Cannick had brewed coffee, and passed it around. ‘Take some of the Empire’s greatest export – after wine, of course – and settle down. These three need a rest. A few hours today won’t make a huge difference.’
Mongoose stood up. ‘If we stop early enough tonight, I can sit on a horse until then.’
Grakk glanced at Sophaya. She gave a defiant nod, as if any suggestion that she could not achieve the same were an insult. ‘Agreed,’ the tribesman said. ‘Let us saddle the horses.’
Conscious that they should be well clear of even the remnants of the army before they could feel safe, Brann waited a good hour before moving his horse beside Hakon’s to broach the subject he had been given little chance to address since being found the previous night. In truth, he could have asked any of his companions, but Hakon’s affable and guile-free manner would ensure he received the most open of answers.
The large boy proved the point before Brann had even opened his mouth. ‘You want to know how you ended up where you did, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He desperately did. He could remember all of his savage primeval time in the fighting pits below ul-Taratac, and thanks to the administrations of the most learned of Grakk’s tribe in bringing him back from the creature he had retreated into as a means of surviving the pits, he had accepted his experience for what it was – a part of his life that had, at its most simple, happened. What it had changed in him, he could never change back, but the shaman Grakk had taken him to had rescued and returned Brann’s soul, his persona, his essence; whatever word was applied to it, and whatever the man had done to him, he had brought Brann back from where he had been hiding from those very changes. Now he was in control, he was the real Brann in normal life. But in combat the other Brann – the animal living only to survive – would re-emerge, only to subside, satisfied, when the danger was past. Or, at least, emerge as much as he would allow. He could not resist the rise of his other self in times of danger, as it was as much a part of him as any other part of his character, but in having the original side of him, the side of emotions, of civilised thought, of memories and the nuances of character that they create – in short, his personality – having that returned had given him an element of control over the cold efficiency of the side buried deep. When that other element rose, it dominated, but there was still a thread connecting him back to himself, like a cave explorer’s rope fed back in his wake to the outside world. But retaining that awareness when his primeval self took over, that knowledge of how he was behaving… did it remove the excuse that acting in such a coldly brutal way was outwith his true personality? Did it mean that he could not escape responsibility for what could, at times, be ferociously savage? And did that make him evil? A killer? Insane? But if those same savage actions and coldly efficient decisions were all that stood between the survival of himself and those he deemed good people, did that then justify them, make them morally the right thing to do? He had spent countless hours agonising over such questions before realising that it made no difference. He could not change it, so to wonder as to its label was immaterial. What did matter was how he acted towards those around him, and that this had indeed kept him, and at times them, alive. The rest of the time, he was much the same person as he had been before his time in the lawless pits in the caverns below Sagia, albeit hardened and less naïve and with lapses into melancholy and occasional nightmares – not all of which were when he slept. He could live with that.
And the thought of surrendering that tenuous link to himself, of allowing the darker side of him to assume total control, to swamp him, to open up the possibility of his true self never finding its way back – the thought made him shudder.
But what worried him more immediately was his lack of memory of the recent events. It reminded him too much of the immediate aftermath of his time in the vicious pits of the City Below, when his mind’s response to the blood-soaked and death-laden distortion of the more skill-based gladiator fights in the mainstream arenas above ground had been to abandon any concept of his real self. Was he slipping back into that shell? Was the cold killer asserting control? Was he losing himself?
‘Yes please,’ he said to Hakon.
Hakon’s look was appraising. ‘How recently can you remember? Sagia? Or the journey along the coast and then turning north through all those really nice small villages with the nice village girls? Or taking the boat into Markethaven during a siege because there had been news of a man matching Loku’s description having been seen there? Or becoming trapped there for the duration of the siege only to find that he had left before it started? Or leaving the city after the siege, and reaching the valley where the village was attacked? Or…’
Brann cut in. ‘The journey from Markethaven: I remember until that and everything before. I don’t remember the village, or setting up camp at that place, or anything after.’
‘Well, you weren’t with us when we set up camp, so you wouldn’t remember that.’ Hakon regarded him again. ‘So you don’t remember coming out of the trees to see those bastards cutting down the villagers. It was only a portion of what is left of the army, maybe a thousand soldiers or so, but the poor sods had no chance. The place was bigger than the smallest villages, but not as much as a town, just a few hundred ordinary folk living off the surrounding farms and the trades that go with their produce. The men were barely armed with working tools, never mind the women and children who were totally helpless.’
Brann stared into the distance. ‘Sounds like what happened to my village.’
The big Northern boy gave a grunt. ‘That would explain your madness. Before we knew it, you were galloping off to take on a couple of hundred armed men single-handed. You didn’t even have your mail on – it was a warm day, and we hadn’t expected trouble. We went after you, of course, but we were beaten back by the numbers. It was just too many. I’m sorry.’ He fell silent, but just as Brann started to reject the need for any apology, Hakon drew a breath and continued. ‘The last we saw, you had worked your way through to a group of men, maybe fifty, who were outside a hall where their families had taken refuge, defending it as best they could against many times their number. By the time we had regrouped, your horse had found its way clear, but you hadn’t.’
It was Brann’s turn to fall silent. Doubtless his companions in the burial pit had been drawn from those brave men.
‘It is I who should be sorry. I could have condemned us all.’
Hakon shrugged. ‘Sometimes the good in us overpowers the sense. This was your time for that. Those people were already dead. They didn’t know it yet and you just didn’t want to accept it.’
Brann frowned. ‘It was stupid. I should have seen that.’
‘We all have a demon inside us. The good you showed is what keeps it under control. It was our fault for not being quick enough to stop you. We know we are all capable of doing what you did, so should have anticipated it in time. But we didn’t, and you did what you did. Should have changes nothing, and pondering it only delays the solution. So we regrouped, waited until we could do something, and then did it. Except that we expected that the something we could do would be to find you and bury you properly – that’s what your people do, isn’t it? Bury your dead.’ Brann nodded. ‘It seemed your time had come. Only Marlo was determined you were still alive, but that’s Marlo for you.’ His face split into a huge toothy grin. ‘Turned out the wee mad bastard was right, after all, which we were all very pleased about. Especially me – I shudder at the thought of telling my sister I had returned but you had not.’
Brann couldn’t help but laugh. For the second time in a few hours, he was grateful for the counsel of his friends, no matter the form it took. And Hakon’s mention