The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1) (14 page)

The office was on the top floor of the front building of the Academy and overlooked Old Square, the main quadrangle of the campus. Master Dornish’s adjutant showed Soren in. The man was little more than a secretary, but such a job description would not fit in very well with the martial nature of the Academy, so he was called an adjutant instead.

Dornish instructed Soren to sit and then proceeded to study him, his fingers arched in front of his face, for what felt like an age. A very uncomfortable age.

‘I’ve had some reports back from your masters. As we are at the end of your first term, I thought I might take the chance to discuss them with you,’ he said slowly.

It was Rilid. He knew it the second the word report had left Dornish’s mouth. His face flushed with anger. If he was expelled over this, the man would never again be safe to set foot outside the walls of the Academy, Soren would make very sure of that. Dornish continued.

‘Master Bryn’s reports are of the most interest to me. Particularly in light of something I thought I might have glimpsed myself when I’ve seen you spar, but more of that shortly. Master Bryn is of the opinion that you are the fastest swordsman that he has ever seen. Praise like that from a man like him is not to be dismissed. He tells me that in the weeks that you have been here, you have caught up with your peers in terms of technique, and that if your development continues at its current rate, he expects you to have surpassed them before this academic year ends. He also pays tribute to what he describes as an awe inspiring work ethic and goes on to say that he is aware that you’ve been spending quite a bit of extra time in the training hall.

‘I don’t want to swell your head though. I should also point out that there have been some less than glowing reports. Master Terhorst applauds your diligence and attentiveness in class, but thinks you to be a halfwit, and Master Rilid seems to be convinced that you are completely illiterate. Happily for you, however, Master Bryn’s is the opinion that counts for most. Our duty as instructors is to ensure that you can use the sword that graduating from this institution entitles you to wear. Our responsibility to the city is to produce men who can fight, longer, better and smarter than any of our enemies. It is helpful if they have as good a brain as they do an arm though, so I would encourage you to persevere with the academics, and to get as much out of this opportunity for education as you can. It will serve you well in the future, wherever your career may take you.’

‘I understand, sir,’ Soren replied. ‘I will work hard at it.’

‘Good, good,’ said Dornish. ‘Now, to the other thing I mentioned. I could be completely wrong, as I’ve never before actually seen what I want to talk to you about, and there isn’t much more than a few mentions of it in books, with not much in the way of explanations being given even then. Despite this, I doubt if there is a swordsman alive who has not heard of it, and dreamt of having it. What I am talking about was called the “Gift of Grace”. It was something all the bannerets of the olden days could call upon, but sadly it has been lost to us for generations. It imbued them with great speed and strength, and is credited as being what allowed them to overthrow the mages and defeat them in the old wars. I have watched you spar and fight a drone, and I’m certain I’ve never seen anyone move with the speed that seems to come to you effortlessly. At first I was not sure, and even now I feel a little foolish just mentioning it, but from what I have seen and from what your instructors have been saying, I can’t shake off the thought that perhaps you have this gift.’ He leaned forward over his desk and fixed his gaze on Soren. ‘Is what I am saying to you making any sense?’

‘I don’t really know, sir. I hadn’t thought there was anything unusual about it. I mean, I know I am fast, but I hadn’t thought there was anything more to it than that,’ said Soren.

‘Perhaps there isn’t,’ said Dornish, leaning back into his chair. ‘It could well just be me looking for an explanation where none is necessary. It may be worth keeping an eye on though, so bear in mind what I’ve said. You may go now. If you continue working the way you are, Soren, you will do very well here. Keep that in mind also!’

C h a p t e r   1 5

A BRAVE DEED

W
hile most of the other students returned to their family estates for the break between terms, Soren remained at the Academy. He had partly expected the Count of Moreno to call on him for some purpose or another, but he had not, so apart from the lack of formal tuition, life continued on very much the same for Soren.

He took the opportunity to redouble the effort he was putting into his personal training regime. Master Dornish’s conversation with him had proven that he had made a good impression during his first term, and he was determined to continue in that vein. Each evening he spent in the library and the following day he spent in the training hall, putting all of his studies to practice.

As with the effort he had put into reading, his extra effort in the training hall began to show through. His economy of movement improved and he found he required less and less thought to execute complex attacks and reacted to attacks ever more effectively. Where once his sword cuts had been wild and ill disciplined, they were now precise and tight, no more than was necessary with the tip moving perfectly as Soren intended.

The Academy was quiet, as was River House, as there were only a handful of students still on campus. It would have felt lonely once again were it not for the fact that he kept himself busy all day, and each night, Soren collapsed into bed.

With the hectic schedule he imposed on himself and the constant sense of urgency he felt with regard to it, the few days between the two terms went by quickly and River House began to fill with noise and laughter again as quickly as it had emptied.

The new term felt like easing back into an old and comfortable pair of shoes. The routine was now familiar to Soren and the fear he had felt over the potential of the between term holiday becoming dead time, where, through laziness, he might allow his progress to come to a halt, subsided and the feeling of purpose and of achieving something each day returned.

His lessons with Eluard Frerr also recommenced, which he was somewhat apprehensive about. He had neglected specifically working on reading and writing, in the hope that the effort he was putting in to digest as many fencing treatises as he could would make up for this.

While his duel with dal Dardi had seemed to make him accepted at the Academy, he was still concerned about something similar occurring in the future. With his rapid advance, and the many obstacles that he had not had to pass, there were still those that resented him. There were also those that continued to harbour distaste at the fact that a blow-in from the street could better them despite their generations of aristocratic breeding.

The best way to ensure that he did not have to address this resentment with steel, in his mind at least, was to become a Blade. While duelling was forbidden in the Academy, as he had found out, a blind eye was turned so long as the consequences were superficial. A blind eye would not be turned for a Blade, who was supposed to be setting a better example. As a result there was an understanding among the students that Blades could not and would not duel under any circumstances. Any slight to a Blade by a student would be dealt with harshly by the Blades as a whole, but within the rules of the Academy. To cause insult to the honour of one who could not call for satisfaction was considered to be a cowardly act.

He felt quite ruthless in setting out the things he wanted to achieve in the coming term, but after his run in with dal Dardi, the precariousness of his position had become ever more present in his mind. Membership of the Blades was the first item on his list. This would solidify his position beyond interference from other students. The second aim was to reach the front rank in duelling class. He felt that the additional work he had already put in had improved his ability immeasurably, and if continued would make this goal a realistic possibility.

Despite spending two hours each afternoon at the Moreno town house for his reading and writing lessons, he almost never saw Emeric and never saw Amero, even though he was wintering in the city.

Not long after his second term began, Soren had discovered a shortcut of alleys that allowed him to take a more direct route between Amero’s townhouse and the Academy. It led him out onto the square in front of the Academy, where it twisted between the dense concentration of buildings around the square and on to the leafy boulevards where the wealthy kept their city mansions. One evening, as he took this route back to the Academy after darkness had fallen, he heard a commotion in one of the alleys that led off from his shortcut.

His natural inclination was to continue on and ignore it. During his time on the streets he would not have even contemplated stopping to investigate. Someone was always being done over, and to interfere was only to invite injury to oneself. Things were different now though; he was a student of the Academy, a gentleman in training, and this was Highgarden. He had never heard of a mugging or street crime being committed here. Out of some high sense of duty and dignity, he decided to investigate.

He turned down three or four corners in the alleyway to reach a dead end containing five people. He could only see four of them, but presumably the fifth, their victim, was on the ground in front of them.

He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. One of the assailants turned to look at Soren.

‘Piss off and mind your own business. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into!’ he said.

His accent surprised Soren. It was not the accent of a street thug, but one considerably more refined. It was not quite upper class, but this man was not a common thug.

‘I’d say the same to you, be off with you,’ Soren said, in his most superior tone.

‘Oh for fuck sake,’ said the man, with a sigh. ‘Finish off here and I’ll take care of this “young gentleman”.’ As he stepped forward he caught sight of Soren’s blue doublet. ‘Bloody Academy brats,’ he muttered, as he approached.

Soren noticed, however, that he had dropped the casual air he had a moment before, and was approaching more carefully. Soren carried a small dagger on his belt beneath his cloak, but decided not to use it unless absolutely necessary. He was well aware the trouble an Academy student killing a man on a city street would bring him.

The man carried a club and moved well. He was certainly used to fighting, and in a more trained way than Soren would expect from a thug.

‘Last chance,’ he said.

Soren just smiled. The man sighed again and swung the club at Soren. It was not a wild, uncalculated swing, but a well constructed attack. It was aimed for Soren’s face, and it did not put the man off balance. His surprise was palpable when Soren’s hands shot out from beneath his cloak and seized him by the wrist. Soren quickly twisted his arm before the man could react to stop it, and pulled it back sharply, doubling the man over.