Three of Swords (Empire Asunder Book 1)

by Michael Jason Brandt

  He entered the circle, leaving Renard on the perimeter. An attendant came forward with sword and shield. His sword and shield. Nico immediately felt better with the tools of his trade in hand.

  There were no wooden practice swords in Provings. Injuries were common. So, too, were deaths. The doctrines of the Order of Swordthanes held that death in personal combat was the finest end a warrior could achieve. If you failed a Proving, even if you survived, you were irrevocably prohibited from the order. Many participants given the opportunity asked their opponent to finish them off rather than living with that ignominy.

  It had happened last year in this very chamber. Dolen had battered the defending Swordthane’s shield—a lightweight targe—until the spike in its center had broken off and the non-splitting alder wood cracked. The tight leather straps prevented the man from disposing of the shield’s useless weight. His arm was probably broken—in any case, it hung limp—by the time Dolen turned his attacks to the body and legs. A Proving relies on no judge to determine its outcome, leaving the competitors to decide when and how to conclude the fight. The wounded Swordthane might have been able to save the arm by yielding as soon as he lost the shield. He might have been able to walk again—albeit with a cruel limp—by yielding when his hamstring was severed. As it was, his only admission of defeat took the form of a painful nod, a response to Dolen’s questioning gaze. How that body, beaten and bloodied to the point of prostration, had gone on fighting so long after the point of obvious defeat was a marvel to Nico. He hoped to measure up to that standard when his time came. He also hoped that would not be today.

  The crowd parted a second time, and Nico found himself staring at his opponent. An unmistakable quieting passed over the spectators, as if the mercenary’s dour mood was infectious. Nico was not concerned with the man’s temperament, however. Instead, all attention went straight to the pale cloak on his back. Fashioned from fine wool, it was inscribed with the familiar radiant blade design and held fast with a matching steel headpin—the symbol of the order to which Nico aspired. He wondered whether this would be the closest he ever came to these simple, precious trappings.

  A hairy, roughly scarred hand unclasped the pin, and Dolen sloughed the cloak from his shoulders. Nico looked from garment to face and saw the dark eyes glaring back. Dolen studied him while his arm took a few practice swings with his blade. Nico nodded in a show of respect. The man did not nod back. He turned away, spat on the floor, and assumed a fighting stance.

  Nico tried to spit, too. He could not form the saliva, and so gave up the attempt. He glanced one time at Renard, took comfort in the faintest nod from that quarter, and took up his own stance.

  He expected Dolen to initiate the attack, as he had done last year. With unanticipated savagery. Nico had mentally rehearsed a plan to defend and counter, defend and counter. With any luck, the mercenary would exhaust himself quickly. Nico knew that even a great swordsman would get sloppy once his muscles tired.

  But Dolen did no such thing. The two of them slowly circled, shields held below the chin, ready for the other to strike. A few grumblings emerged from the crowd, voicing displeasure at the lack of action. Nico tried to pay no attention, but even his own mind was reacting to the rapid letdown of anticipation. He physically shook his head to keep it alert, and their legs continued the sluggish pacing.

  Dolen showed his teeth. Was it a smile? A sneer? Nico was unsure, but it did make him take note of a peculiar observation—he could see Dolen’s face clearly. Very little was obscured by the open helmet. Nico wore a hood of chain mail and a three-quarters helm over that. Dolen was wearing only a kettle helmet like the militias used, and no chain hood beneath. In fact, he wore only a chest of chain mail over leather leggings, much less protective than the full chain hauberk Nico had on. Much less protective—but also lighter.

  Nico used the standoff to continue studying his opponent. His own shield was a medium-sized kite, whereas Dolen carried a smaller targe similar to the one he had demolished in last year’s Proving, but without the spike. Nico’s sword was three feet of fine steel; Dolen’s was just over half that length, and thinner. The strategy was evident, now that Nico had bothered to use his brain. Dolen intended to tire him out, not the other way around.

  The strategy made sense. Dolen knew Nico had witnessed the aggressive tactics of a year ago, and he expected Nico to prepare for more of the same. To fight defensively. Every second that Nico stayed on defense, his heavier equipment would tire him more.

  It was an intelligent, creative, innovative plan. Was that not what Renard had warned him about?

  But it was also a risky plan. It would take a long time for Nico to tire, so long as all they did was circle. If and when they came to blows—which Nico was contemplating instigating posthaste—the lack of protection would quickly tell. Why would Dolen—the defending Swordthane in this bout—attempt such a risky move? Why did he not simply use his superior swordsmanship?

  Renard’s lesson returned to Nico in a flash. He was not any more skilled than the man he defeated. He just did something unexpected.

  Nico looked at the other man in a new light. The spit. The sneer. Was Dolen covering something up? Could it be possible that he feared the prince?

  There was one way to find out. Nico stepped into a basic attack—thrust middle, feint high, slash low, retreat. Dolen countered it easily enough, but Nico felt reassured nonetheless. He was faster than the man he faced. Faster and more precise.

  How many times had Renard admonished Nico that he was better than he gave himself credit for? He had been training with a sword since being able to lift one, and was just entering his prime. He was also a prince, with a professional tutor and all the time in the world to train and exercise. Most people had no such luxury. Renard made him practice relentlessly, whereas most practiced only when they could.

  Nico stepped into another offensive sequence—feint low, slash high, feint high, slash low. This time he did not withdraw, but continued into his favorite of Grimaldi’s techniques. He had drilled so often that these motions were practically instinctive. All the way, he kept a vigilant awareness of Dolen’s sword, prepared for any sudden counterattack that would force him out of his rhythm, but Dolen was too preoccupied with beating back Nico’s attacks to form any of his own.

  Nico stepped back and studied his opponent once more. Dolen was breathing much more heavily now, and no trace of that sneering smile remained. Nico suddenly felt sorry for him. The man was outmatched, and both of them knew it.

  Then Dolen pressed forward with his own furious attack, and Nico felt a moment of panic. It had been a ploy all along; Dolen had lured him into those attacks to tire him out more quickly. Now Nico desperately deflected a slash with his own blade, then a thrust with his shield, then another—each time taking a hurried step backward. He began to worry that he would run out of space. That is, if Dolen did not sneak one of these deadly strokes through Nico’s defenses first.

  Anxious to halt the momentum, Nico turned a parry into a weak counter-thrust. It was half-hearted, only intended to force Dolen to pay attention to his own defense. If Nico had put more into it, he might have ended the fight on the spot, for his blade reached all the way to Dolen’s mail shirt and pierced it far enough for them both to notice. Dolen leaped back and glanced down at his chest as if expecting to see blood. Then he looked back at Nico and returned to his fighting stance.

  Nico never left his, and went back to studying his opponent. Now that the momentary panic had faded, he saw the sudden assault for what it was—pure desperation. Dolen was gasping for breath now. He had realized that Nico figured out the strategy, and had gambled all on one more unexpected act. He was simply not skilled enough to defeat the prince in a real test of swordplay.

  Once again, Nico’s instinct was to feel sorry for the man. But even a second of that had gotten him into trouble moments earlier. Never again.

  He stepped forward. Dolen’s eyes widened, looking fearful. Nico feinted high
, slashed low, and felt Dolen’s block. Nico feinted low then slashed high. Dolen tried to parry with his blade rather than block with his shield—a sure sign of fatigue—but was too slow and imprecise. A gash opened on his cheek where a fuller helmet would have protected him.

  Nico pressed the advantage, knowing the first breakdown could often be exploited by decisive action. He slashed low and opened a wound on Dolen’s thigh, thrust high until he felt the shield’s impact, then kicked Dolen’s wounded leg out from under him. The tall man toppled awkwardly to the stone, then immediately rolled and kicked himself backward in an effort to avoid any forthcoming blows that Nico chose to rain down upon him.

  They were not coming. Nico was unsure of himself. He had never dueled like this before. He was accustomed to practice bouts—and this one should be over. He stared as Dolen picked himself up and stood stiffly, favoring one leg. The man could not effectively fight in that condition, yet here he was.

  Dolen stepped closer, but did not make the expected attack. Instead, his eyes burned into Nico’s. They seemed to be pleading now, and Nico believed he understood what they said. Do not shame me like this.

  Understanding dawned not with a surge of elation, but like a sickening punch. Mercy and compassion had no place here. Nico’s focus narrowed further. He did not relish having to do what needed to be done.

  He lunged, drawing Dolen’s shield down, then up, then down again. The last movement of the sequence was an uppercut slash that bit into the thin mail of Dolen’s armpit. It was not powerful enough to sever the arm, but Dolen’s sword clamored to the hard floor against the backdrop of the crowd’s gasps.

  Nico worried that his blade would catch in mail and sinew, so he leveled a shoulder into Dolen’s chest, knocking the man backward. The sword came out cleanly. Dolen held his shield in his usual stance, but looked horribly awkward without a weapon. Nico used a strong swing to knock the shield out of the way, then hit the abdomen with the backswing. He knew the mail would not be pierced, but ribs cracked and Dolen crumbled to his knees. His left arm hung uselessly, the weight of the shield dragging it down.

  Nico would have liked to stab through the heart, a more noble ending for the man. But the chain mail prevented that option. It would have to be the neck.

  He was glad Dolen did not raise his eyes to look back. One final slash, the throat ripped open, and a spray of blood covered the stone.

  Nico clenched his teeth and turned away. He allowed someone to take the sword from his hand. For the next few minutes, he was vaguely aware of words being spoken, some of them in the ceremonious rhythm of a prayer. Something about courage and discipline and strength. He cared little, being far more concerned about his dizzy head, his racing heart, and the life he had just taken from another.

  Then hands were upon him, and he flinched, resisting the impulse to pull away. They were draping something over his shoulders and pinning it in place. A cloak of some sort, apparently. He wondered why, and wished they would leave him alone. All these people and this noise was disorientating.

  He tried to focus. There were cheers and applause from faces he recognized. Some of them he supposed he would call friends, although most were merely schoolmates or distant relations with nothing better to do than jump on an opportunity to see blood spilled.

  Then his eyes found a familiar face. A source of stability. One that could be relied upon to do the thinking for Nico until his own wits returned. He stepped toward it.

  “Renard,” he said aloud. Help, his eyes added.

  “All right,” the old man’s voice barked. “That’s enough, everyone. The Swordthane is tired.”

  Did he call me a Swordthane? Why did he do that? Is that what I am now?

  His mind slowed, becoming aware of the significance of the occasion. The momentous significance. It was the crowning achievement of his life. His brother would certainly be proud when he heard the news. Nico wished Marko could have been here to see it, but of course that was impossible, considering the first prince’s unending duties.

  Nico still felt a bit lightheaded, but his wits had at last returned. A slight euphoria had replaced the disorientation, and his sudden broad grin resisted all attempts at restraint. Aware that he probably looked like a simpleton, he nodded and waved to the few bystanders who remained. Several wanted to clasp his hand before departing, and he was silently relieved that no one asked him to remember their name.

  Then only he, the attendants, and Renard remained. Only now did Nico become aware that his instructor’s hand was on his shoulder. It had, in fact, been there for some time. He looked curiously at the old man, anxious to get his opinion on the proceedings.

  “Well? What do you think?”

  “Proud as the Devil, Boy.”

  A lifetime serving in the army had instilled a love for vulgarities in the old man. Nico had come to love them, too, even if he could never use them himself. And he had a newfound appreciation for their efficacy. All those times Renard chastised him had paid off. Nico understood now the difference between a swordsman with natural skill versus one with relentless training. It was the difference between himself and Dolen, between life and death.

  “Your pardons, Prince Nicolas.”

  Nico looked away from his retainer toward a newcomer. One of his father’s pages. “Yes?”

  “Your pardons, Prince,” the young man repeated, lowering his head. Nico wished the servants would not do that. He supposed they saw him on a level with his father and brother, but he never thought of himself that way. Becoming a Swordthane felt far more significant than being second prince.

  “Your father,” the page began. “The king,” he added, as if Nico needed help making the connection, “wishes to see you.”

  Nico nodded. “Thank you. Please tell him that I will be there within the hour.”

  The youth turned a shade paler. “I believe he desires to see you right away.”

  Nico tried to smile reassuringly. “What is your name?”

  “Kip, My Prince.”

  “Kip, I will be there as soon as I can. But if you lift your head a little, you will see that I am covered in blood. I think I should clean myself, first. Don’t you agree?”

  “Y-yes, My Prince.”

  “Don’t worry, Kip. My father is a reasonable man. He will understand. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Kip bowed and dashed off.

  “You don’t really understand what is expected of you,” Renard said.

  “No, I suppose I don’t.”

  “That boy won’t feel any better because you used his name. He’s probably terrified now that you’ll remember him.”

  Nico shrugged. “I can’t win, Renard. I’m not really a prince, and I’m not really anything else.”

  “You won today. And you are something—a Swordthane.” The mustache curled up again. “Now get going. You do not want to keep your father waiting.”

  “Do you think he wants to congratulate me, Renard?”

  It had not been meant as a joke, but even as he voiced the thought, he heard its absurdity.

  Renard’s laugh was even deeper and gruffer than his speaking voice. He made three grunting sounds and then rubbed an eye as if he had laughed himself to tears. “Nay, I expect he’s got some meaningless mission for you. Time to go back to your duties as a prince. I don’t envy you, Boy.

  “Now then, if you need me, I’ll be in the tavern.”

  Chapter Two

  Vilnia

  CAPTAIN MAREK stuffed two small balls of wax into his ears. The sound of practice swords outside his tent—nearly as distracting as this frigid mountain air—made concentration difficult. The wax helped—but the cold, sadly, could not be as easily banished as the noise. So he wrapped his cloak tighter and huddled closer to the flame of the lantern that illuminated his portable desk.

  The company would be arriving at the final watchtower on the morrow, and he had some important decisions to make before then—namely, which soldiers to keep for the slow return trip a
nd which to leave behind. Just before the force of forty set out a tenday earlier, last-minute orders had informed Marek that every tower in the Stormeres—most abandoned for centuries—were to be reoccupied with as close to full contingents as possible. His superiors did not explain why. Orders were orders, and it was not his place to question them.

  That did not mean he did not think about the reasons, however. He presumed they were preparing for war, and the thought filled him with dread. Vilnia had not been strong since before the empire’s unification, which could not have come at a better time for the impoverished eastern kingdom. While their neighbor and rival Gothenberg prospered from the incessant outflows of their active iron mines, Vilnia’s own copper and tin had all but depleted. Even poor Nurosterlend to the north had endless forests of alder and fir with which to feed the empire’s rapacious appetite for hardwood. Most of those Marek encountered believed the strength of an army lay in its people, which the Vilnians could truly claim to be exceptional. But he knew that true strength derived from the land and the natural resources it provided, and in this his homeland had been sorely deprived. The once-happy, thriving population was already migrating away in greater numbers than Northgate publicly admitted. He had served on the borders long enough to witness the lopsided flow with his own eyes.

  Marek loved his homeland, and particularly the village east of Northgate where he grew up. He loved his fellow Vilnians, that resourceful race who had found a way to tame mountain and steppe. And he particularly loved the army to which three tenyears of life had been devoted. But love for these things did not require blind acceptance that they were incapable of wrong or immune to catastrophe. And so Marek worried that war at this time—whether with Gothenberg or Nurosterlend—had the potential to bring ruin on everything he knew. He wondered what was happening to Eberhart’s peace that these changes were afoot.