavers to be.

Brann stayed close to Gerens, in the hope that he would be paired with the closest thing to a friend that he had at the moment. It worked. Galen pointed to the pair of them, ordering curtly, ‘First two, in here. New boys nearest the side, rower nearest the aisle. That way, the one at the end who effectively controls the oar will be the one who knows what he is doing. That does not mean you boys can catch an easy ride – those who do not share the burden will soon be reminded of the need to do so by those around them.’

This was the third time that the boys had heard this last piece of advice, but Brann guessed that, on this occasion, it was being said for the rowers’ benefit. He felt glad that the grim men he was sitting among knew that the boys had been warned, so they would not feel the need to inform the newcomers of the fact in their own fashion.

Brann and Gerens were placed with a lean, bald rower with staring eyes and swirling tattoos painting symbols and unfamiliar script across most of the exposed parts of his body, including his scalp. His smooth skin and lean build made it hard to determine his age, but Brann guessed he was at least old enough to be his father. Brann found himself wondering if he had pointed teeth and spoke in a hiss. He just seemed the sort.

The tattooed man stared at the boys appraisingly – something that was becoming familiar, but no less uncomfortable. He grinned. ‘Grakk,’ he said. ‘And you are?’

Brann was disappointed: both Grakk’s voice and teeth were perfectly normal, if respectively a little guttural and stained. And, despite the strong accent, his speech seemed, even in those few words, to be cultured and eloquent, entirely at odds with his appearance and proving the rashness of Brann’s initial assessment. On reflection, though, his reaction turned to relief – the unkempt hulk of a rower on the bench in front of them was berating the red-haired youth and his companion purely on the grounds that he had been landed with a couple of puny farm boys through no fault of his own. And his threats of what would ensue if they even thought about slacking were decidedly unpalatable, to say the least.

Brann and Gerens introduced themselves and Grakk – in a formal gesture that was as incongruous in the setting of the rowing benches as it was from one who, despite his refined speech, did still resemble a nomadic savage – gripped their hands and nodded his acknowledgement of their meeting.

‘Do not expect frivolous conversation,’ he informed them. ‘Observe diligently to learn, and work to your utmost to make use of what you learn. Here, as in life, learning is everything. In that fashion, we will all prosper. In the meantime, appreciate what is in front of you.’ He stared intently at Brann. ‘It is indeed a glorious day. Now, however, I will sleep.’

With that, he curled up on the floor in front of the bench, closed his eyes and, in moments, appeared to be sound asleep.

They looked at each other. ‘I believe we may be lucky in our companion,’ Gerens said solemnly.

Before Brann could reply, the shaggy-headed rower in front of them turned round. ‘Yes and no, boy,’ he growled in clipped accent. ‘Yes: you did not get me, and I am not as well-spoken in my instructions as he just was. No: the last man on these benches who crossed him had his throat slit from ear to ear by the morning. Left a terrible mess, it did. Of course, nobody knew who did it. It couldn’t have been any of us rowers, could it? We have no means of doing something like that.’ He grinned malevolently with around half the teeth that his mouth should have contained. ‘Do we? Sleep well tonight.’

The pair stared at each other again. They looked down at the gently snoring Grakk, and back at one another. ‘Well, chief,’ said Gerens with a shrug. ‘It’s something to bear in mind.’

Brann stifled a giggle, the tension that had knotted his insides all of his time on the ship exaggerating his reaction. He was sure that Gerens had meant it without any humour, given that the boy’s dark delivery had not wavered in the way he had said everything since their meeting. It mattered not. He was unable to totally prevent the giggling, and he bit on his sleeve in an attempt not to draw unwelcome attention to himself. Despite himself, he found that he was starting to like Gerens. His dark, practical approach to life was consistent, and consequently dependable. Brann tended to think things through, to be sure he was making the right decision; sometimes, however, it was necessary to cut to the simple truth of a situation, and Gerens was certainly the master of that approach, which Brann found, under the current circumstances, comforting. As was the boy’s unfathomable decision from the moment they met to make it his mission to take Brann under his protection. Unfathomable, but, under the current circumstances, there was no earthly need to attempt to fathom it and all that was left was to accept that it was extremely handy. Handy, and comforting.

The laughter subsided, and he wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. The boys sat quietly for a while, mindful not to disturb any of the rowers around them – especially the large one in front of them – who had followed Grakk into slumber. Their tattooed companion looked as if a raging thunderstorm would not waken him, but they felt it wiser not to risk it.

The thin boy turned around, taking care not to wake the rower on one side of him or the sallow boy on the other. ‘Since we’re all in the same boat…’ Brann manfully resisted the urge not to giggle again. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Since we’re all in the same situation, I think it would be better if we all get on. Whatever went on between you and the old woman is not my concern. And your friend was right: I am glad it is not my concern. Any attitudes from down below could maybe be left in the hold, yes?’

Gerens shrugged and nodded. Brann, as the main target for the comments in the hold, felt awkward in his company and was more reticent about accepting it so easily. But he saw no advantage in showing open hostility; better to accept him on the surface, and be wary underneath. The smoother things ran among them, the easier it would be to cope with their ordeal. At the very least, it was one less thing to worry about.

He nodded as well. The youth introduced himself as Pedr, a metal-worker’s son from a small coastal village. He was taller than Gerens, but gangly and skinny in the way of boys who had grown rapidly in height; he had not yet filled out to match it, if ever he would. He was talkative, and strong of opinion and, although that could prove irritating at times, his chatter – kept low to avoid disturbing the frightening rowers on each of their benches – at least passed the time.

After what seemed like hours but could only have been, according to the sun’s progress, little more than half-an-hour, the large drum at the stern let out three thunderous bangs. With a start, Brann realised that Grakk was sitting beside them – he had gone from sound sleep to ready alertness so quickly that the boy had not seen him move from the deck.

Every one of the rowers was in position – obviously the drumbeat had been a signal to action. Flexing his arms, Grakk confirmed it. ‘Make yourselves ready. We will be commencing rowing,’ he said simply.

‘Straight away?’ Brann asked, alarmed. Now that the moment had arrived, he suddenly felt the weight of how little he knew about the activity that would be his life for the gods only knew how long.

Grakk looked at him for a moment. ‘If it were “straight away”, you would be rowing already.’ Brann blushed. It was indisputable logic, and obvious. Grakk grinned. ‘When the drum bangs three times, as it just did, you will prepare yourself. When the drum bangs twice more, you will extract the oars. Understand?’

Brann nodded, taking in the simple explanation with wide-eyed attention as if he were listening to the most complex of instructions. ‘Yes, I understand,’ he stammered.

Galen strode down the aisle. ‘We row in fifteen minutes,’ he shouted. ‘First of all, the first two benches nearest the bow on each side will practise getting their oars in and out, for the sake of the new lads. The oars are the big wooden things by your side, by the way, just in case you hadn’t noticed.’

Brann realised with yet more embarrassment that he had been overwhelmed by so many other things that he had not even noticed the single most important object in his new life. As the smallest on his bench, with the shortest reach, he had been placed closest to the side, where the swing of the oar would travel less. He looked to his right, and saw the oar lying flush with the side of the boat, at a slight angle. Its lower half extended out through the side of the boat via a hole that was currently sealed with a waxed wooden plug cut to fit precisely around the stowed oar to prevent sea water from splashing in around their feet or, in the case of Grakk and several others that Brann had seen, around their bodies when sleeping. The length of shaft inside the ship lay on top of the oar from the bench in front of him, and was strapped securely in place. The shaft itself was not straight, as he had expected, but had been crafted with a shallow double-curve around halfway along it to allow it to lie snugly against the boat both inside and out.

Gerens saw him looking at the oars. ‘On some ships, chief, they pull them completely on board, but there is not enough room on this one for that. My father used to make me wooden models of all sorts of ships when I was little. I never suspected I would find myself sitting on the real thing.’

Galen returned from the other end of the ship, where he had been explaining to the rowers what was going to happen. He spoke again to the boys. ‘Now you have had a chance to look around, listen to me. There are two things to notice: one, a plug with a handle and, two, a strap beside you holding in place the oar for the bench in front of you. You can see that the same strap extends over your own oar as an extra safeguard.’





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