Hero Grown. Andy Livingstone
robes and matching veil.
Unable to watch more closely without staring, he returned his attention to the way ahead. Their steps quickened as, with their goal in sight, the dire memories of the events brought about by Loku in the North seemed to sweep over the group. Exposed to the watching crowd and staring at the line of thrones, the ground was taking an eternity of frustration to cover. Frustration, but also mounting excitement, as the opportunity to enlist the help of such power drew closer with each rapid step. The exotic alien sights that had met his eyes since he had stepped from the ship, and which had built to this crescendo, filled him with a burning and breathless anticipation. He may have had to endure horrors and terrors to reach this point, but there was no denying that his fate had brought him to an experience that he could never have imagined, were a whole tribe of storytellers to try to describe it to him. Here was he, an apprentice miller from a small village on what seemed like the other side of the world, walking into the court of the fabled Emperor of the mightiest Empire their world had ever seen. Forcing himself to breath, he dared to look at the ruler himself as they approached.
The man was more normal than he had expected. His clean-shaven face was coloured by the sun to a hue that matched the dark sand of the land they had spied from the windows and creased by smile lines that lent amusement to his eyes and cheeks. Black hair was cropped efficiently short and cut straight across his brow, just above calm brown eyes and, as his head turned, a circlet flashed golden as it caught the sunlight. Clad in robes of pale blue, edged in gold and with a heavy chain of thick links of gold, he sat as easily on his massive throne of stone as though it were filled with cushions.
The four who sat to either side were of such similar appearance to the Emperor that the family resemblance was unmistakable. Their white robes were also edged in gold, and while they lacked the chain and circlet, they exuded the same air of easy authority. A Scribe stood at the shoulder of each of the five and a portly man, lavishly dressed in blue and crimson, was demonstrably stating a case to the Emperor but, on their approach, a slight flick of the Emperor’s fingers was all it took for the man to be ushered to one side. As their eyes followed the man’s movement, Brann saw an elderly man, his beard long, wispy and white but his back straight and his dark eyes keen, sitting to the side of the dais.
Shock hit him like a hammer between the eyes. Standing beside the old man, one hand resting casually on the high back of the chair, was a man Brann had last seen leaping from a window to his escape, a man who had engineered a plan that had come close to wiping out the rulers of Einarr’s people, a man who bore a scar the height of his left check given by Brann on their last meeting. Loku had somehow travelled to Sagia before them and, more astonishingly, he had inveigled his way into the court of the Emperor.
Einarr noticed the man a moment after Brann and, without a hint of recognition in his expression, immediately extended a hand back in Konall’s direction, a clear sign to his young cousin to hold himself in check. Brann glanced anxiously at the tall boy, but years of training ensured that, while his face had drained deadly white and his jaw was clenched with the effort of containing his fighting rage, his step never faltered and he made not a sound.
Grakk moved close to Konall and spoke so quietly that even Brann, walking beside the boy, barely heard the words. ‘Patience, young lord. This is to Lord Einarr’s advantage: he can discuss the matters in the North with the Emperor and at the same time expose the man who is linked with them. And it saves us the time and effort of hunting down the dog for vengeance.’
They halted in front of the dais. The Scribe held his right hand in front of his heart before sweeping it forward towards the Emperor, turning his palm to face upwards. He held the pose until the Emperor nodded, then intoned, ‘Heart and Head of ul-Taratac, Ruler of the Civilised World, His Majesty the Emperor Kalos, Fifth of that Name, may I present Lord Einarr Sigurrson, Heir to the Territories of Halveka and the Seat of Yngvarrsharn, his cousin Lord Konall Ragnarrson, Heir to the Seat of Ravensrest, and their party.’ He inclined his head to the Emperor and Einarr in turn, and walked smoothly around the end of the line of soldiers and behind the dais to appear behind the Emperor’s right shoulder. The Scribe who had held that place moved quietly away and stood to one side.
Einarr, who had stopped a few paces ahead of the rest of the group, stood still, head bowed. He only lifted his eyes when the Emperor spoke, his voice warm and full of welcome.
‘Lord Einarr, it is good to see you here. I have heard much about you.’ He waved a hand in an arc above his head. ‘Welcome to my Throne Room of the Heavens, where all are reminded of the vastness that is the one ceiling for all citizens of the Empire.’
Einarr was respectful. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, I am grateful for your prompt granting of our request for an audience. My only sadness is that the purpose of my visit to your court is to bear grave tidings from the North.’
Inwardly, Brann smiled as glee coursed through him. Loku was to be revealed for what he was at the first opportunity. The man must feel desperate to flee, were an escape route possible. Which there wasn’t. Which made it all the more enjoyable.
The Emperor smiled, his eyes creasing in friendship. ‘Be not sad, Lord of the North. I know exactly why you are here. I like your directness, and feel I already like you also.
‘Which makes me, in turn, sad. Sad that you should die.’
At the last word, the weapons of the soldiers around them snapped down, caging them in a box of spear points. Instinctively, the hands of Einarr, Konall and their two warriors dropped to their weapons, while the other three, unarmed, felt helplessness join the shock slamming against them. Spears plunged into the two Northern warriors from behind, Magnus dying instantly and Torstein suffering a further thrust to the chest before his gasping croaks of rage and swinging sword were stopped. Scattered shrieks from the gathered throng were surprisingly sparse, and there was none of the scrambling for safety that Brann would have expected from such a gathering of affluent citizenry, people whose self-regard generally equates with overwhelming self-preservation. Instead, an excited curiosity seemed to suffuse them.
‘I find that I like you, Lord Einarr, so I would advise you and your young cousin to remove your hands from your weapons, otherwise you shall, indeed, share the fate of your two men. Had you listened properly, I said that you “should” die. I have yet to decide if you will.’
The battle-experience Einarr had gathered over the years had kept him focused. His eyes fixed on those of the Emperor, he eased back to beside Konall and rested a hand on the boy’s right arm, gently easing it away from his sword hilt.
His voice remained calm and controlled. ‘Can I ask your thinking, Emperor? Two good men have just bled out their lives over what I can only imagine is a misunderstanding.’
‘There is no misunderstanding, Lord Einarr. I would invite you to walk with me. Your party may accompany you.’
He stood, the Scribe following his every pace as he moved towards the edge of the roof. Soldiers moved in around them and expertly and quickly divested them of weapons. They were allowed to walk to beside where the Emperor stood facing the view, kept by a row of gleaming metal several paces from his right side. Such had been Brann’s fixation on the people until this moment that it was only now that he became aware that the rooftop was exactly that, and no more: a perfectly flat surface, unadorned with any protuberance and, most significantly, no wall around its edge. The sides dropped abruptly away to the ground far below, escalating the impression of height and overwhelming him with vulnerability. He was acutely aware of the hot wind that plucked at his tunic but felt like a gale, and of the grainy surface that now seemed as treacherous as an icy slope. Born in a country of hills and dales, he had never been one to be nervous while standing at the edge of a drop. Until now.
The Emperor was unperturbed. His voice was calm. ‘The city you passed through, that lies below us, is the greatest in the world. The land you see stretching before you, as far as your eyes can see from this loftiest of viewpoints, is but a grain of sand to the expanse of my Empire. Your mind cannot comprehend the number of people who fall under my control, who rely on my will. This,’ he touched the circlet nestling among his thick hair and which Brann now saw was wrought to resemble a twisted branch that almost met at the front, ‘reminds