The Tattered Banner

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  He stood on the dock, arms akimbo in the fashion he had seen Dornish adopt with an air of authority, and struggled to maintain his balance. He wondered how long it would be before the feeling that the ground was moving beneath him would go. He thought it unlikely that he managed much authority, swaying like a drunk as he surveyed the small but bustling port town. He was hundreds of miles from anything he knew, in this strange and foreign place, but wearing the blue doublet of a banneret in training, even this far from Ostenheim, he was recognised for what he was by everyone that passed. It was not as a street urchin, but as a man of importance, position and danger. It was empowering and for the first time in his life he felt as though he actually represented these things, rather than merely being a gutter rat trying to eke out an existence, or an imposter in fancy cloths.

  He felt a firm hand on his back and turned to see Amero, his blue banneret’s doublet standing out among the crowds on the dock. It was trimmed with silver and gold embroidery, which differentiated it from an ordinary banneret’s doublet that was trimmed with white, and denoted Amero as a Banneret of the Blue, a master swordsman of the highest level. It bore the arms of the Academy and the city on the sleeves and chest. In his hands he carried a long slender wooden box.

  ‘They aren’t exactly a work of art, but they are as good a pair of working blades as you could want. I dare say you will need them sooner than you might think, or than either of us might like. Don’t thank me for them though. They are less a gift than a necessity. You’re wearing the blue of Ostenheim and the insignia of the Academy, so you are permitted to bear arms while within the town limits. I suggest you put them on now,’ said Amero.

  He handed Soren the box and went back to confer with one of his servants as to the loading of the two carriages that would be taking them the rest of the way north. Soren opened the box, to reveal dark wine coloured felt, a sword, dagger and their scabbards and baldrics pressed into its mouldings. He took the dagger out and fastened its baldric around his waist, and then, scarcely able to contain his excitement did the same with the sword, its steel wire guard forming a loose basket around the hilt inviting his hand to sit neatly in it.

  Unable to contain himself any longer, he drew the sword from its scabbard, and revelled in the smooth dark sheen of the unmarked blade. It was an inch wide at the hilt and tapered into a spear point tip. It measured about thirty inches long and it was sharp down the full length of both edges. The blade was thick for strength with a narrow fuller running down the centre and the balance felt so much more natural than any blade he had held at the Academy.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  It took Soren a moment to realise that the voice was directed at him, and then for an instant his old instincts set his pulse racing. He remembered who and where he was, and turned to the voice.

  ‘Yes?’ Soren asked in response. It was a member of the Town Watch. The town crest was embroidered in gold thread on the left breast of his black leather gambeson.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind re-sheathing your blade, sir, makes people nervous,’ he said. He was polite and deferential.

  The last time Soren had a run in with a member of the City Watch in Ostenheim he had been given a thorough beating.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, I’m terribly sorry,’ Soren replied. He resheathed it with a satisfying hiss of the metal against the leather and felt that lined the scabbard.

  ‘Quite all right, sir, enjoy your time in Baelin,’ he said, and with that he moved on.

  Soren watched him wander off into the crowd and then became aware of a presence beside him. Wearing a long black coat with a high collar that almost completely hid his face and a wide brimmed hat, Emeric was standing beside him.

  ‘We are a long way from home now, lad, and swords aren’t for play and impressing young ladies. When the time comes you will have to use it like it’s meant to be used and not think twice about it. All our lives might depend on it. Understand?’

  Soren nodded, the solemnity of what Emeric had said bringing his mood down. What questions would be asked of him in the days to come? Emeric continued, preventing Soren from reflecting more on what he had just said.

  ‘We have been to war more times than I can count with the Ruripathians. There are enemies all around us. Keep an eye out and we’ll be all right.’ He gave Soren a slap on the back. ‘The blades look good on you.’

  C h a p t e r 1 9

  THE CITY OF ASH

  Soren was somewhat disappointed that they did not spend any time in Baelin, but he supposed that there wasn’t a great deal to see or do there by comparison with Ostenheim. After a quick meal while the carriages were loaded, they rolled out of the small walled town and headed toward Northmarch Castle that sat overlooking the border with Ruripathia.

  The new carriages were not nearly as comfortable as Amero’s personal one. These had been borrowed from the Baron of Northmarch. Amero was clearly not entirely pleased with the come down in luxury, but he was happier at not having to formally meet with the baron.

  ‘These appointed barons are always such a bore,’ he said. ‘I know we need men with proven military records in the border marches, but they never seem to be able to fit in with the idea of nobility. They always seem to feel the need to go the extra mile to impress their superiors. The funny thing is, they all earned their positions and are twice the men that many of those that were born to a title are. Although you should take note, young Soren, appointment as a marcher baron is the prize for any landless banneret. And a very rewarding one it is too! Old Baron Calfax had squirreled away half the wealth of Southmarch for his heirs by the time he died. Timely thing too, with the new Duke being elected. It was said Valens had Calfax at the top of his chopping list.’

  Soren suppressed a smirk at Amero’s casual use of the Duke’s first name. Such a short time ago, all of these things had seemed a world away. Now it appeared as though he was right at the centre of them.

  ‘This fucking carriage smells awful! Who is Baron Northmarch anyway, I don’t recall his name?’ said Amero.

  ‘Benciveni dal Orta,’ replied Emeric. ‘The mayor said he’s off settling a border dispute between two of his knights.’

  ‘Hmm. Ben Orta. I think I remember the name. Made a bit of a reputation for himself clearing the bandits out of the southern passes as I recall. Useful enough chap I expect. Still, at least we don’t have to go through the rigmarole of being formally received. I’m going to sleep, wake me when we get to the castle,’ said Amero.

  Northmarch Castle sat in a pass through some low-lying mountains and hills that ran from the coast to the Telastrian Mountains in the east. It was the main road between Ruripathia and Baelin, which had been a focus of the fighting each time that Ostia and Ruripathia had gone to war with one another. The route bore the scars of this clearly; none of the trees were more than a few decades old and the ancient Imperial road was marked by many more recent repairs. Were it not for the Ruripathians needing access to Baelin during the winter months, Soren suspected that the road would have been allowed to fall to ruin many years before.

  The castle had been built to defend the pass not long after Baelin was retaken during the First Northern War. It had stood there ever since, under the control of whoever had control of Baelin. It struck Soren as odd how the borders had placed Baelin within the Duchy of Ostia considering its location, being connected to Ruripathia by land but only by sea to Ostia, but it had been under the Ostenheim’s control for the greater part of the time since the Saludorian Empire came to an end, and the stranglehold that the Niepar placed on Ruripathian maritime trade helped Ostia to remain the dominant power on the eastern coast of the Middle Sea.

  They did not halt at the castle however, even with its lord away. Amero was eager to make the fastest time possible, and it was not long before they crossed the border into Ruripathia, Soren’s first time in a foreign land.

  The carriage jolted to a halt and Emeric hopped out. Soren followed him, and reluctantly, so too did Amero. Th
ey had stopped atop a rise that afforded a view over the plain below. Spread out in front of them was the ruin of a once enormous city, big enough to rival Ostenheim as it now was.

  ‘Welcome to Rurip,’ said Amero. ‘The city of diamonds and sapphires, where the College of Mages made their final stand. In one hundred days of fighting, the city was ruined beyond repair, countless numbers were killed and the scourge of magery was finally put to an end.’

  Soren was too awestricken to comment. To imagine Ostenheim reduced to rubble was beyond comprehension. This city would easily have been as large before its destruction and now it was nothing but a dead, grey scar on the landscape.

  ‘We will ride on alone from here. The servants are too slackbladdered to come with us. They say the city and its environs are haunted. Old women the lot of them, but I think they’d rather a good flogging than face the spectres of Rurip. They will take the carriages on the long way and meet in Brixen. Riding through the ruins will have us in a warm bath, a warm bed and if we can find one, a warm wench two days sooner!’ said Amero.

  Soren spotted him winking at Emeric. He expected that Amero was trying to scare him, but he was not bothered by it; there were far more frightening things in the dark than ghosts. He knew that from personal experience.

  They made camp shortly before darkness fell in a semi-circular hollow formed by banks of rubble at the roadside. Emeric scavenged some dried and twisted pieces of wood from the ruins and lit a fire. The flickering flame cast ghostly shadows all around them as they sat and ate the food that had been packed for them by the servants before they had parted ways. Soren chewed idly at a piece of dried beef and stared into the flame waiting for sleep to come. A whistling howl drifted through the air imposing itself over the crackling sound of the fire. Soren looked to Amero, and then to Emeric when Amero shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Wolves, rats, who knows? Who cares?’ said Emeric. He threw the remainder of the contents of the tin mug of coffee he had been sipping from into the fire with a boiling hiss before standing and stumbling into the darkness while wrestling with his britches.

  There was another howl, and this one made even Amero splutter. Soren wondered if it was a ruse, if Amero had sent one of the servants into the city ahead of them just to add weight to his ghost stories. This thought was quickly put to rest however.

  ‘I think I need my blades,’ said Amero.

  Soren pulled his sword from his bedroll as Emeric returned and removed his sword from his own. Soren had seen Emeric put them there earlier and had thought it an inspired idea. Another howl rang out which startled all three of them. This one came from behind and was far closer. The three stood, their swords drawn, the blades flashing in the firelight. It struck Soren as being rather heroic, like a scene from one of the paintings in the dining hall at the Academy. Three swordsmen staring bravely out into the unknown, lit only by the flickering campfire. He shook his head to empty it of such useless thoughts, but they bolstered his spirits nonetheless.

  Another howl, even closer this time, but Amero merely chuckled.

  ‘Perhaps this crumbling shit hole is haunted after all!’ he said. His voice was animated with excitement.

  Emeric merely shrugged, while Soren squinted out into the murk. Something large and black flew out of the darkness and landed squarely on the fire, smothering it and drenching them in darkness. There was silence for a long moment and Soren felt his pulse quicken as his eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden gloom.

  Three howls, all at the same time. They were all around them. The howling became a constant now, one howl following another, never from the same place. Then the sounds of movement became audible, much closer, behind, in front, on both sides, scratching, shuffling and pattering. A screaming, howling, billowing shape fluttered between them, too quickly to make out what it was. Then another flashed past Soren, only inches away, leaving a stale, musty smell in its wake. He twisted quickly, tracking it with the tip of his sword, his boots crunching on the gravel beneath his feet, the weathered rubble of the once great city, but the shape disappeared into the inky blackness.

  The howling continued, screeches, cackles, laughter, all around them, from many sources. Soren felt a shiver run down his spine, but it was the unknown rather than fear that caused it. He was excited, eagerly anticipating the opportunity to fight. His blood was hot and he could hear it pulsing in his ears. It had always been the way for him, when he was afraid or in danger, the urge to strike back with violence became his primary emotion. Emeric stepped forward into the darkness as the howling became relentless. Soren wanted to tell him to wait, but he knew the man would ignore him.

  Another shape swept out of the darkness, moving in Emeric’s direction. There was the sound of steel on cloth and a howl that was of a different sound to any of the others; it was a screech of pain. The shape disappeared back in to the darkness and Emeric walked back toward the others.

  ‘If it feels pain, we can kill it. Ghosts my arse!’ Emeric said firmly.

  Soren kicked what turned out to be a mass of damp cloth from the fire, which started to sputter back to life. A black shape blustered into the faint circle of light, a flash of something metal in the midst of its amorphous shape. It brushed past Emeric, too fast for him to react, and then in to the darkness once more.

  ‘Fucker!’ said Emeric, as he clasped his right arm with his hand, blood seeping from between his fingers.

  The howling continued unabated. It was only sound, but Soren quickly recognised the effect it was having on him. It overwhelmed one of his senses and made him edgy. If these were just men, then they were not fools, as it was an effective tool. From the corner of his eye, Soren spotted movement. He was determined not to go un-blooded on this night. He pivoted on his heel and lashed out toward it. He felt his sword connect, heard a screech of pain and pursued his attack, pressing his blade forward into whatever it had hit and stepping forward to follow up with his dagger. He felt it strike home, slipping into something soft, crunching against something harder. Both blades anchored in it, he stepped back toward the fire pulling it with him and dumped it down on the ground.

  Bathed in the light of the small fire, it appeared to just be a mass of black cloth. Emeric stepped forward to it and knelt down, reaching a bloodied hand into the mass of cloth and pulling it back. He revealed a pale and dirty face, but one of a man nonetheless. He was dead.

  ‘Just a man.’ Emeric grunted. Then as an afterthought, ‘your first?’

  Soren nodded with hesitation. He hadn’t killed a ghost or a demon, just a man. Amero smiled at him, with an amused and suspicious twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Looters and grave robbers probably, taking a chance at live prey for a change,’ Amero said, raising his voice to be heard over the incessant howling. ‘Even after all this time there must still be a fortune in gems and precious metal buried beneath all of this rubble.’

  Emeric pulled a wide bladed dagger from his belt and reached into the mass of cloth once more. There was a sickening squelching sound and then a crunch. Emeric stood, pulling the man’s head out from the cloth with him. He held it up above his head by the hair and stared out into the darkness.

  ‘If any of you fuckers want the same, you know where to get it!’ he yelled.

  He hurled the head out into the darkness, a dull thud returning from the darkness a moment later. It was only now that Soren realised the howling had stopped. When they turned back to deal with the headless corpse, it was gone.

  They stoked up the fire and allotted watches, but none of them slept that night.

  C h a p t e r 2 0

  THE JEWEL OF THE NORTH

  It took another day’s ride to get them out of the dead zone surrounding Rurip. They remained vigilant and stopped only when they had to. None of them wanted to spend another night there. They didn’t encounter any more trouble, but Soren breathed a sigh of relief when finally they emerged from the ruin back into open countryside.

  It took nearly a full day after that to
get to the Brixensea, the great lake by which the city of Brixen sat. The lake’s surface was like a mirror, perfectly reflecting the cloud scudded sky and the steel coloured, white-capped mountains that loomed on the horizon.

  The sun seemed to be touching the surface of the lake as the city of Brixen came into view. Immediately Soren could see why the city had earned its name, the Jewel of the North. The crystal blue waters that stretched out in front of it mirrored its high towers and great domed roofs and in places it was hard to tell where the city ended and the water began.

  They rode along the shore of the lake, with the city on the other side getting larger all the time for the remainder of the lighted hours. They reached an impressive gatehouse on the south bank of the river that fed the lake, which guarded the bridge across and into the city shortly after darkness fell.

  The guards eyed them warily, but after reading a letter of safe passage that Emeric showed to them, they allowed them through, muttering directions to the Palace. It seemed southerners were not a regular, or welcome presence in Brixen. They rode slowly over the arched bridge. It was made of white stone and it was a magnificent piece of artistry, with a rail of perfectly shaped columns capped with an intricately carved lintel of twisting vines. Every five columns the lintel was topped with a magnificent statue holding a mage lamp up over the bridge. Once they had crossed the bridge and passed through another gatehouse, they arrived on a wide boulevard that ran along the shore of the lake. It was lined with trees and statues and paved with the white stone. Every building in view was constructed from this pure white stone. The stonework of the buildings was decorated with square columns that were topped with ornate carvings of foliage. The windows had triangular arches that lent the buildings an austere but elegant beauty. The verdigris roofs provided a strong contrast with the white walls. Everything about the city shouted out its wealth.