wash. But we have little time, so if you don’t let go now, it’s going in the water with you.’
This time he did not try to prise Brann’s fingers from the material, but simply held out his hand. Brann, staring only at the hand, slowly placed the cloak in it. The bundle was dropped on the ground at his feet.
The man grunted and stared at the boys around. ‘I keep my word,’ he said. ‘You’ll get it back.’ The instruction to the boys sitting beside it was clear, but they were too cocooned in their own misery to care.
Brann was hoisted to his feet once more. It was fortunate that the man was still grasping his tunic: as soon as he was pulled upright, his knees buckled and his vision began to swim once more. He was half-led, half-dragged into the shockingly cold water and, in only a few paces, he was thigh-deep. He thought the cold of the water might clear his head; it did not, it just left his legs numb.
Abruptly, the hand let go. His legs, with a lack of feeling now added to the weakness, gave way. Before he could even register that he was falling, he crashed into the water. This time, his head did clear. The anonymous hand grasped him again and pulled him up before he managed to swallow too much of the sea. He spluttered, the salt water making his stomach lurch again but, this time, he resisted being sick.
The hand held him up while its partner roughly rubbed his face and clothes with water to clean them. He could force himself to stand under his own strength, and he helped to wash himself. He staggered slightly in the swell, but determination let him catch his balance.
‘A little fighter, are you?’ the voice said. ‘We had to dunk most of the others four of five times before they came to. Keep it up and you might just survive all this.’ All what? Who were these people? And who were the ‘others’? Through the blank apathy in his head, the questions nagged him. But, because of that cold indifference, the answers were not so plain.
He wiped the water from his eyes, the manacles hindering even the simplest of movements. He blinked several times before his vision cleared. He caught his breath at the sight of the man beside him in the water: a mountain of leather, weapons, shaggy black hair and even shaggier beard. As he reached over to start dragging Brann back to the beach, his cloak moved to reveal a lean, muscular build; the cloak, worn over his multitude of weapons, had created a false impression of bulk.
‘I’ll manage,’ Brann croaked, staring down at the water.
The warrior laughed again. ‘We’ll see. Keep that attitude, and you might just.’ He slapped Brann casually on the back, almost launching him face-first into the water. ‘Anyway, you’re clean now, and awake. Enough of this idle chatter. Get back ashore with the others.’
Brann waded back to the beach, where five bedraggled figures huddled together for warmth and, probably, comfort. A quick glance told him no one else from his village had been taken. A quick glance born of cold curiosity, it was, but no more; he found he didn’t care whether or not any of the faces were familiar. Four of them, boys of around his years, were hunched in dejection. His gaze held on the fifth figure: a rangy youth, little more than his own age, with a shock of unkempt and probably untameable black hair that sat every way except flat, the thick tendrils exploding like dark flames from his head. Everything about him seemed angular, from his craggy face to long arms that hung, all bones and corded tendons, and from wide shoulders to legs that seemed as if they would have the co-ordination of a new-born foal. Despite wearing nothing but a rough tunic, he seemed oblivious to the damp chill that was forcing shivers into the others, and he exuded an indefinable strength that ignored the impression given by his gangly build. Most curiously, while the rest of the group exhibited a predictable mix of dejection and shock, he merely stared around him, as if nothing untoward at all had taken place. On closer inspection, an aggressive intensity burned in his glare. It burned, but its fire was cold. The sort of look that Brann had spent his life avoiding. He had preferred to spend his time among those with open personalities, with friendliness that brought none of the intensity or false posturing of those who felt they had to be aggressive in life to hold the respect of others. He had preferred those with personalities like his brother’s. He forced his emotions back into numb emptiness, pushing back the grief that threatened to surge through him.
A second warrior – presumably the one called Boar – comparatively shorter than the first and this time genuinely broad, crouched beside them, smirking and enjoying their discomfort and dismay with obvious pleasure. At the sight of the smirk, memories of foul breath flooded Brann’s senses and he massaged the bruise on the centre of his chest. Even without the sight of the red scarf on the man’s head, he would have known he was looking at the man who had murdered Callan and rage and fear rose in equal violent measure, threatening to make him vomit again. Pushing the emotions deep down and locking them away, Brann stumbled the last few steps from the water, a receding wave dragging at his feet and, guided by an unsubtle shove from behind, he joined the group. A chain was looped quickly through his manacles; he saw that it ran similarly through the bonds of the others, linking them in simple, but effective, fashion.
He sat, watching, listening, but still feeling detached, as if he were not a part of the scene. Two of the boys whimpered softly; the rest, despite their differing demeanours, were silent, staring down at the sand in their collective misery and despair. Only the dark-haired boy looked up, his burning gaze locking for a long moment with Brann’s. Then he nodded at him, once, and looked ahead once more. It seemed appropriate to his situation that the one with the character he would normally avoid was the one who had connected with him. He spat the remnants of salt water into the beach between his feet. What did it matter? What did anything matter now?
Strangely, Brann felt lucid, to a heightened level. He could understand the reactions of the others, but not his own. Although distant, he was coldly logical, absorbing everything around him with frank clarity. He was an emotional boy (his father had often chided him for letting his heart rule his head, in the days before he had so quickly rejected him and sent him running into the clutches of the men who had murdered his brother) and it was an alien experience to find himself as he was now, without fear, nerves, anger, despair, horror: all of the feelings that he thought should be overwhelming him.
Instead, he felt a calm assurance with, perversely, a tinge of bitter amusement. Perhaps this is how you feel when you accept you are going to die, he mused. Or maybe I can’t be hurt any more. Or maybe both.
His mind turned back to Callan, replaying the images of his brother’s death. It must have happened so quickly yet – at the time and, now, in his mind – it seemed to take an eternity. Then, as a misplaced background to that picture, he saw his home ablaze, with his family inside.
Why am I not crying? Where is the pain? he asked himself, over and over. It seemed as if the boy he had been was a stranger, as if he had awakened beside the sea a new person.
You’re not you any more. You can’t afford to be. Face it, this is what you’ve got from now on. Get used to it. A hint of an ironic smile twitched one corner of his mouth, a distant relation of the broad grin that had always sprung so readily to his face. Oh, gods, I’m going mad. I’m talking to myself like an idiot.
One of the boys tried to speak, failed and cleared his throat. He tried again. ‘It’s freezing. Can we not have a fire?’ He indicated a bundle of wood and dry leaves that had been piled together just a few yards further up the beach from them.
Boar cuffed him roughly across the side of the head, knocking him into the sand. ‘Keep it shut, maggot,’ he snarled. ‘Speak again and you’ll get worse than that.’
The taller man inserted a foot under the boy’s shoulder and lifted him until the youngster took the hint and sat himself up once more.
‘Don’t lie down, boy,’ he growled. ‘It’s damp. You’ll only get colder.’ He looked back across the beach. ‘There will be no fire. We’re not exactly wanting to invite guests to our party, are we? Don’t worry, you’ll be dried off soon enough.’
His burly companion grumbled, ‘You talk too much, Galen. Leave them alone – they’re nothing but your next wage.’ His voice turned mocking. ‘You sound as if you’re