The First Blade of Ostia (2 page)

‘Whatever will you do with all those swords of honour?’

Bryn smiled. ‘I’m sure I’ll think of something.’

‘Hard to believe we’re done here. I’ve spent more of my life in this place than anywhere else. I’ll be glad to see the back of it, though. Now I can get on with my life.’

His words struck a note with Bryn, and it was the first time that he had given any thought to how he felt about finishing there. He was not glad at all to be leaving; he was keenly aware of how much he was going to miss the place. Bryn had been incredibly happy at the Academy. What lay ahead felt so uncertain, frightening even.

‘So where to next?’ Amero said. ‘Back home?’

‘I expect so. For the time being anyway, until I can afford something of my own. I don’t really fancy moving from here into a rat pit just to be independent, though.’

‘Well, I might have just the thing,’ Amero said. ‘I’ve a place in Oldtown, it’s big enough for two and you’d have your own room. It’s yours if you want it. After getting used to there being so many people around the whole time, I’m not keen on rattling about the place on my own.’

‘Thanks, but I doubt I could afford the rent in Oldtown. Not for a while anyway.’ It would be a very long time before he might be able to afford the rent in such a desirable part of the city. Possibly never.

‘I’m not too worried about the rent; I just want a friendly face around. How about rent free for the first month and then we can agree to a nominal amount?’

An offer that good wasn’t likely to come along again. He and Amero had been friends all the way through the Academy and had spent a lot of time training together since moving to the Collegium. It would feel odd him not seeing him regularly anyway.

Bryn shrugged. ‘Sounds good. Why not.’

A
mero looked back
and took one final look across the Academy’s front quad. His things were already packed and on the way to Oldtown. He felt an odd and unwelcome sense of nostalgia as he surveyed the grounds, from the campanile in the centre to the imposing training halls behind. He had spent six years there, and they had been happy for the most part. It was never his choice to go to the Academy however, and that fact would always sour his memory of the place. Few things in his life had been of his choosing, and none of them important. The thought made him angry. Resentful.

He had done what he was told, worked hard and made the best of the years, but he was a man now and would make his own choices. A visit home was the first thing on his agenda. It would be the test. It would prove he had the resolve to step out from his father’s shadow.

T
here was
no getting away from his pursuers. He was on foot; they were on horseback. The young man was exhausted and had no more running left in him. He stopped and dropped the deer to the ground. He should have left it where he killed it, but it was a fine beast; plenty of good eating. He wouldn’t be getting it home now. He turned to face the men as they drew to a halt next to him.

‘Now tell me, m’lad,’ the lead rider said. ‘Where did you get that hart? A fine beast like that must cost quite a bit.’

The young man shrugged.

‘A fine answer,’ the horseman said.

He looked tall, but everyone did when in the saddle. The young man had seen him on his feet though, so knew it to be true. A hard looking man. The years hadn’t softened a single one of his edges. Not one to be caught by with a poached deer, the Lord of Moreno.

‘Even someone as thick as pig shit knows that poaching is illegal,’ Lord Moreno said. ‘Are you as thick as pig shit?’

‘No, sir. I… I don’t know.’ The young man hadn’t realised that noblemen cussed just like regular folk.

‘You don’t know?’ Lord Moreno leaned back in his saddle. ‘Do you know who I am, at least?’

The young man nodded. ‘The Hammer, sir. Lord of Moreno.’

‘Right first time. Well done.’

The young man forced a smile.

‘Do you know why I’m called the Hammer?’

The young man shook his head.

‘When I wasn’t much older than you are now, I was leading my first army. In truth it was so small it could hardly be called an army, but there I was in the south at the head of a force of armed men doing what I’d always dreamed of. Not long after, a far larger Auracian force moved into the area, and I was ordered to retreat. Do you know what I felt when I heard that?’

The young man shook his head.

‘I felt exactly the same as you did when you saw that magnificent hart.’ Lord Moreno leaned forward in his saddle, closer to the young man. ‘I felt hungry—and like you, I ignored the rules. I disobeyed that order.’

The young man’s mouth opened slightly. For the first time since sighting the horsemen riding toward him, he felt hopeful the dungeon might no longer be in his future. Perhaps the Count wasn’t so harsh a man after all.

‘We were down in the southern mountain passes; I can’t recall the name of the mountain now, but for a time the locals took to calling it the Anvil. I manoeuvred my troops all morning until I had the Auracians exactly where I wanted them, with their backs to the Anvil. Then I smashed them. Every last man. What most people don’t know however, is that nearly half that Auracian army surrendered once they realised they were beaten. Not one of them lived though. I had every last one of them killed. Do you know why I did that?’

The young man shook his head.

‘I did it because if you allow a man to put down his arms and return home, he’ll be back to fight you again the next year. It’s the same way as if I allow you home now, you’ll be out poaching another deer next week.’ Moreno turned to his men. ‘String him up!’

‘
D
id you enjoy that
?’ Amero asked.

‘Of course not,’ Renald, Lord Moreno said. ‘But it was necessary. He stole. Others will think twice before doing the same. Letting him go would have been an invitation.’

Amero thought of the young man swinging from the tree by his village. He had pleaded as the rope was secured around his neck, invoking a wife and two young children. He was no older than Amero. He couldn’t imagine being responsible for a family. For children.

‘Call at my study when we get back to the house,’ Renald said. ‘There’s something I want to discuss with you.’

‘Of course, Father.’

W
hile studying in the Collegium
, Bryn had been a front-runner in the Competition—a duelling contest that attracted the very best swordsmen from all of the academies dotted around the Middle Sea. Although he had been knocked out before the final, getting as far as he did earned him the right to a duelling licence.

The licence was there to prevent just anyone who chose to from entering himself into the arena. It had been introduced after it briefly became fashionable for out-of-shape bannerets well past middle-age to try to prove their continuing virility by duelling in public. After several had been maimed or mortally wounded, and one portly gentleman far beyond the age of sixty keeled over and died from a heart attack before the duel had even started, a stand was taken. Despite the joy of the crowd at the spectacle of aristocrats making fools of themselves, the licensing system was introduced.

Duelling was not exclusively the remit of bannerets. A number of men who had not graduated from an academy—former soldiers usually and occasionally street toughs with lofty dreams—entered themselves onto the duelling lists, so the tests introduced to obtain the licence also ensured they were of the required standard.

For Bryn, exempted from the requirement to be tested for his licence, the process was simple, and more importantly, fast. He went to the Bannerets’ Hall in the centre of the city of Ostenheim and registered on the list of active duellists. His name was added to the pool of combatants and duels would be arranged for him, starting with modest venues in the city with no more than a few hundred spectators. When he became more successful, he would be in a position to arrange his own matches—but until then he would have to be satisfied with whatever he was offered. After he had entered his name on the list, it was time to move his things from the Academy down to Amero’s apartment in Oldtown.

A
mero was
angry with himself when he felt a flutter of nerves as he knocked on the door to his father’s study.

‘Come in.’

Amero felt a chill at the sound of his father’s voice. He did as he was bid.

‘Good morning, Father,’ Amero said.

Renald dal Moreno did not even look up from his papers when Amero entered. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before he spoke.

‘So, Banneret of the Blue. You must be very pleased with yourself,’ Renald said.

‘It’s something few enough achieve,’ Amero said.

‘I’m not convinced it wasn’t a waste of a couple of years,’ Renald said.

Amero bit his lip in frustration. It had been his father’s command that he stay on and attend the Collegium.

‘Still,’ Renald said, ‘as you say, not many can get it, so the fact that you have is a credit to yourself and our house. It will also carry weight with the men you will command.’

‘Men I will command?’ Amero said. He realised they were reaching the crux of the matter, and an argument was not far off.

‘Yes. I’ve arranged a commission with Breganzo’s Medium Horse. They’re a good regiment led by officers from the best families. They’ve a reputation as good fighters, not just a social club for idlers and wastrels.’

‘It didn’t occur to you to discuss it with me first?’ Amero said.

‘Why would it? You have a different regiment in mind? If it’s suitable, I’m willing to consider it.’

‘I have no regiment in mind. I have no desire to be a soldier,’ Amero said.

Renald stood suddenly, and Amero flinched. He cursed himself silently. His father paced back and forth with his arms akimbo. Closer to seventy than sixty years, he still had a trim, athletic figure and broad shoulders. Only his receding hairline and the grey on his stubbled chin gave away his age.

He had earned the name ‘Hammer of the South’ in his youth. The massacre he had so delighted in recounting to the young poacher was credited with securing Ostia’s southern border for two decades. If he chose to wear all his military awards and decorations, Amero doubted he would have the strength to stand under the weight.

‘You realise,’ Renald said, ‘that every Count of Moreno has held a military command before inheriting the county.’

‘Of course I do, Father,’ Amero said. ‘I’m hardly likely to forg—’

‘Shut your impertinent mouth!’ his father said.

Amero flinched again. He was prepared for this, but it didn’t make it any easier. ‘Since I was born, I have done everything you have told me. Without question, without complaint. How am I going to take your place if I’ve never made a decision for myself?’

‘That’s what your time in the regiment will be for,’ Renald said, his brow furrowed as he studied Amero.

‘Taking orders from others?’ Amero asked. ‘What’s there to be learned from that?’

Renald sat. ‘What did you have in mind?’ he said, his voice quiet again.

It was unnerving how quickly he could go from rage to calm. Amero had nothing in mind. He hadn’t given a thought to it, never truly believing he would end up doing anything other than what his father decided on. ‘The arena,’ he found himself saying, only because he had listened to Bryn going on about it for so long.

Renald frowned, then leaned back in his chair. ‘The arena. You plan to make a fool of yourself. A mockery of our family name?’

‘I plan to make my own decisions,’ Amero said. ‘For my own reasons.’

Renald gave Amero a hard look. ‘There’s more of your mother than me in you. Every time I look at you, I see that deceitful whore’s face.’

‘Perhaps I’m not yours,’ Amero said, spite dripping from his voice. As the only heir, it was the most injurious thing he could think of.

Renald barked a laugh. ‘No chance of that. There are those who can tell such things. I had three of them confirm who sired you. I wasn’t going to take your mother’s word for it.’

‘If you hadn’t spent most of your life gallivanting along the borders killing anyone who even looked at Ostia, she might not have felt the need to find comfort elsewhere,’ Amero said.

‘An aristocrat’s life is bound to the state. I did my duty, keeping the borders secure. She should have done hers and kept her legs closed while I was away.’

Although Amero knew his father was hurt by what she had done—the conversation would not have been happening if the wound was not still sore—the calm, cold way he could speak of it was unnerving, and in a strange way admirable. Every time Renald spoke of Amero’s mother, he could feel his own temper flare. To be able to control it so masterfully would be a fine talent. Opening his mouth would only have revealed his feelings, so he kept it shut.

‘Still,’ Renald said. ‘We know how all of that ended.’

‘We do,’ Amero said. He cursed himself for the waver in his voice.

‘Don’t look at me like that, boy. I didn’t put the knife in her hand.’

‘You might as well have, when you killed Serlo.’

‘She was my wife,’ Renald said, anger flaring in his voice. ‘He should have known better. There could have been no other resolution.’

Amero took some grim satisfaction in finally having provoked a reaction, but the exchange did nothing other than leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

‘The regiment expects you by the end of the week. Get out of my office.’

A
mero had spoken modestly
, a trait not usually attributable to him, when describing the apartment as ‘big enough for two’. It was at least as big as the apartment that Bryn had grown up in as part of a family of five. It was in the most expensive part of Oldtown, the original site of the city before it expanded to its present size, and living there was the height of fashion for young aristocrats. Were it not for Amero’s generosity, Bryn would have been limited to a one-room affair in the top of a building tucked away behind Crossways, or perhaps something in a less salubrious part of the city. Once all of his possessions had been moved down, he had barely filled the closets in his room.

There had always been something to do at the Academy, always something to keep your mind busy. Once he had unpacked, he realised that there was no routine for him to follow anymore. Amero was out of the city, visiting his family at their country estate for a few days, so Bryn had the apartment to himself and he was noticing the quiet and loneliness. Having grown up in a large family he had never encountered it before. From there he had gone straight to the Academy where there were always people around, always noise and activity.

The quietness and the lack of purpose felt strange. He could remember many occasions in the Academy when he’d wished he had a moment to himself, but now that he had the entire day he couldn’t think of a single thing to do. The thought was troubling, but he tried to occupy himself with plans for his future. He had decided upon a career in the arena, so he needed to put in place a regime that would allow him to perform at his highest possible level. He took a pen and bottle of ink from his room and scavenged around the apartment for some paper.

Having found some he sat down on one of the plush armchairs in the living room and began to plan out a training schedule. He based it heavily on the one that had been made out for him by his tutor, Willard Dornish, in the Collegium in preparation for the Competition. The training had put him in the best form of his life. If he could reach that level again without access to the facilities of the Academy he would be very pleased, and in a strong position to begin his career on the duelling circuit. He was under no illusions that he could reach the top of the duelling ranks, but that wasn’t necessary to make a good living and who knew how his swordsmanship might develop in coming years? He was far from being in his prime yet, and the thought of being First Blade of Ostia was very appealing indeed.

As he began to plan, drawing up a list of all the areas he would need to address, it became clear to him that he would need some form of training facility. The thought had been in the back of his mind for some time, but only now did it need to be addressed directly. He considered going back to the Academy and asking Major dal Damaso to allow him to train there when the halls were not being used, but that was not his preferred solution. He wanted to move forward, not back.

In order to do well in the arena he would also need regular access to skilled training partners. A private salon was the usual route for duellists, but Bryn couldn’t afford the fees. If there was no other option, he would have to see if his family could help him, but that was a course he’d rather not take. He wanted money to flow from him to them now that he was no longer a student. He would explore all the other options before he started looking into private salons.