The Tattered Banner

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Copyright © Duncan M. Hamilton 2013

  All Rights Reserved

  The right of Duncan M. Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  Chapter 1: FIGHT OR FLIGHT

  Chapter 2: THE SHOWMAN

  Chapter 3: THE BUNGLING THIEF

  Chapter 4: THE OPPORTUNITY

  Chapter 5: THE ACADEMY OF SWORDSMEN

  Chapter 6: A JUMBLE OF LETTERS

  Chapter 7: NEMESIS

  Chapter 8: UNEXPECTED ALLIES

  Chapter 9: THE DRONES

  Chapter 10: EQUINE COMPLICATIONS

  Chapter 11: THE DIKTAT OF HONOUR

  Chapter 12: THE CHALLENGE

  Chapter 13: THE DUEL

  Chapter 14: ACCEPTANCE

  Chapter 15: A BRAVE DEED

  Chapter 16: THE GIRL

  Chapter 17: THE EXAMINATION

  Chapter 18: JOURNEY NORTH

  Chapter 19: THE CITY OF ASH

  Chapter 20: THE JEWEL OF THE NORTH

  Chapter 21: DIPLOMACY IS DEAD

  Chapter 22: THE HUNT

  Chapter 23: A QUICK RECOVERY

  Chapter 24: A SHOW OF STRENGTH

  PART II

  Chapter 25: THE RETURN TO RIVER HOUSE

  Chapter 26: MORE THAN A PRETTY FACE?

  Chapter 27: THE PICNIC

  Chapter 28: A GRATEFUL NATION

  Chapter 29: A QUESTIONABLE OPPORTUNITY

  Chapter 30: DELIVERING THE PACKAGE

  Chapter 31: A FRIEND IN NEED

  Chapter 32: CHOOSE YOUR FRIENDS WISELY, BUT YOUR ENEMIES?

  Chapter 33: THE WILDS OF THE EAST

  Chapter 34: THE DISTANT OUTPOST

  Chapter 35: UNWELCOME VISITORS

  Chapter 36: THE PURSUIT

  Chapter 37: HOME AGAIN

  Chapter 38: AN UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY

  Chapter 39: A CHANGE OF DIRECTION

  Chapter 40: A RETURN TO THE EAST

  Chapter 41: AN UNWANTED HERO

  Chapter 42: THE LURE OF POWER

  Chapter 43: THE REWARD OF FOLLY

  Chapter 44: AN UNEXPECTED FACE

  PART III

  Chapter 45: AN ENTREPRENEUR, OF SORTS

  Chapter 46: CLOAK AND DAGGER

  Chapter 47: THE DANGEROUS AND THE POWERFUL

  Chapter 48: THE BLACK CARPET

  Chapter 49: A MAN OF NO MORALS

  Chapter 50: A SLIPPERY SLOPE?

  Chapter 51: A FRESH START

  Chapter 52: A THING OF BEAUTY

  Chapter 53: A PLACE AT COURT

  Chapter 54: A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

  Chapter 55: THE DUKE’S BODYGUARD

  Chapter 56: THE DRUMS OF WAR

  Chapter 57: THE FINAL INTRIGUE

  Chapter 58: AN UNWANTED REUNION

  Chapter 59: A DEBT SETTLED

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

  PROLOGUE

  The heavy wooden door slammed shut and the booming sound reverberated in Soren’s ears. He was plunged into a darkness like none other he had ever experienced. He could hear the scratchy metallic sound of the lock being turned and then nothing. No sound, no light, nothing. It felt as though he had been blindfolded and his ears had been stuffed with cotton. He retreated further into the cell, vainly probing into the darkness in front of him with his hands. His foot stubbed against something on the ground and he fell flat on his face against the cold stone flags of the floor. It had been a long time since he had lain on cold stone, but the faint familiarity offered no comfort.

  His wrists and ankles burned from the rubbing of the shackles that had only just been removed, but the cold floor seemed to suck the rest of the heat and energy from his body. Despite this discomfort there was nothing in him that could motivate him to stand, so he lay there, blinded by the dark, deafened by the quiet and utterly robbed of hope.

  PART I

  C h a p t e r 1

  FIGHT OR FLIGHT

  He waited until he was near the end of the alleyway before he slowed to a walk and then with a final backward glance, a halt. The bustle of the city seemed to disappear allowing him this brief moment of privacy. His hands trembled slightly as he tugged at the strings on the small purse that he had just stolen. It was a good, clean lift, he thought as he slowly teased the purse open. The excitement began to drain from his body to be replaced with the hollow ache of disappointment as he peered inside. He had known from the weight that it was a modest prize, but he had hoped that it would be enough to keep him in honestly purchased food for a few days. It wasn’t.

  ‘I thought I told you to stay off our turf, you little rat-shit!’

  Soren knew the voice, which sent a shiver down his spine. Disappointment was replaced by fear. ‘It’s not your turf,’ he replied.

  ‘You had your chance the last time. We let you off light, but we won’t be so easy this time! Now hand over the purse and take your beating.’

  Soren scanned the alley as he slowly turned around. There was nothing he could use to defend himself. Not even a rock to throw at them. Them, because he knew Hetha would not be here alone. He always talked tough in front of his cronies, but on his own he didn’t tend to sound quite so sure of himself. Faced with the inevitability of confrontation, the fear seemed to fade. He was sick of being pushed around by Hetha and his gang.

  There were four of them. More than he expected. Hetha seemed to have managed to recruit another moron to his gang. This changed things. Two he might have managed. Three he might have managed to run from. Four meant he was trapped. Why did he have to have run down a dead end? This was not his usual hunting ground, but he ought to have known the streets better than to have made this mistake. His complacency had compounded it. When there was no shout after he took the purse, he did not worry about changing direction and had just continued on into the alleyway to count his spoils. Greed and stupidity. He was angry with himself for having made the mistake, and he was angry for having been frightened by Hetha’s voice. He weighed the purse in his hand. It was a shame, but such was life.

  He flung the purse at Hetha with as much force as he could muster. The leather clad metal thumped into Hetha’s face with a satisfying crunch and Soren could not help but smile. Hetha let out a screech of pain as his cronies raced past him, blocking off any chance of escape as Soren had expected they would. One of them swung at him, but he ducked underneath and rolled forward as he dropped. He knocked into the legs of another boy, tripping him with the unexpected move. Hetha had regained his senses by now, and squinting the tears from his eyes he rewarded Soren’s little flourish with a hard kick in the stomach. Soren managed to squirm away from the blow just enough to reduce the impact, but it still knocked the air from his lungs.

  Struggling to his feet, he stumbled on, trying to suck in some air and inch ever closer to the open end of the alley. A kick to the backside knocked him flat on his face, but he quickly rolled out of the way of another kick from the fourth attacker. Scrabbling in the rubbish in which he found himself, his hand closed on something solid. He rolled onto his back, pulling a lump of wood with him. A boot closed in on his face, but a hard crack across the shin with the piece of wood diverted the kick and gave Soren enough time to roll back to his feet. He was still a little dazed; he must have hit his head harder than he had thought when he fell.

  Hetha came towards him, his face caked in blood. The purse must have broken his nose and the thought made Soren smile. Without thinking he lashed out at Hetha with the stick. Hetha’s cronies paused for thought, surprised by Soren’s sudden aggression and the vicious blow t
hat their leader had received. Soren was surprised also. He had intended to give Hetha a stinging crack to the head with the stick, but not to hit him nearly as hard as it seemed that he had. Hetha let out a whimpering gasp as he fell to his knees. His eyes glazed over as he slumped the rest of the way to the ground, revealing a dent on the side of his head and a clump of hair matted with blood.

  Had he killed him? Soren’s surprise was genuine, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t care less whether Hetha lived or died; he had beaten Soren too many times for him to have any concerns for his safety, but if he hoped to escape unharmed himself, he would have to capitalise on the situation.

  He turned his fearsome gaze on the others. He wanted to make it clear that same fate awaited them if they tried to avenge Hetha. ‘Come any closer and I’ll fucking kill you too!’

  One of the Hetha’s gang shouted to run, and they all did, leaving Soren alone in the alleyway with his freshly stolen purse and Hetha’s even fresher corpse. He looked at the bloodied face but felt no remorse. Fate had discerned against Hetha that day and had favoured Soren, but perhaps tomorrow it would not.

  C h a p t e r 2

  THE SHOWMAN

  The crowd roared as the wounded man was helped from the sandy arena floor, but the roars were not for the victor of the duel. Soren strained to get a view of the Bannerets’ Enclosure, nearly losing his grip on the beam on which he sat and thought better of it. He would see the man the crowd were cheering for long before most others. It made him smile to think that the best seat in the Amphitheatre was also the cheapest; free to be exact, but probably also the most dangerous, for Soren sat perched on one of the massive wooden sun awning beams that jutted out over the arena.

  He had spent two hours that morning sneaking through the Amphitheatre building after having slipped in through a goods entrance while no one was looking and then carefully worked his way up to the roof before precariously crawling out along the beam to the position he now occupied. He had a clear view of all below him, the crowd, the arena and the food vendors that moved around the stands. His stomach rumbled and he closed his eyes for a moment, hoping to catch scent of the treats they carried on the warm afternoon air.

  Tens of thousands were packed into the Amphitheatre, all hungry to be entertained by the duellists, some famous, some less so, who would ply their trade in the arena that day. The citizens of the city were passionate about their duelling as was often evidenced by the devoted and emotion filled support and hate they had for different swordsmen. Each week this huge stadium, as well as many smaller arenas around the city would be packed to capacity. This stadium, ‘the Amphitheatre’, was the largest and where the very best, the Bannerets, came to duel.

  Dismayed by the lack of regard the crowd had for him, the victor of the most recent duel made his way from the centre of the arena and disappeared into the Bannerets’ Enclosure, leaving the arena empty save for the spattering of blood left on the sand by his wounded opponent.

  The next pairing walked out and the audience became animated with excitement once again. The man walking out in front was perhaps the most famous swordsman in all of the states of the Middle Sea and certainly the most famous swordsman in Ostia. His name was Amero, also known as Amero the Magnificent, the Swift, the Dashing, the Brave. He was known by many names, all were flattering and in Soren’s opinion, all were well deserved. Soren didn’t know Amero’s opponent’s name. He doubted if anyone did and didn’t imagine anyone particularly cared. All he represented was the foil against which Amero would ply his magnificent craft. He was the city’s darling and his appearance sent the audience wild.

  The day began to go from warm to hot, and as it did, the crowd began to stink. Slowly but surely the smell of thousands of sweaty bodies began to fill the air, giving it a pungent tang, which added a further layer of depth to the spectacle about to unfold beneath.

  The Master of Arms joined the two combatants in the centre of the arena at a black mark that had become all but obscured by the golden sand of the arena floor. A bead of sweat itched as it trickled down the bridge of Soren’s nose but he forced himself to ignore it. Just don’t forget to hold tight, he reminded himself.

  Amero and his opponent saluted and took their guards. The Master of Arms quickly moved back, and the two swordsmen went at each other. The unknown swordsman thrust, and Amero exploded into movement. Parry, riposte, balestra, seamlessly followed by a fleche. Soren knew the names for all of the moves and tried to identify each one as it happened, difficult as it was considering the speed at which they were executed.

  The first touch was scored in that blindingly fast exchange. It had happened so quickly that Amero was already walking back to his side of the black mark before Soren had registered it in his mind.

  The Master of Arms acknowledged the scoring touch and reset the duel. He gave the signal to restart and Amero attacked again without wasting a second, flourishing his blade in a style that Soren had never seen before. The crowd gasped and his opponent stumbled backwards as he was caught off-guard by the unorthodox attack. It was one of the many reasons Amero was so loved by the crowd. So many of the top duellists stuck rigidly to the tried and tested techniques. Amero on the other hand was an innovator. The swordplay he used today would be mimicked by children on the streets by the afternoon, and by other duellists on the next arena day.

  The chink of metal, the occasional shout and the stamping of boots on the sand were the only sounds that could be heard now, for the crowd was utterly silenced, awed by the magnificent dance in front of them. For each graceful and flamboyant attack, Amero’s opponent managed to block, dodge or dive away. After what seemed an age, Amero’s blade hit true once again and this time a red stripe appeared around a slash in his opponent’s white shirt. The crowd roared in appreciation.

  The duellists in the arena did not use sharpened blades. The edges of their rapiers were dulled, but they still met at a pointed tip that was capable of drawing blood, which they often did, or killing, which was not an unknown occurrence.

  Amero had killed in the arena once before, and the city mob was never squeamish, always eager to see the ultimate victory. Bannerets in the arena never intended to kill; it was not in their interests. Duelling in the arena was a career choice for many less wealthy bannerets and they all desired lengthy careers. Their sole aim was to win the fame and fortune for which they crossed blades, but as everyone knew, the more intense the fight and the more closely matched the duellists, the more likely one of them was to be seriously wounded or killed. Amero looked to the Master of Arms who acknowledged the touch and then returned his wolfish gaze to his opponent, who by now must have known that the result of the duel was inevitable.

  Soren shuffled forward on his beam, his palms sweaty from the heat and the exertion of clinging on. He was holding his breath now, without realising it, as the opponent finally showed signs of tiring, whether from the loss of blood, the heat or the exertion. No one really cared, but the rise in excitement in the crowd was palpable as it was obvious that the end was near.

  A scrape of metal, a sharp cry of frustration and the opponent was on his knees. Amero followed up with two more attacks but his opponent valiantly swatted them away. The crowd oohed and ahhed, expecting each blow to be the last, but each time they were wrong.

  Then he was up again and Amero shrugged his shoulders. This unknown young man was proving far more of a test for the greatest blade in the State than anyone, least of all Amero, had expected.

  He stepped back two paces and circled around to his left before commencing his attack once again. He stepped up the intensity, stamping hard with his front foot as he pressed in attack after relentless attack. The two blades flashed in the sun so brilliantly that at times it was painful to watch. There was another cry, but this time of pain and then a gasp from the crowd as Amero spun around in his follow-through. His opponent held a hand to his abdomen, and, unsteady on his feet, threw down his sword. A third touch and the fight was over. There would be
no kill today. The crowd let out a somewhat disappointed sigh followed by lacklustre applause.

  Usually protocol dictated that the duellists bowed and left the arena without a word, either under their own power or with assistance from the stewards if they were injured. Today, however, Amero walked back into the centre of the arena, his sword held in his right hand, triumphantly above his head.

  ‘Good citizens of Ostenheim!’ he called out.

  The stewards and the Master of Arms looked to one another unsure of what to do. Anyone else’s victory-drunken ramblings would lead to them unceremoniously being dragged from the arena, but this was Amero the Magnificent. To treat him so was unthinkable. The crowd began to hush as they realised he intended to address them, and Amero spoke again.

  ‘Good citizens, my regards to my noble opponent.’ He gestured toward the man who was being helped to his feet by the confused stewards and saluted with his sword. ‘It is fitting that today was one of the most hard fought victories of my career, against a more than worthy banneret, for I have a sad announcement to make.’

  Amero paused, masterfully teasing the audience, every one of whom was now teetering on the edge of their seat. Soren felt his heart drop.

  ‘First of all, I wish to thank you for your continued support during my years of duelling, it has given me great encouragement. I must now, and not without regret, announce my retirement from this most noble of pursuits. My responsibilities to our great city and Duchy have made themselves known to me and it is to her service that I shall devote myself henceforth. Once again, thank you, and farewell!’

  Soren nearly fell from his beam in shock. After a flourishing bow in which he swept his sword in a wide circle, Amero left the arena. At first everyone was quiet, then a hum of muttering grew with a sound like an approaching stampede until it was impossible for Soren to even think and begin to come to terms with what he had just heard. The people spoke in disbelief, disappointment and pride that the city’s favourite son was sacrificing a life of fame and glory for a dull and invisible existence in civil service. The conversations differed, but the opinions were all the same, Amero, Count of Moreno was a great and selfless man.