The First Blade Of Ostia

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Large and well built, Mistria was an imposing figure, even from the distant seat Bryn occupied. He stood alone in the centre of the Amphitheatre—as comfortable there, the centre of attention of tens of thousands of people, as he would be in private. He was the epitome of a champion.

  Bryn glanced at the seat next to him, which was conspicuously vacant—he had considered inviting Joranna to come along, but decided against it at the last moment. He had still not received any response to his letter. It made him angry to think about it, and threatened to spoil the evening for him, so he did his best to forget about her.

  The Amphitheatre’s atmosphere was always as much of an experience as the duelling itself. To see so many people in one place could be overwhelming. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like to be out there in the centre of it all, with every pair of eyes fixed on you. He wondered how Amero would cope.

  The noise was also something to take in. In the small arenas that Bryn had fought in, one could generally hear an individual’s voice. Here, with so many thousands, they blended into something entirely more potent. At times the sound was so powerful and so tangible it felt like a great wave rushing through the air. As the crowd waited for the next duel, their voices dropped to no more than a subdued murmur, like the sea receding from the shore in preparation for the next great wave.

  When Amero took his first tentative step out into the sandy oval in the centre of the Amphitheatre, the volume and focus of all of those murmurs began to change, the energy behind them gathering like the heat of the morning sun.

  He looked so lonely making his way out to Mistria who remained where he was, standing tall and confident, basking in the adoration of his audience and the success of his victories. The distance was more than twice that of any of the arenas either of them had previously fought in, and with each step Amero took, Bryn could feel his heart pound. It was a particularly warm evening, but that wasn’t the cause of the sweat on Bryn’s brow. He realised that his knuckles were white where he had been gripping the edge of the bench, as he lived each moment with Amero.

  Finally Amero reached the black line, the Master of Arms, and Mistria. There was the usual brief discussion as both men were told the rules. Then they were facing one another opposite the black line, saluting. Bryn’s heartbeat hastened once again. It felt as though it was straining against the confines of his chest.

  * * *

  ‘DUEL!’

  Mistria danced forward, his blade flashing in the evening sunlight. It was clear he intended to put on a good show, and Amero was able to move backward—a little heavy on his feet, Bryn thought—and parry the challenge with no difficulty. He made a tentative riposte that Mistria seemed happy to encourage; swordsmen in the arena were not just warriors, they were also showmen. The accommodation seemed to give Amero confidence. His movement grew lighter, more fluid.

  Mistria burst into a flurry of action. Fast, aggressive, dazzling; it was everything that he was famed for. Somehow Amero managed to avoid his blade, stepping away or parrying with aplomb. Bryn hardly recognised him as he dealt with everything Mistria had to throw at him. It was not the tight, economical movement that Bautisto had been beating into them for weeks. Far from it. There were flourishing follow-throughs and elaborate feints. It was something that Bryn had seen glimpses of when Amero was messing about, but never in such a polished form.

  The engagement ended in stalemate. From Mistria’s movement it was clear that he had expected to score a touch and was both disappointed and surprised. The crowd seemed to feel likewise, their collective sound shaped into a puzzled murmur. Amero hung back, wary of his famous opponent but not appearing in any way unnerved by the intensity of the onslaught he had just been subjected to.

  Mistria came at him again, stamping forward hard with his front foot as he cut at Amero with speed that was almost impossible to follow. His attack spoke his intention as clearly as though he had said it aloud. He would put manners on this young upstart. Bryn couldn’t hear the sounds of the blades clashing over the noise of the audience, but he knew it was there and his imagination filled in the missing pieces.

  They locked blades, pressing against one another for a moment before pushing apart. Amero pounced; a leap forward brought him back within striking distance and he thrust. A touch. The first point conceded by Mistria in over twenty-five duels. Bryn had to remind himself to breathe.

  The crowd gasped, as did Bryn. He couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed. The match was an exhibition—the scores didn’t count toward the Ladder—but that did nothing to lessen what Bryn and the tens of thousands there that evening had just seen. There were many swordsmen considered great in their own right who had not managed to do what Amero had just done.

  Mistria himself didn’t seem to be able to believe it. He stood motionless for a moment, before the Master of Arms gestured for him to take his place at the black line once again. They saluted and restarted.

  Mistria pushed Amero back a dozen paces or more, attacking high and low, a deluge of steel that would overwhelm a lesser swordsman. From the intensity of the way he fought it was clear that Mistria no longer considered this to be a simple exhibition match. A low ranked swordsman had affronted his honour and he couldn’t let that stand. Bryn grimaced as he watched the exchange; Amero was running backwards as he attempted to stay out of the way of Mistria’s blade.

  It wasn’t enough. Mistria’s sword found its way through and the score was one touch each. The crowd roared in appreciation as both swordsmen walked back to the black line. The audience was getting far more of a show for their admission fee than any of them had expected.

  Amero still held his head high. What he had already achieved was beyond all expectation and surely the cruel whispers would be quelled now. As they stepped up to the black line they were both animated, gently bouncing on the balls of their feet. Both men wanted the win, and it was obvious they both thought they could get it. The Master of Arms spoke to them briefly and they were off.

  Mistria didn’t seem content to let his young challenger have any respite. Once again he pressed Amero back the length of the sandy oval in which they fought. Amero didn’t retreat as quickly this time. His face was a picture of concentration as he parried Mistria’s blade each time it came for him.

  His style came as the biggest surprise to Bryn. Amero had shown hints of it clowning around after training, but here it was in a complete and usable fashion. It was sweeping and flamboyant but at the same time there seemed to be nothing that was wasteful or without purpose. There was little Amero could do with it under such an intense barrage of steel, however. His defence faltered. The third touch of the match came and it was two to Mistria.

  Amero wore a white doublet with gold embroidery. It looked dashing, but too ostentatious for Bryn’s taste. Amero’s concern for styling seemed to be greater than for function. The material looked too light to provide the protection a duelling doublet ordinarily would, and he was now enjoying the reward of that choice. The white cloth had parted, showing a red line of blood on his left breast. It required some effort to make an arena duelling blade draw blood; its tip was dull and rounded like a butter knife, but in a heated exchange it was possible to cut with one, intentionally or not, and even kill.

  Bryn strained his eyes to see how severe the wound was, but Amero was too far to be sure one way or the other. The way he was moving suggested that it was little more than a graze, but as Bryn squinted in the evening light he could make out the expression on Amero’s face; the same twist of rage he had seen on it so many times of late. He was hurt, and that angered him.

  As the Master of Arms reset the duel, Bryn could feel the tension in the audience ease. After the first touch, they had been agitated to a near frenzy. Now, however, the duel was falling into line with everyone’s expectations and the emotion waned. Mistria had retaken the initiative, and everyone expected the result to be a foregone conclusion.

  It seemed as though Mistria thought the same as the c
rowd. There was less purpose in his movement when he made his way over the black line after the re-start, pushing Amero back with more showman-like blade work. Bryn watched Amero’s face, still unchanged from a moment before. Harsh. Against the flow of play, Amero struck, tight and precise, nothing showy—far more characteristic of what Bautisto was teaching them. Bryn felt his heart leap. Amero held the pose of a perfectly executed thrust, hand high, blade angled down. Mistria stood, looking down, his sword arm slowly falling.

  Amero took a step back and returned to his guard position. Mistria fell to the ground. Only now did Bryn notice that the crowd had fallen silent. Utterly silent. He could hear the wooden bench beneath him creak as he shifted around to get a better view. The Master of Arms rushed forward to Mistria’s fallen form. Amero remained stock still, watching.

  The Master of Arms gestured to the Bannerets’ Enclosure and several men ran out. One of them Bryn recognised, Caxto, a trainer he had spoken with the day that he had called at the salon Mistria trained in. Still the crowd was silent, everyone straining forward in the hope of being able to identify the gravity of the wound. No one could quite believe what they were seeing; the greatest swordsman of his generation, Mistria of One Hundred and Twenty-Five, the First Blade of Ostia, lying on the sand of the Amphitheatre having not just conceded a touch, but also a wound that had dropped him to the ground.

  Unable to contain himself any longer, Bryn rushed down to the Bannerets’ Enclosure. Amero began his walk back there, casting looks back over his shoulder to the drama on the arena floor, uncertain as to what was happening or what he should do.

  Bryn got to the boundary of the Enclosure where a guard barred his entry. Over the man’s shoulder he could see Bautisto, staring intently out at the commotion in the centre of the Amphitheatre.

  ‘Maestro Bautisto,’ Bryn shouted.

  Bautisto looked toward the shout, audible against the backdrop of silence, and walked over. He spoke with the guard, who let Bryn through. Together they stood watching and waiting for Amero to get to them. Mistria had not moved since Amero stepped back, still lying on the sand, surrounded by his attendants. Gradually the noise in the Amphitheatre began to build, as people started to suspect the worst. All of those who had been lost for words found their tongues once more. It was not Mistria’s name on their lips, however. A great swordsman was loved by many; a great champion was loved by more, but one who would kill in the arena thrilled them all like no other.

  When Amero reached them, Bautisto immediately went to examine the wound on his chest. Amero stood with casual indifference and allowed Bautisto to inspect the rent in his doublet without even so much as a look over his shoulder. His face had grown cold and impassive. A steward handed him a beaker of water. Amero handed his sword to Bryn with a nod of thanks and took the beaker, otherwise ignoring the steward. He took a long drink, gulping down half of the beaker’s contents. Only when a stretcher was brought out from the enclosure did he turn to take another look at what was happening on the arena floor.

  ‘Not much more than a scratch,’ Bautisto said. ‘You were lucky. Mistria, it seems, was less so. A damnable shame.’

  His words were harder than Bryn would have expected. There was no hint of congratulation.

  Amero was completely unperturbed by the scene unfolding out on the arena sand. Bryn was unsure if it was genuine insouciance or feigned out of a sense of professional experience. Swordsmen died in the arena; it was not the first time and it would not be the last. That didn’t make it any less tragic in Bryn’s mind. Amero’s countenance made him wonder if it was an accident or intended, though.

  There was little sympathy on display from the audience as Mistria’s body was carried from the Amphitheatre floor. Conversation carried on as normal, and Bryn could have sworn he heard one person ask a steward if the final fight against the Shandahari would be going ahead now with Amero instead. It made Bryn feel sick. Moments before, Mistria had been their hero. Now he was a prone, covered shape on a stretcher and nothing more. A defeated hero was just defeated. An announcement had yet to be made to the audience, but there could be little doubt in anyone’s mind by now that Mistria had met his end on Amero’s blade.

  Bautisto took Amero away, thinking it better that he was quickly gone in the event of the crowd turning nasty. Mistria’s body was brought though the Bannerets’ Enclosure, where those present showed their respect, all knowing that on a different day any one of them might be leaving the arena floor in a similar fashion. The audience on the other hand merely grumbled that their night’s entertainment had been cut short.

  CHAPTER 24

  Amero was lying on his living room couch, his eyes closed as he visualised a combination of feints and attacks that he wanted to practice later that day. He swished his hand through the air, pronating and supinating his wrist to follow the imagined movements.

  ‘Is this how you spend your day?’

  Amero opened his eyes with a start. He had been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard his father come into the room. Amero would be sure to have words with his butler for allowing Renald in unannounced.

  ‘That was how I plan to win my next duel,’ Amero said. He stood and straightened his clothes, the skin across his chest still tight from the partly healed wound.

  ‘Any hope I had for keeping that carry on quiet has well and truly vanished. It almost amuses me, the lengths you will go to defy me.’

  ‘Is there a point to your being here? I would have thought it abundantly clear by now that I’m not leaving the arena until it suits me.’

  ‘You’re my only heir, so I can’t disinherit you, but if you stay in the arena it will be without my money. You’ll have to wait till I’m dead before you see another penny of it.’

  ‘You can stuff your money. I’ll be able to name my price in the arena now.’

  Amero could see the vein in his father’s head pulse. He was furious, but there was nothing he could do. The threat of cutting off his allowance had come far too late.

  Renald pursed his lips and took a deep breath. ‘What is it that so attracts you to the arena? There are plenty of other less public ways to defy me. If only you knew what was being said in the Barons’ Hall.’

  ‘If only I cared,’ Amero said. ‘Although I wonder how many of them are the topic of conversation for every man in the city? Imagine what could be achieved with that kind of influence.’

  ‘And how long do you think that will last?’ Renald said dismissively.

  ‘For as long as I keep winning.’

  * * *

  NOBODY COULD HAVE PREDICTED what the next few days would be like for Amero. He had gone from being talked about as a spoilt rich boy who was getting duels far beyond his worth to being the giant slayer, the most dangerous young blade to arrive in the arena since… ever. While he had been known among the elite of Highgarden for some time—the subject of conversation at expensive coffee houses, card tables, and brothels—beyond that, his profile had been low. To the crowd, the mob, the city’s masses, he had been an unknown. People would be aware of the name dal Moreno, some might even remember that there had been a duke by that name some decades before. Few if any would have known that the current heir of that family was making his way in the arena.

  Now all of that had changed. Bryn thought it unlikely that there was a single person in the city who had not heard his name and what he had done, even if they wouldn’t have been able to put a face to it. There was a constant stream of callers to the salon and Bryn had to fight his way through a crowd of them—young women mainly—to get in each morning. Amero had been forced to sneak in through the back alleys and a window to avoid them, and for the sake of convenience Bryn was considering starting to do the same.

  As well as the star-struck, there were also a number of serious individuals who condescended to pay a visit to the shabby salon in Docks. The first of these was the promoter from the Amphitheatre. Usually only those who graced the first few pages of the Ladder would ever h
ave the chance to meet Ricoveri dal Corsi, a burly old banneret with a bushy white moustache and a waistline that in circumference appeared likely to exceed his height.

  Not a week after Amero slew Mistria, dal Corsi breezed into the salon as though his arrival would be greeted with the same joy as one hundred beautiful women bearing pots of gold.

  He walked a few paces into the salon, stopped and looked about, no doubt thinking that he still cut a dashing, youthful figure—if indeed he ever had—while in reality he appeared ridiculous, stitched into a civilian outfit of martial cut, as often favoured by those bannerets who had never gravitated toward military service. The sword strapped around his waist looked pathetically small in comparison to his significant rotundity.

  Two assistants followed on his coattails, both unremarkable in all regards other than bearing the appearance of those who have had any notions of independent thought beaten out of them.

  ‘I am Banneret Ricoveri dal Corsi. Where is the Maestro of this salon?’ He addressed Bryn as though he were talking to a disliked servant. ‘And the hero of the hour, dal Moreno? Where is he?’

  His demands placed, Bryn held no more interest for him. He continued to look about with apparent disdain, no doubt expecting that his words would be acted upon with haste. Bryn did as he was requested grudgingly, aware of the fact that rubbing dal Corsi up the wrong way could negatively impact his own career. Amero had yet to arrive at the salon; since the fêted day, he had been making his appearance at increasingly late hours. When he did arrive his eyes were red and carried black bags beneath them. He stank of smoke and booze, and on more than one occasion Bryn was confident that he was still wearing the clothes that he had been in the day before.