The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1) (26 page)

Soren did however enjoy the new found respect he was being treated with by the other men at the table.

‘Have you ever considered coming to our Academy here in Brixen to study?’ asked a heavily built man in his early forties. He had an impossibly well sculpted moustache, thick in the centre and curving into fine upward pointing tips. He sat with a martial bearing in an immaculate grey uniform and wore the insignia that designated him as a Banneret of the Grey, an accolade that immediately commanded respect. Soren replied that it had not occurred to him, but that it was certainly an interesting idea.

‘We fight with a slightly different technique, but it is easily a match for your southern style when properly executed. Regardless, it’s never any harm to study things from a different perspective,’ he said.

Soren was about to respond when Varrisher interjected.

‘Southern swordsmen seem to be more interested in dagger play than proper swordsmanship. I’m sure he would have little interest in our northern ways,’ he said, with a slight sneer in his voice. His comment was intended to encourage Soren to say something that could be considered an insult, and he recognised the fact at once. He took a short pause before responding. He did not want to be drawn into offending the Ruripathians but likewise he was not going to be condescended to by Varrisher, who was clearly smarting at the lack of attention he was receiving.

‘I assure you that I’m more than capable with sword as well as dagger. What’s more, I’m always open to learning new styles and techniques. Perhaps you would oblige me with a demonstration?’ Soren replied evenly.

The heavy-set banneret guffawed and banged his fist on the table. ‘Excellent, a friendly duel then! Shall we call it for noon tomorrow? I would suggest tonight, but I wouldn’t want you to spoil your dinners!’

Soren immediately agreed that this would be perfect, and Varrisher was left with no choice but to agree also. Soren felt that he had turned Varrisher’s sniping comment to his own advantage with satisfaction. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Amero was watching him, his brow slightly furrowed. He really misses nothing, Soren thought.

The conversation quickly moved on from the sensation that was the impending duel between Soren and Captain Varrisher, although Soren did catch ladies at the table eyeing him with regard on more than one occasion, which made him feel slightly awkward.

‘You should consider studying here you know,’ Alys said. ‘If a treaty is successfully concluded then there would be no reason not to, what with you being a personal friend of the Princess and all.’ She let the comment hang in the air between them for a moment before continuing. ‘I do hope a treaty is concluded. With Chancellor Marin gone, I worry. He was such a moderating influence on the council. So many of my father’s advisers are firebrands, who would happily go to war for honour, glory and the ever-desired warm water port.’

Her comment caught Soren by surprise. Surely she must have it wrong?

‘But, if we had a warm water port,’ she said, ‘what ever would Captain Varrisher do with himself, with no ice gauntlet to run!’

Soren chuckled, but Varrisher glowered at his plate. Perhaps he was coming to the determination that his one year at the Academy and dozen or so skirmishes with pirates might not be enough to defeat Soren.

C h a p t e r   2 4

A SHOW OF STRENGTH

V
arrisher had been correct when he had said that there was an excellent fencing hall in the Palace. It was long and high ceilinged, with polished wooden floors and was decorated with all sorts of martial artefacts, banners, swords and suchlike. A reasonable crowd had gathered, most of those who were in regular attendance at the court and some that Soren did not recognise. The moustached banneret whose name Soren could not remember was at the front, clearly looking forward to a good display of swordsmanship. All the ladies of court were there also, looking on giddily.

The moustached banneret had appointed himself as the referee for the duel and quickly ran through the rules of what he repeatedly referred to as a friendly exhibition bout. In consideration of this, Soren would be allowed to use a straight, southern blade, while Captain Varrisher would be using a Ruripathian backsword. The match would be to three touches.

The two duellists spent a few minutes loosening up and then with a cursory shake of hands, they began.

Right from the off, Soren knew he had a serious advantage. After Master Dornish had given him the Ruripathian swords, he had practised against them for hours despite his tiredness and Dornish’s recommendation to rest. Varrisher was no slouch; Soren had to give him that much credit. Against many Academy students, he would have held his own. If he had stayed on at the Ruripathian Academy and graduated, he would probably have made quite a good swordsman. As it was, for Soren he was little more than fodder.

As Soren would have expected, Varrisher was flashy. He attacked quickly with sweeping cuts and a loud ‘ha!’ each time he did. He saw himself as being the daring, swashbuckling type, and was eager for others to see him in the same light. Showboating didn’t bother Soren. It was the lack of respect that necessarily accompanied it that did. Soren wasn’t some scurvy ridden little pirate who barely knew the pointy end of a sword from the blunt one and he was determined that Varrisher would learn this sooner rather than later.

The attack was not challenging at all but Soren decided to play along for the time being, letting it appear that Varrisher was putting him under far more pressure than he actually was. He seemed to have plenty of time to consider his course, a trait that he was now beginning to think of as having something to do with the ability Dornish had spoken of, the Moment. Varrisher smiled as he heard the sighs from the ladies in attendance each time he attacked. Soren sighed too, but for an entirely different reason.

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.