Brann laughed again. Remembering that expression didn’t make the time in the pit worthwhile. But it did help.
Konall reined up his horse where the road crested a rise, and the others bunched around him. A walled town rose from the plain before them, buildings at this distance seeming to have been crammed in by a giant hand, so tightly packed that only a jumble of rooftops could be seen within the grey walls. The morning sun was high in the sky, and glittering around the outskirts suggested a moat of some sort. Farms dotted the plain as if the same giant had strewn them in one scattering sweep of his arm, but they were the only habitation outwith the protection of the walls. This place did not welcome intruders.
‘Belleville,’ Cannick said, staring at it. ‘The beautiful town. In reality, it is anything but. It is drab, dour, and unpleasant, and has the people to match. But the northern coast before we take ship for the Green Islands juts out into the seas at its north-west corner, so if Loku hasn’t wanted to sail round it and is instead cutting overland to sail the short distance to the islands, he will pass through this town. So, to my distaste, it is advisable that we do too.’
Hakon grinned. ‘So you’ve been here before then, Cannick?’
The old warrior leant to the side and spat on the dry ground dismissively. ‘More times than I would have liked. Two major routes, north-south and east-west, meet here, so it holds an important position, and don’t they know it. Still, passing through has been a necessity before, and it’s a necessity now. Might as well get it over with.’
The others readied themselves to move. Most were still mounted, but Brann’s pack had worked loose in its bindings and its rhythmic bumping against him for the past few miles had been irritating him, so he had slipped to the ground to take the chance to secure it more tightly. Grakk also was on his feet, picking a stone from his horse’s hoof, and Brann cast an eye over the road ahead. They were on the highest point and it undulated through a series of ever-lower rises until it met the floor of the plain. On the next rise, a man struggled alone to fix a cart that had lost a wheel. Brann nodded in his direction. ‘Looks like he could do with a hand.’ He glanced at Cannick. ‘I know you want to get in and out of this place as quickly as we can, and pick up Loku’s trail as soon as possible if he has indeed passed this way, but it wouldn’t take us long if it isn’t too badly damaged.’
The broad shoulders shrugged. ‘We are passing that way anyway. We can see when we get there.’ He kicked his horse forward without hesitation, accepting Brann’s opinion.
Brann swung himself into the saddle, his mail shirt clinking slightly as he did so. The pain from his ribs irked him more than that from his arm, not only because it hurt however he moved but also because it was a reminder of the folly of charging unprotected into a battle where blows will come from all unseen angles. Although ironically, he mused, had he not suffered wounds enough to render him unconscious, he would probably have fought on to his death. Still, he had donned his mail at the first stop to water the horses after Hakon had recounted his story, hot sun or no hot sun.
His hands automatically checked the helmet, shield, and bow hanging at vantage points around his saddle, and eased his sword in its scabbard, while his eyes fixed themselves on the scene at the cart. His gaze flicked to the area around it, searching for any sign of movement or disturbed wildlife, but his attention was mainly on the working man. Just because the distant figure had his back to them didn’t mean he was unaware of their presence. And just because he worked alone didn’t mean he was alone. Brann watched the man through the shimmering of the hot air, and continued to watch as they moved forward, waiting for a telltale glance towards hidden companions, or even the unnatural pretence of remaining oblivious to them beyond the point where he could not have failed to notice their approach.
His mind settled comfortably into the watchfulness. He felt happier to be putting more thought into a situation as opposed to reacting in line with the impetuous side that had been born in the pits of the City Below; born, admittedly, as a necessity in an environment where stopping to think was the first short stride in a one-step march to death. Thinking was a small sign that his darker side was not extending its control, but it was a small sign that he grasped and held tightly.
They moved at a trot, not wishing to move any faster lest it seem too aggressive. Brann’s eyes continually scanned for movement or shining metal in the area around, returning always to the man, but all that he could see was a carter labouring over a repair in the mid-day heat, the cargo, four large barrels, standing at the side of the road. When they were two bowshots away, the man straightened and turned, his face scarlet with effort and awash from pate to waist in sweat. If it was a ruse, the effort he was putting into his act was impressive. He watched their approach warily – a sizable group of riders, all armed, was a sight to make any stranded traveller nervous – and his hand strayed into the back of the cart for a hammer that, presumably, he had been using in his vain efforts to mend the wheel. He would know it would make no difference in the face of the odds he faced, but Brann guessed that he felt more comfortable with something, anything, but preferably something heavy, in his hand. Brann himself would.
The others drew up in front of him but Brann rode past, circling the area until he was happy that no hidden cut-throats lay waiting for their chance. Not that there was much cover among the small and sparse trees that the road cut through on its way to the plain, but it did no harm to be sure, and took only a moment. He walked his horse up from behind the cart as Cannick climbed stiffly from his saddle and slapped the road dust from his clothes.
‘Look like you could do with some help, feller,’ the grizzled veteran said. ‘Hot enough riding in this heat, never mind trying to sort a wheel on your own.’
The man, around the same age as Cannick but around half his width, relaxed. ‘That I could, friend, that I could.’ He wiped his brow with the back of one hand, but Brann noted that he still held the hammer in his other. These were not totally peaceful lands. ‘It is indeed a touch warm today, but the problem is not so much the heat as the weight of the cart. I have not the strength I once did…’
Breta and Hakon strolled past Cannick. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that, little man,’ Hakon said cheerfully as he continued beyond the carter, slapping him gently on the shoulder and causing the hammer to drop from the man’s hand and narrowly miss his toes. ‘We’ll take care of that.’
The man’s eyes widened and lifted high to follow the pair, regarding them as if a couple of trees had donned clothes and sauntered by. ‘That’s, er, very kind of you,’ he said to Cannick, his eyes still flitting to the large couple. ‘The pin snapped and the wheel just fell off the axle. Nothing else actually broke, so it is just a matter of lifting the cart to let the wheel be slipped back on. I have a spare bit of metal that will serve as a replacement pin in the meantime, if the cart could just be lifted by your two, er, enormous companions.’ He looked quickly at Breta. ‘No offence meant, madam.’
She frowned in confusion. ‘Why would a compliment offend?’ She shook her head as if some people were bewildering and turned to grip the underside of the wagon. Hakon did likewise, and in a heartbeat the pair lifted the heavy wagon level, allowing Brann and Gerens to slide the wheel back into place. Mongoose took a heavy iron nail, around a hand-and-a-half in length, from the man and dropped it through the hole previously meant for the pin, and Hakon lifted the hammer from the ground, bending the pointed end with a single blow to sit neatly flush with the axle and hold the nail in place.
Mongoose looked at the nail appraisingly. ‘Nice work.’
Hakon beamed. He glanced at Brann and Marlo, and winked. Brann avoided catching the Sagian boy’s eye – his own straight face was under enough pressure as it was.
The carter was also beaming, his smile containing considerably fewer teeth than Hakon’s, but no less engaging with simple happiness for it. ‘You are angels of the road, scions of the good gods sent to save a traveller in need. Jacques extends his thanks to the gods and to you for bringing you this way. May fortune bless your every step! May the road bless you with effortless passage! May the sky bless you with fair weather! May your