Hero Born. Andy Livingstone

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