At the end of one of Varrisher’s attacks, which had been growing in flamboyance commensurate with his building confidence, Soren quickly stepped inside his reach and with a flick of his wrist touched Varrisher gently with the button on the tip of his sword, six times. So smooth was the attack that it appeared as though all six strikes were one movement.
The moustached banneret gasped loudly in astonishment and it was clear from his reaction that there were not many present that had understood what Soren had done. The bout was reset after each touch, so the six touches only counted for one. What he had done however was to strike Varrisher precisely in each of the six main killing targets from groin to throat before Varrisher had even had the chance to draw breath. It was a difficult thing to do with that level of precision slowly against a dummy, but to do it at that speed against a moving opponent was something else entirely.
As they reset, Soren could hear the moustached banneret whispering animatedly to those behind him as he explained the significance of what they had all just seen. Soren was pleased that he had managed it with so little effort. It proved to him that all the hours of training and study had been worthwhile. He caught a glimpse of a smile on Amero’s face, which pleased him. He had idolised Amero as a youth and it was as satisfying to earn his approval as it was to score a touch on his opponent. The banneret restarted the match and this time Varrisher waited for Soren to come to him. He had learned a harsh and somewhat embarrassing lesson already and clearly had no desire for another.
Soren moved smoothly toward him and feinted quickly left and right. Varrisher moved to cover him but in his confusion Soren simply reached forward and touched him squarely on the heart with the button on his sword tip. Varrisher’s face twisted with anger. The ease with which Soren had scored his second touch was something of an anti climax, and also made it look as though Soren was toying with Varrisher. Which he was.
Varrisher’s brow furrowed as the duel was reset. He was clearly determined to make more of a go at it this time. In all probability he had conceded defeat in his mind, but would at least try to ensure it was not so easy the final time. He made a couple of tentative attacks that Soren parried away with ease. He was happy to make more of a show of it this time, as he felt that he had proved his point. He replied with a couple of half-hearted attacks that were flashier than he would usually be, but he was starting to enjoy himself. He received another few attacks, noticing that Varrisher was not making nearly as much noise now when he attacked, and responded flamboyantly. When he made his winning touch however, there was nothing showy. It was precise, and fast. Likely faster than anything Varrisher had ever seen.
Just as Soren relaxed, Varrisher struck him on the left shoulder. In Soren’s view it had come just a fraction too late for it to be passed off as an accident. What was more, it connected just where he had been wounded by the belek. The pain flared through him like a flame, and without thinking he stepped forward and smashed his fist and the pommel of his sword into Varrisher’s face. Varrisher dropped to the ground, his hands pressed to his face that was bleeding prodigiously.
‘Perhaps you should stick to your boats,’ Soren said with an edge to his voice.
There had been several gasps from the crowd, but Soren did not take much notice of them until his anger abated.
‘That’s quite enough, I think!’ said the moustached banneret. He looked sternly at Soren, but knew well enough that Varrisher was guilty of a late blow and cheap shot which combined with the look on Soren’s face was enough to convince him not to take the matter any farther. Two servants rushed to help Varrisher, who was still on the ground bleeding.
Soren turned to leave and was quickly followed by Amero and Emeric. He had known Alys was there, but had not looked for her reaction. As he walked out of the room, there was some muted applause, but the duel had not ended quite the way he had hoped.
‘Not a pretty ending,’ Amero said, when they were out of earshot. ‘Nonetheless, it served its purpose. A show of strength, and that we aren’t unwilling to sully our hands if necessary. All in all not a bad result really, when I think about it.’
Amero happily announced at lunch the next day that a treaty had been signed and that they would be leaving immediately.
He had just sent his baggage down with the servants to the carriages and was checking his quarters to make sure he had not left anything behind when there was a knock at his door. It was Alys.
She held two bundles in her arms, one large, wrapped tightly in linen, the other small and square, wrapped tightly in some kind of oilcloth.
‘I am sorry that you are leaving so soon. I have enjoyed meeting you so much. I shall be lonely without you. And with you saving my life and all, well, it’s all a bit overwhelming really.’ She paused and looked down at her feet before continuing. ‘I brought you your belek cloak,’ she said and handed him the larger bundle.
‘I’m sorry, Alys, I don’t have anything for you!’
‘My life is all the gift that I need or want! You broke your sword saving me, and I never thanked you. I hope this will be enough.’ She handed him the smaller object, its weight taking Soren by surprise. It was a metal ingot. ‘It’s Telastrian steel, the very finest grade. My father keeps it back for diplomatic gifts, and rewards and such. There should be more than enough for a sword and dagger. I hope you can find a smith worthy enough to work it. I’m only sorry I didn’t have time to have it forged, but I understand that such a thing cannot be rushed.’
She stepped forward, kissed Soren gently on the cheek and then was gone. He looked out for her every moment until they left, but he did not see her anywhere. And so his great northern adventure was over.
PART II
C h a p t e r 2 5
THE RETURN TO RIVER HOUSE
The sea journey home was slightly longer than the outward one due to having to beat against the wind, zigzagging back and forth as they inched their way south. He was glad to get back to the Academy and to his own room, rather than the vomit scented cabin he had occupied for the sea voyage.
Term had not yet begun when he got back; there were still two weeks of the vacation remaining. The Academy was quiet, but not empty. All of the staff were there, as were the students who had graduated the year before and had been offered a place in the Collegium. It would be one of those students against whom Soren would be competing for the place in the Competition, which would be a focus for him this year.
The Collegium was a very different experience to the standard three years of the Academy and one that Soren eagerly looked forward to. While the Academy in itself taught on a wide range of topics that would be advantageous in the future lives of its students, the Collegium focused on one thing only, swordplay. Although only one year of study was required to earn one’s colours and the title of Banneret of the Blue, some stayed there for years, studying and training to perfect their swordsmanship. They would travel to other Academies and serve in the military, but would still remain part of the Academy, with furthering their studies being their primary motivation for all they did.
Although his room in River House bore none of the luxury of his accommodation in Brixen, it was a pleasure compared to his cabin on the ship. Added to this was the fact that there was something comforting about being home. It still felt odd calling somewhere ‘home’, but home it was and it felt that way now too. He opened his trunk and removed the belek cloak that he had carefully folded and placed in it. He had not worn it home for fear of soiling it, most particularly by vomiting on it while at sea, although it would have provided a welcome shield against the chilly sea breezes.
He held it out in front of him and the thick fur felt deep and silky on his hands. The belek’s curved fangs had been polished to a high sheen and crafted into the cloak’s fasteners. It had been lined with blue silk, the colour of Ostenheim and the Academy. It was a nice touch that made Soren feel a little nostalgic for Brixen, and more importantly, Alys. He draped the cloak over his shoulders. It was heavy and
very, very warm. Wearing it felt like being trapped in a cosy world of comfort and luxury. He noticed that thankfully none of the belek’s scent remained on it. He took it off and carefully folded it once more before turning to the second of the two gifts he had been given in Brixen, the ingot of Telastrian steel.
It had been wrapped in oiled paper that left the steel with a damp sheen, but this did not mask its majesty. Its surface was embossed with the royal arms of Ruripathia and the steel was a deep grey with swirling patterns of differing darkness giving it an almost translucent appearance. It was almost the colour of the belek’s fur, but when the light caught it in a certain way, it gave the briefest glimpse of a lightening blue sheen. He wondered where he should get the sword made, and when it occurred to him that there was only one, easy answer to that question for steel of this quality, the more pressing question was where he would find the money to get it done.
With his unpacking finished, Soren went into the common room and took brief pleasure in sitting on one of the couches that had been previously always been claimed by adepti in the year above him. The pleasure was short lived though, as he found River House to suddenly be quite depressing, what with it being empty. Three former River Housemen had joined the Collegium, but they all lived in apartments in the front building overlooking Old Square now. Where there usually was noise, laughter and chatter, there was only silence, which was disquieting.
As term hadn’t started yet, there were no restrictions on leaving campus, so he could come and go as he pleased, for the next two weeks at least. He decided to take a walk around the city, so donning his blue doublet, he left the Academy and walked up the Duke’s Road. He crossed over the Westway River by Blackwater Bridge and stopped. There was something about being in Crossways that still made him uncomfortable, even just standing there thinking about it made him uncomfortable. It would be busy and he didn’t feel like pushing his way through the crowds, but his reluctance stemmed from the deep-rooted fear he had of running the risk of a beating from the City Watch. Of course that was a ridiculous thought now. In his Academy blues, their scrutiny would be directed elsewhere. It irked him and he told himself that he really needed to get over these obsolete feelings. Nonetheless, he turned right after the bridge and walked along by the river towards the docks, avoiding the square. As he walked down the gently sloping street to the docks, the smell of the city was replaced by the smells of the sea, salty air, fish and the smells of all the exotic goods that were shipped through the city.
He let his mind drift as he wandered through the streets. The sounds and the bustle were strangely cathartic. He was not entirely surprised however, when he found himself standing outside the tavern where Alessandra worked, the Sail and Sword. He went in. Early in the day, it always seemed to be quiet, but there was something about the relaxed atmosphere that was anticipatory of busier times to come that he enjoyed. He certainly preferred that to a packed crowd.
He stood in the centre of the room feeling slightly awkward as he looked around to see if he could catch a glimpse of Alessandra, but he could not. He felt a twinge of disappointment and considered leaving, but realised that it would look odd. Already the barkeeper was looking at him with a quizzical expression, so he went over and ordered a mug of ale.
He sat by the window nursing the mug for a while, not really feeling like drinking it. He idly watched the coming and going of people, dockworkers, traders, merchants, and occasionally one or two that were unmistakably sell-swords. They all had a relaxed, watchful air about them, and scars, more often than not. They had a quiet confidence in themselves and a comfort in their surroundings that suggested they were happy to deal with whatever came their way, devils may care. There was something about their attitude that appealed to Soren. It was a far cry from scavenging and cowering in the gutter. They had no ties, a life of complete freedom where no one but their chosen employer got to tell them what to do, and only then for the duration of the contract they chose. They probably weren’t particularly wealthy, or owners of great estates, but they certainly didn’t lead dull lives.
When he returned to the Academy late that afternoon, there was a note pinned to his door. It was from Master Dornish’s adjutant, and requested that Soren present himself to the Master of the Academy at the first convenient opportunity, no appointment necessary.
Dornish was clearly enjoying the peace and quiet of the Academy out of term. There was a far more relaxed atmosphere around his office and everything was being done at a slower pace.
‘Welcome back, Adeptus,’ said Dornish warmly. ‘I trust your journey to the North was worthwhile.’ He placed his hand on some papers on his desk and continued. ‘I have here your application for the Competition. Are you serious about going for the Academy’s place?’
‘I am,’ Soren replied.
Dornish studied him closely for a moment before continuing. ‘Good! Ordinarily I would try and talk an adeptus into withdrawing his application. It only draws out the selection process and inevitably they fail to win the spot. You, however, I feel are different. That’s not to say you won’t be at a disadvantage to the Collegium candidates. They will have far more time to train, not to mention a little more experience. As you may or may not know, each member of the Collegium has a personal tutor assigned to him. For the duration of your involvement in the Competition, I am assigning you to Master Bryn. Your classes with him will take place outside of the hours of your other classes.’
Soren nodded and Dornish’s face took on a more serious expression.
‘I am allowing you to compete for selection because we both know how very good you are and how much better you can be with the appropriate guidance and effort. Do not let that make you complacent. There are many very good swordsmen in the Collegium, all of whom will be working very hard to win the right to represent this Academy, and this city. You will have to beat each of them, and they will sell their dreams dearly, mark my word. Master Bryn is on campus, and I would recommend that you seek him out and make the most of the next two weeks before term starts.’
C h a p t e r 2 6
MORE THAN A PRETTY FACE?
‘Drones are all well and good, but disarming two or three of them at a time is little more than a parlour trick. A man has his instincts and sometimes, pure luck, which can often be enough to dodge or parry a blow that would have a drone. Now, take your guard!’ said Bryn.
They were in one of the private salons in Front House that were used for the Collegium. It had a high ceiling and wooden floors, and was in many respects a miniature of the training halls, but was equipped purely for fencing, with mirrors lining the walls, giving the room a feeling of being larger.
While he had watched Bryn perform demonstrations in the past, and had even sparred against him as part of his examinations, it was only now that the true level of the man’s skill became evident. He had always been something of an enigma at the Academy. He had a short and undistinguished career on the duelling circuit before he had returned to the Academy to teach. He lacked the swaggering ostentation that had won Amero so many of his fans, but his movements were precise and technically perfect. He attacked with an almost mechanical rhythm that was at once mesmerizing and deadly, and an intensity as though each point was for his life.
Initially Soren fell back into a steady defence, allowing Bryn to dictate the pace and direction of the duel. The sound of real blades clashing and sliding against each other was far more satisfying than the dull feeling in a practice sword. It was the first time that Soren had been in what seemed like a ‘real’ fight with a master, and more than once the thought flashed through Soren’s mind that he might ultimately be outclassed.
He needn’t have been worried though. Bryn was very good, but could not best Soren. Despite not having the speed to beat him outright, Bryn’s technical proficiency was greater, and Soren found, with satisfaction, that he had learned something new, or improved slightly, with each training session.
Soren was fast and he knew it. It fr
ustrated Bryn that even his most perfectly executed attacks could not find their way home. At times he was even faster, but he could not explain why. He was never slow; not since the day he duelled dal Dardi had he experienced that. His speed advantage did seem to vary though. Some days he was fast and on others his speed was such that it surprised even him. Why, was the great mystery. He had also not experienced anything like the intensity he had when he killed the belek on any other occasion. That added even more confusion to his understanding of what it was that set him apart from the others.
He was going out for one of his now regular post lunch walks through the city a few days before the beginning of term when a large black carriage rattled past him and turned into the Academy. When it stopped, Ranph stumbled out, stretching his back and walking stiffly as he stepped away from the carriage. He spotted Soren.
‘Back from your adventures in the North I see!’ he said. ‘Are the women there really as beautiful as they say?’
Soren was not surprised that this was the first question Ranph asked him. To say he had a roving eye was something of an understatement. ‘Well, if blonde is to your taste!’
‘Always! I need a drink, let’s go into the city while they stow my things,’ said Ranph.
‘I was just heading to the Sail and Sword as it happens,’ said Soren.
‘Drinking alone? You?’ He paused for a moment, the look of surprise on his face changing to a smile. ‘Ah, no, the barmaid! I recall you giving her the glad eye last term, how could I forget! Come on then, let’s see if she still looks as good,’ said Ranph.
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