The Telastrian Song (27 page)

S
oren chose discretion
. He drew his sword and eased the door open. Time seemed to slow as he took his first steps across the thickly carpeted office floor. For Soren, it actually did. The proliferation of mage lamps and the three other men in the room provided more than enough Fount for Soren to draw on. Three other men—there were only supposed to be two.

He had forgotten about Emeric. He was never far from Amero. Emeric had always been decent to Soren, and he didn’t want to have to kill him. There was no time for such thoughts though, and when it came to it he knew he would have no choice.

The residual pain in his body faded into the background as the Fount flowed into him. Austorga proved his masterful self-control in that his eyes remained firmly locked on Amero, who sat at the desk opposite him, not reacting at all to Soren’s entrance. By doing so, he was allowing Soren a little more time before Amero reacted. It was perhaps a cowardly thing to strike down a man without a weapon in his hand, but Amero was too dangerous a character to give an opportunity to fight his way out of trouble. He was once feted as the greatest swordsman in Ostia, and deep-rooted insecurities made Soren question if he was truly good enough to beat him one to one. Considering the things Amero had done, there was little moral difficulty in any type of behaviour, no matter how dishonourable.

Soren continued forward and raised his sword, the Telastrian steel glistening with a sheen of oil and its natural, unique blue lustre. On a second thought he drew his dagger also. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Emeric standing by the door. Soren forced him from his mind; he would deal with him in turn.

‘My Lord! Assassin!’ Emeric shouted.

Soren didn’t spare Emeric a glance. He slashed down with his sword, the intention being to split Amero’s skull from ear to ear, then turn to face Emeric, before leaving Austorga to clean up the mess. Amero reacted to the warning as quick as any man could without the aid of the Fount. In one smooth movement, he rolled out of his chair, drew his sword and parried Soren’s attack. The blades clashed with a chiming sound the like of which Soren had never heard before. The noise, as well as Amero’s scorchingly fast reaction left Soren shaken and uncertain of how to continue.

He backed away a couple of steps, taking a low, balanced stance with his weight evenly balanced between his feet. His body protested and his legs felt heavy, drained of power. The feeling passed as he felt more energy flood into his body. He couldn’t help but think of the noise made by the clash of blade. He had never heard anything like it before, and he was puzzled until he remembered that Amero also had a Telastrian steel blade, a named sword, more than a century old and passed down through his family. It was the first time Soren had ever struck another blade made from Telastrian steel with his own, a fact that was surely the cause of that unimaginable sound.

‘Soren?’ Amero said. ‘Gods alive, I can’t quite believe it’s you.’

Soren flicked his eyes toward Emeric, who was in the process of drawing his sword. His face was a scowl, as it often was, the pink scar on his face still twisting the corner of his mouth into a sneer. His moustache and pointed beard seemed different to how Soren remembered, but his smooth, bald head was still the same.

Amero held out a halting hand to Emeric when he saw the direction of Soren’s gaze. ‘Put it away, Emeric. I’ll deal with this pup myself. Keep an eye on Austorga.’ He cast a glance in Austorga’s direction. ‘And you. I’ll deal with you momentarily, and I would suggest you have the keys to your vault close to hand if you hope to live out the day.’ He looked back to Soren. ‘Well, well. I wondered if you’d ever have the nerve to come back. Can’t say I expected to see you here though.’

Soren opened his mouth to say something incisive, but thought better of it and closed it again. Talking was just avoiding the issue. He lunged, throwing himself forward to cover the distance between them, firing the tip of his sword at Amero’s chest. Amero parried and took a step back. The blades struck one another with a chime that was almost musical, like the note the orchestra struck to signify the moment of impending doom at the opera he had watched in Voorn.

Soren moved past the chair Amero had been sitting in to close the distance again. Amero pounced, a feint followed by a cut. Soren was almost lured into parrying the first attack, but wisely held back and was able to fend off the second.

‘Looks like you’ve learned a thing or two since we dragged you out of the gutter and put a sword in your hand.’ Amero smiled as he circled away from the wall and back into the centre of the room, with the doors, and Emeric, behind him.

Soren refused to be drawn into conversation. For a moment he wondered if Amero was planning on making a run for the door, but this idea was put to rest when Amero attacked again. Two thrusts, one after the other, forcing Soren backward and off balance as he parried and retreated as far as Austorga’s desk would allow. With each strike the blades rang out with that musical chime, different each time as though the swords were ringing out the emotion of each swordsman. Soren almost wished that he had more time to appreciate the unique quality, knowing that he might never have the opportunity to fight against an opponent with one of these rare blades again. He might never have the opportunity to fight against any blade again if he didn’t concentrate.

‘Not got anything to say to me? Nothing at all? Even after everything that’s happened?’ Amero said.

‘I’ll say it with my sword,’ Soren said, finally giving in to the temptation to speak. He wished he had just kept his mouth shut.

Amero sneered. ‘Oh, you do that then. I have to admit I was beginning to wonder if one of my bounty hunters had managed to cut out your tongue. But you’re right. Let’s allow our swords do the talking.’ He made no attempt to disguise the irony in his words or his contempt.

He lunged forward again and Soren parried easily, taking the opportunity to slide away from the desk and clear his line of retreat. He drew on the Fount again, and considered allowing it flood over him to push him into the Moment. He couldn’t think of a better time for it, but he wanted to avoid doing so unless there was no alternative. If he managed to kill Amero there was still Emeric to deal with, and there was a chance he would need to flee the city after the job was done, impossible with the post-Moment loss of consciousness.

Even with the world slowed by the Gift, Amero was still fast. The years spent sitting upon the throne had done disappointingly little to dull his skill. He closed the distance between them with a grace of movement that instantly made Soren envious. He moved from guard into attack with almost mesmerising agility and Soren had to remind himself that he was a participant in this fight, not a spectator. Soren couldn’t tell where the attacks were going until they were already on their way, and each blended into the previous as though they were all part of the same movement.

It was the level of technical perfection that Soren had always coveted, but never been quite able to achieve. Cut followed thrust followed by another cut. Soren’s speed allowed him to keep up with it, each parry ringing out a rich musical note like a perfectly tuned bell.

As enjoyable as Amero’s swordplay was to watch, observing it was getting Soren nowhere. He parried and riposted, launching into a flurry of attacks that gave him the initiative and pressed Amero back across the room. Even with the benefit of the Gift, he knew he couldn’t sustain this level of effort for long.

Amero bumped against the chair he had been sitting on and appeared to stumble. Soren’s instinct was to capitalise on it and strike home with the fatal blow, but he knew Amero too well. He was too cunning and too skilled to make that mistake unintentionally, even under the pressure Soren was putting on him.

Soren ignored the opening the apparent stumble made, and directed his attack on a different line. He knew Amero well, but perhaps not well enough. Plot revolved within plot in Amero’s mind, just as the stumble was the deception for the true ruse. He kicked the chair into the air, right in the path of the line Soren was attacking on. Soren’s speed meant he could react, and he pulled his blade back as he took a step in retreat. It wasn’t quite enough however; the chair’s leg glanced against the tip of Soren’s sword, knocking it ever so slightly to the side. More than enough for Amero to exploit.

He darted forward with a thrust to Soren’s exposed right shoulder. It would not be a killing strike, but it was a step in the right direction for Amero. Soren saw it coming, but couldn’t reverse the momentum imparted to his own blade by the chair. He did his best to dodge out of the way. The effect of the Gift was strong, and the pain of a wound would not bother him until later. So long as there was no damage to his shoulder joint, it would be like it had not happened.

The blade sliced across his flesh as though it was searing hot. His fingers went numb and his sword dropped from his hand, bouncing across the floor. The pain was so intense Soren felt that he was about to vomit. The world jumped back to normal speed and fatigue hit him harder than a run-away bull. He gasped and stumbled, and dropped onto his backside. It felt as though almost every drop of the Fount contained within him had been drained out, discharged back into the world around him.

What in hells had just happened? His arm burned and throbbed. The pain was excruciating, and all from little more than a scratch. His head throbbed, the usual consequence of being starved of the Fount. A distant memory popped into his head. When he first met Berengarius in the library of the College of Mages in Vellin-Ilora. The interest he had showed in the blade, and the fact that it was made of Telastrian steel. At the time, Soren had intended to inquire further about his reaction, but there were so many questions, there were as many he forgot to ask as he had answered. The curious look that Berengarius had given the sword had simply gotten lost amongst all of the other intriguing things. It had seemed of little consequence then, but now?

Soren looked up at Amero, who stood still, the blade of his sword glistening with Soren’s blood. He looked as surprised as Soren at the effect of that little cut. It was bleeding profusely, but no normal person would have been dropped by it. It was now all too clear to Soren why Telastrian steel had enjoyed its revered status for so many years, and it went beyond the physical qualities of strength and sharpness. It drained the Fount from whatever it cut. His own sword had done much the same when he had struck the mage in the alley. All of the energy he had been gathering dissipated as soon as Soren’s blade drew his blood.

Amero always revelled in his victories, and now was no different. He relaxed and lowered his sword, but Soren could tell he was still alert to danger.

‘Squeamish, are we?’ Amero said. ‘Not the most useful of traits for a swordsman. I can’t say I’ve ever known a man to faint at the sight of blood. Have you, Emeric?’

Emeric said nothing. Soren looked over at him. He was watching Soren, and had a pained, piteous expression on his face. Soren couldn’t recall seeing anything other than a scowl on that scarred visage.

‘I have to admit, that was easier than I was expecting,’ Amero said. ‘You’re good; you certainly pressed me at times, and if you’ve killed all of the men I’ve sent after you, then I’m baffled that the sight of blood would drop you like that. For a moment, I thought you might even have the measure of me. Still, I’m not one to turn my back on a lucky turn of fate.’

Soren glowered at him, but the gesture was just as impotent as he felt. He prayed it would not take too long to replace the energy that had been pulled from him.

Amero laughed. ‘So here we are, once again, with you entirely under my power. I wonder how it will turn out this time.’

‘
I
know
I’ve said it before, and I fear that I’m tempting fate saying it again, but here we go nonetheless,’ Amero said. ‘Goodbye, Soren. This time, I really don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.’

Soren drew breath between his teeth, grimacing for what he knew was about to come. Part of him could not accept that he had failed. He was so befuddled by the effect of the cut, he couldn’t take it all in.

Amero extended his arm and sword, pressing the tip onto Soren’s chest. He almost laughed as Amero did it. Even now, all Soren could think of was what excellent form Amero had. Perfect, even rotted by the arrogance and pomposity that coursed through every vein of his body. Soren had failed. He thought of Alessandra, her face, her smile, all the things he loved, and waited.

The pressure from the tip of Amero’s sword increased and Soren drew a sharp breath as it grew painful. He silently cursed Amero for toying with him. There was a clatter, and Soren felt his sword bump into his side, the hilt resting against his fingertips. Emeric had kicked Soren’s sword back to him.

‘Emeric? What?’ Amero turned his head and looked at Emeric, so surprised that the significance of the movement was lost on him.

Soren grabbed his sword, slapped Amero’s blade out of the way and rolled to the side, finishing on his feet. He was still exhausted, but slowly recovering, and forced his body beyond what it felt capable of.

‘What the fuck?’ Amero said, backing away from Soren.

‘No more, my Lord,’ Emeric said.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Amero’s voice was confused and angry. He looked at Soren and back to Emeric with incredulity.

‘You’ve crossed a lot of lines, my Lord. Too many, and I’ve crossed them with you. But no more. The magic, and now this. The lad’s beat. Running him through would be no better than murder. No more killing. No more magic. No more wars.’

Soren checked his wound, which still bled heavily. It was painful to move his arm despite the cut being small, and he struggled to ignore it. Each time he tried, a searing agony burned through his whole body, making him want to vomit. It was all he could do to stay where he was, arm outstretched, warding Amero off.

‘You fucking snake,’ Amero said. ‘After all my family has done for you. You’d be nothing without me. You are nothing. I’ll deal with you once I’ve finished with this uppity little shit.’ He turned his attention back to Soren. ‘It seems that every time I say that we won’t be seeing one another again, it comes back to bite me in the ass. Well, lesson learned.’ Amero looked to the side, as though in thought, but instantly launched into another series of attacks.

Soren had long since learned that one could never drop their guard with Amero. He was ready to repel the onslaught. He parried high and low, retreating a step each time, constantly amazed by the sound the Telastrian blades made when they struck each other, wary now also of the effect the steel would have if it came in contact with his flesh, besides the obvious. The pain was intense, but he refused to allow it dictate to him.

As they fought, he could feel his body warm as the Fount started to bolster him once again. His throbbing headache faded and the nausea subsided. The pain in his arm also seemed to be dissipating. After having been so thoroughly drained, he felt certain it would take a long time for him to draw in enough to be anything more than a comfort. Whatever happened in the next few moments, it would be without the aid of the Gift of Grace, or the Moment.

He couldn’t help but be amazed by Amero’s swordplay as Soren used everything in his repertoire to defend himself. Amero was always a master showman. Winning alone was not enough, and even in circumstances such as these, he couldn’t help himself. His swordsmanship was dazzling and had enthralled thousands in the city’s arenas, including Soren. Many tried to copy him, but none achieved the fluidity, speed and deadliness that seemed to come so easy to Amero. Entrancing flourish was followed by lethally accurate lunge so seamlessly they appeared to be the same movement. But they weren’t. Soren felt his eyes widen and his heart race as he saw something so familiar it amazed him that he hadn’t noticed it before. He had watched Amero fight hundreds of times, having sneaked into arenas to catch a glimpse of his once favourite duellist since childhood. He knew every move, had practiced them with sticks when real swords were still a distant dream. He knew this one, and the one before. And the one that would follow.

Soren launched into his own attack, a deep lunge with his sword hand high, the tip aimed at Amero’s chest. Amero parried it easily and Soren jumped back, leaving an opening for Amero to take the initiative once again. He could still hardly believe what he was seeing.

Amero attacked high and low, his signature combination to put his opponent on the back foot. Even recognising it and knowing its intent, it was hard to defend against. He so outclassed his opponents he didn’t need to bother with anything more elaborate. Amero extended his arm, with beautiful flourish of hand and sword. Then came the lunge. Same flourish, same attack. Soren began moving as soon as he saw the flourish. It was a risk, but rarely had he felt so certain of anything. Seeing it happening in front of him was too much to believe. He countered, rolling his wrist inward, pushing his hand high and aiming his blade’s tip low. His sword caught Amero’s with a musical chime, driving its tip high and wide. His own continued true, and the razor sharp blade cut into Amero’s chest with barely any pause in its momentum.

Soren wasn’t sure who was more shocked, him or Amero. He pulled his sword free of Amero’s body. Amero’s eyes were wide in surprise. He gasped in pain as Soren’s blade slid from his chest and dropped his own, pressing both hands against the open wound.

Amero fixed his gaze on Soren and smiled. ‘And you? After everything I gave you? This is how it ends? That’s gratitude for you, I suppose.’ He toppled onto his side, his face a picture of bemusement and let out one last gasp.

Emeric looked over at Soren. ‘Well, lad. What happens now?’

S
oren had
no idea how to answer the question. His mind was awash with so many things that he couldn’t focus; fatigue, pain, shock. He shook his head clear of everything but the present, and looked to Austorga who had regained his previous composure far quicker than Soren.

‘I don’t know,’ Soren said. ‘What happens now?’

Austorga pulled a crimson tassel that was threaded with gold braid. ‘Word will be sent to bring the next most eligible candidate for the ducal throne back to the city. Ranph dal Bragadin; a friend of yours I believe. Austorgas’ will ensure that his investiture is swift and unopposed. Life in Ostenheim will continue as normal.’

Soren almost laughed. He hadn’t given any thought to what would come after. ‘You have it all in place?’

‘Of course.’ Austorga smiled, but there was no humour behind it.

‘And what if Amero had managed to kill me?’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference in the long run. Killing him in this way was little more than an act of vanity on my part. I wanted to deal with this without the involvement of the other houses. If it hadn’t worked today, the only questions regarding the now former duke’s death would have been when, where and how. The House of Austorga has not survived for over a millennium by failing. I have brothers, many cousins. If I failed today, the House would not. Once the decision was made to replace Amero, it became an inevitability. It was only the method that remained in question.’

The cold, calculating certainty with which he spoke was chilling. The Austorga family had no titles of political power—the appellations of burgess and grand burgess were merely honorifics and the only ones they deigned to adopt—but Austorga spoke of world changing activity as though it was as inconsequential as a sweep of his pen.

Soren looked back at Amero’s body, the lifeless eyes. It was difficult to believe that it was over. There wouldn’t be any more men coming after him. The peace and happiness that he wanted so desperately, but had proved so elusive could now be his. Soren thought that he would be elated, but despite everything all he could feel was pity. Amero was dead and no one would mourn his passing; quite the contrary. He had done so much wrong, but one evening he plucked a young man off the street and gave him a life of which he had only dreamed. Amero had put Soren through hell, but he had to acknowledge that he would probably already be dead if they had not met. Soren wanted so desperately to hate him, but in that moment, could not.

Soren looked at Emeric, who was regarding his fallen master. As usual, his face was impossible to read. Soren wondered what lay in the future for Emeric. With all that had happened, Soren didn’t think he would be able to stay in Ostenheim. Execution was all he could look forward to if he remained.

Were it not for Emeric, Amero would likely have killed Soren as he lay there on the floor. He had always been kind to Soren. He would make sure Emeric got out of the city and had the money to start over, somewhere he could be his own master. Soren could think of a nice little farm in Estranza where Emeric would fit in perfectly. He was just as surly as the locals.

Soren took one final look at Amero’s lifeless body. There was much to be done, and no point in wasting any more time dwelling on the past; the future held too much promise.