Hero Grown. Andy Livingstone
of movement than the padded tunic had the day before. Grakk merely flexed his shoulders and resumed his cross-legged position.
A guard appeared in the doorway. ‘You two. With me.’ Brann jumped, feeling foolish at being seen practising his sword strokes. The guard ignored him and turned on his heel.
‘Advisable to follow him if we don’t want to get lost, young warrior,’ Grakk suggested from beside him. They did so.
The noise of the crowd, borne on the constant draft blowing down the bare passage, was different. A chanting that, though the words were indistinct, lent a primeval atmosphere to their journey. Brann felt his legs dragging and his knees buckled slightly. He felt Grakk’s hand in the small of his back, a steadying presence.
‘Hold your head high, and your pride will follow. If your father, and his father, and his father, and his father were in the crowd, here to see you, how would you conduct yourself? Well, those who have passed to the next life, they are watching you today. Show them what you can do. Show this crowd, who are here to see you die, that you will not bow to their will. And show Loku, for there is no doubt he will wish to see his designs for you succeed, that he cannot beat you.’
Brann felt an anger begin to grow in his chest. His eyes felt an intensity he had not experienced before. But still his stomach heaved, his hands shook and his legs were weak.
They stopped before heavy double doors. The chanting was like a drum beat. Six beats in two threes. Over and over. And over. And over. Growing, swelling, pounding the stone structure till it shook in time.
Grakk turned to him. ‘All is order in this land. In a death match, for every killing, there is a life. For every life, there is a death. In a death match there are no rules, you do what you do to make the life yours, and the death his. There are no rules, but there are two laws: it finishes only when your opponent dies at your hand; and for every one that falls, another must stand. If two fight, one only must die. If a hundred fight, fifty only must die. So if four fight, two only must die. We both win, we both live. So think on this: I will finish my man as expeditiously as can be achieved, then I will join you. No rules, remember? I will help weaken him, but the killing blow must be yours. Stay alive and it will be so.
‘You will live, young Brann. You will live.’
Horns sounded, and the chanting burst louder still in response. The guard nodded to two men at the doors, and they were swung outwards, flooding them with light and noise. Grakk stepped forward and, with a shove from the guard, Brann stumbled after him.
The chant was a hammer blow harder even than the wall of heat. But now the words were clear.
‘… walk out. Four walk in, two walk out. Four walk in, two walk out…’
Huge drums, spaced evenly around the circular stadium, thundered out a steady beat but were almost drowned out by the voices they sought to lead. Brann realised his feet were keeping time, as were those of the squad of eight soldiers marching in line immediately to their right.
The floor of the combat area was wide and hard with packed sand, and Brann felt the vast bareness opening away from him. Never had he felt so exposed, so visible. The spectators crammed the benches, a mass of teeming humanity so vast that he was unable to register individuals. The sight and the sound combined to make them a single entity, all seeming to watch him, all seeming to hate him, all gleeful for his death.
From directly opposite, their opponents had entered. Both looked like common criminals, but of the most ferocious and murderous sort. The type of men who killed for a purse rather than stealing it by guile, who fought others for their spoils and who survived amongst others of their ilk by being nastier and more brutal than those they fought. Brann was sure they were not a random choice. Both were lean and strong, one with a moustache that reached the bottom of his chin and a scar that ran vertically from the corner of his mouth to bisect an eyebrow and finish at his hairline, carrying a sword and shield similar to those Brann bore, and the other larger and more powerful, turning as he walked to wave a longsword and an axe high to the crowd. As the groups closed, both men leered at Brann and Grakk with obvious pleasure.
The two pairs, with their escorts, met in the centre and turned to walk together towards one side, where Brann noticed a more sparsely populated area. Rather than the bench seating elsewhere, this section was furnished with individual chairs of a size and ornateness that grew further, the closer placed they were to the centre. Perfectly in the centre was a plain stone throne. Lounging in it was the Emperor, smiling as benignly as if Brann were being presented as a desirable suitor for his daughter, waving his hand absently along with the chants. Behind him stood his impassive Scribe, to either side sat the four who had sat with him the previous day, to the side of them sat the frail old man Brann had seen near Loku at the Throne Room and behind them sat Loku himself, his smile triumphant and his eyes bright with anticipation. The chanting had reached a crescendo.
A horn cut through the roar, silencing the throng in the beat of a heart. The silence was just as overbearing as the noise had been.
A herald, fat, shiny with sweat and lurid in a shirt, pantaloons and imperial tabard of colours that clashed so violently they jarred the eyes, stepped forward onto a platform at the front of the Emperor’s section. His voice, though, was as true to the ear as his clothes were offensive to sight.
Almost singing, such was his lilting tone, his words rang to every nook of the Arena. ‘What is your purpose today before His Magnificence, Emperor of the all the Civilised World?’
The other three started to respond, and with a jolt Brann recalled the words taught to him by Salus shortly before they had left the compound.
‘Lord of Lords, our lives are yours. We fight, win, die for your glory. Death is our master, Death is your servant. Our blood is your power.’
The Emperor smiled down at them, genially.
The herald continued. ‘Today we witness a death match. Four walk in, two walk out.’
The crown thundered in response. ‘Four walk in, two walk out.’
Silence lay heavy as the herald paused to build the tension. He looked at the four fighters standing motionless. ‘Today you walk the red path. But who shall you fight? Now we shall discover.’ Both arms aloft, he held on high four balls. ‘At this hour of death, we see the four colours of life: the amber of the sun, the green of the leaf, the blue of sea and sky, the claret of our blood.’
A soldier walked over with four strips of cloth, dyed to match the balls, tying one to each of their right biceps. Brann received the claret, Grakk the amber, the moustached man the blue and the large man the green.
The herald dropped the four balls into a bag. ‘Our Emperor, the heart and soul of ul-Taratac, shall divine the selection.’ The Emperor’s Scribe descended to fetch it, but instead spoke briefly to the herald. ‘In his beneficence, and in recognition of recent service of great value, our Lord of Lords has invited his loyal and trusted advisor, Taraloku-Bana, to make the selection.’
Loku stood and walked down to the herald’s platform, his face solemn. He bowed to the Emperor, receiving a warm nod in reply, and turned to face the fighters. The herald held out the bag and lifted out a ball. The fat man’s voice rang out once more. ‘Claret will fight…’ Brann’s stomach lurched. The hand dipped again. ‘Green.’
The larger man. Brann was sure the selection was no coincidence. Loku smirked.
The herald continued. ‘And so Claret will fight Green, and Blue will fight Amber. Today we witness death matches, not one, but two. No rules, no limitations, just one truth: four walk in, two walk out.’ The crowd roared the response. ‘This contest will be fought as two matches, separate as the sun and moon. Two men, and two men only, fighting alone, twice over. Pure and simple as death itself.’
A fist of panic squeezed Brann’s heart and he looked at Grakk in alarm. The tattooed tribesman leant in close. ‘It is what it is. We cannot change it, so waste no time wishing it different. Deal with the fate you face. You have survived much. You can do so again. What is it you say? Just do what seems right.’