The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1) (17 page)

The door latch clicked and the door opened. Henn stepped out, his face covered in a sheen of sweat. He raised his eyebrows to Soren when he spotted him sitting there.

‘Good luck!’ he said. ‘It’s not all that bad actually; you shouldn’t have any problem with it!’

Soren nodded and went in. Master Bryn was standing at the far end of the salon. The room was lined with windows looking down into the front square of the Academy along one side and mirrors along the other. It made the room seem far larger than it actually was.

‘Take a sword and start with the positions please, Tyro,’ he said.

Soren nodded and took a sword from the open locker by the door and began. Master Bryn watched him with a sideways glance as he filled a glass with water from a pitcher on a side table and drank. He had a sheen of sweat on his face also, so it appeared that sparring would form part of the examination.

Soren began to go through the positions, which at this point he had practiced so many times, repeating them required no thought whatsoever.

‘That will do,’ said Bryn, once he had finished his glass of water. ‘Take your guard.’

He walked forward purposefully and launched into his attack without pause or salute. Soren parried the initial barrage but was forced to take several steps backward. Bryn’s class showed through in his swordplay. In every way he was superior to the students Soren was accustomed to sparring against, even Ranph who many of his classmates would have considered to be of a similar ability level to an instructor.

He attacked again, with an angry intensity that startled Soren. It was almost as though he viewed the sparring as being for real. The hesitation caused Soren to execute a parry an instant too slowly and all he could do was deflect the point of Bryn’s blade away from its intended target, Soren’s heart, and into his shoulder instead.

‘A touch!’ said Bryn, through gritted teeth. ‘This is not just about defending!’ He launched into another combination of attacks. As Soren parried, he smiled to himself as he recognised the combination from one of the manuals he had studied. Bryn executed it perfectly but Soren was able to duck out of the way and move to his blind side. He made an economical thrust to Bryn’s midsection and evened the score.

‘Excellent!’ said Bryn. ‘Truly excellent. Well done. That will be all.’

With one night of the regular term remaining, there was little for Soren to do. Most of the other students had gone home as soon as they had completed their matriculation tests, but as Soren had nowhere else to go, he had remained. Once again River House was empty of its usual sounds of life, which was something that made him feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t that the silence was particularly eerie, it was just something that prevented him from being completely at ease. The solution that came to him most readily was the same one that always did, to train.

He wheeled between the drones as they hacked and slashed at him. A blade passed so close to his face that he could feel the rush of air against his skin. Other students always complained about how they hated the drones, but Soren had never found them to be much of a challenge. Beyond being a moving opponent and providing a tough physical training session, Soren did not especially rate them. They always seemed to be much faster when he watched them than they actually were when he trained against them.

He had continued to give thought to what Master Dornish had said to him about the ‘Gift of Grace’ but still could not identify anything specifically out of the ordinary, but then it was unlikely that he would have; he knew no different.

When he deactivated the final drone, he was swallowed whole by a wave of exhaustion that forced him to one knee. As he fought to catch his breath he felt a nauseous ache in his stomach and his head throbbed. Despite the improvement in his fitness and physical condition over the course of the academic year, training against the drones always brought him past the point of exhaustion. No matter how skilled an opponent he sparred against, he could never push himself to that level of physical distress any other way.

‘Exceptional physical fitness was the only solution the old bannerets ever found to the exhaustion, but even that was lacking. It seems that exhaustion and even nausea were common side effects of the Gift of Grace.’

The voice startled Soren, and he turned to see that Master Dornish had entered the hall.

‘The gift seems to have come in two parts. The first part was simply the gift. This aspect seems to have been enjoyed by bannerets most of the time, to varying levels of intensity. I’m not sure how or why the intensity varied; perhaps they could control it to some degree. This state was a lesser manifestation of what was called “the Moment”, which seems to have been the very highest expression of their powers and appears to have occurred far more rarely. Only in the most extreme times of peril to the banneret or the mage he guarded. That was the original purpose of the bannerets you see, to provide physical protection for mages. The side effects for the Moment seem to have been far more severe than the exhaustion and nausea that could be caused by the Gift. I did a little research, but that is the sum total reward for my labours,’ Dornish said.

‘After the Mage Wars, all writings pertaining to the use of magic were destroyed, and I suspect almost all mentions of the Gift of Grace were also. The only mentions of it that I did find were from books that would have been written decades after the last of the old bannerets had died. But it is something to go on. If you can contemplate on the way you feel when in training and combat, perhaps you can identify if you have the Gift, and if you can identify the extreme effect of the Moment, but be careful! There is a more pressing matter however, which is the reason I am here.’ He clutched several oddly shaped swords loosely wrapped in oilcloth in his hands. He handed them to Soren.

‘They are properly known as “storta”, but they are more often called Ruripathian backswords due to only having a single sharp edge and the fact that it is mainly the Ruripathians who use them. Usually we don’t train students in the use of and defence against foreign swords until they are adepti, but I think you ought to become accustomed to them rather sooner. The Count of Moreno has notified me that he will be here to pick you up tomorrow so that you can accompany him on a diplomatic mission north. He wants to give you a taste of your future duties with him no doubt,’ said Dornish.

Soren nodded, still too tired to make conversation and took the items from Dornish, his arms shaking with fatigue.

‘While we place a broadly even emphasis on cut and thrust, these swords are primarily used for cutting, although they can be used for a thrust also. The drones will know how to use them, but to look at you I would be inclined to recommend some rest over more training this evening!’ said Dornish.

Soren nodded again. Sweat dripped from his face with the movement of his head. It was all he could do to stay standing and he fought to control his breathing.

‘In case you are wondering, you did well in your exams, and have again impressed Master Bryn. Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ he said.

Soren nodded a final time, the fact that it would be the first time he had ever gone beyond sight of Ostenheim’s great walls sinking in and filling him with excitement and uncertainty.

C h a p t e r   1 8

JOURNEY NORTH

S
oren had spent the morning packing and was quite surprised by the luggage all around him. In the course of one academic year at the Academy, he had gone from owning nothing but the rags on his back to having several cases of clothing. A ceremonial uniform, a mess uniform, several sets of training clothing and various other accoutrements required for daily life at the Academy sat neatly folded in his cases. He was waiting in front of the Academy to be collected by Amero, and was quite taken aback when his patron finally did arrive.

A great black carriage drawn by a team of six horses pulled up outside the Academy gates, followed by one other smaller carriage that stopped behind it. Two men sat on the seat at the front, one of whom he recognised as Emeric. Emeric hopped down from the carriage, and made a quick hand gesture to the men on the second carriage.

He walked up to Soren and was followed by two liveried servants from the other carriage.

‘Well, Tyro, I hope you’ve enjoyed your year so far. I dare say you’ll be earning your keep in the weeks to come,’ said Emeric, as a matter of fact. He cast a glance back into the Academy and for the briefest of moments his face darkened. The two servants gathered up Soren’s baggage and Emeric gestured for him to get into the main carriage.

He stepped up into it. Getting into a carriage was another first in a long list of firsts for him that year. He had to check his balance as it rocked gently under his weight. The interior was something of a surprise to him. Pale blue silk upholstery lined its entirety, with two plush couches facing each other front and back. Amero, Count of Moreno looked up at him from a bunch of papers that he had been reviewing. He caught Soren’s inquisitive gaze.

‘Ah yes, the powder blue. Not really to my taste, but my mother had it done and I haven’t been bothered to change it. Still, it could be worse I suppose. Please, sit,’ he said. He gestured to the couch opposite him. ‘How have you been enjoying the Academy?’

‘Very well, my Lord,’ Soren said respectfully.

Amero smiled broadly.

‘Well, I see that old prick Rilid’s etiquette lessons are still good for something. Master Dornish tells me you are something of a phenomenon. From scrawny wretch to near top of your class in only a year. I knew you would be good when I first saw you, but that really is quite an achievement. Nonetheless it is gratifying to hear from someone as tight with compliments as Dornish that I haven’t pissed away eight hundred crowns on tuition,’ said Amero.

‘I’m very grateful for the opportunity you have given me, my Lord,’ Soren replied, balking at the size of his tuition fee. It was more than an ordinary worker would earn in years, perhaps even a lifetime.

‘I only expect to be called “my lord”, “count”, or any of that other rubbish in front of others, Soren. In private Amero will more than suffice. And there is no need for gratitude, be very assured that I will have full value from my investment in you in the full passage of time!’ he said, with a wolfish smile that Soren had seen so many times in the arena just before Amero made his winning strike.

The carriage jolted to a start and clattered away from the Academy and down the cobbled road.

‘It’s down to the docks where we will take a ship north to Baelin. It’s the most northerly port in the Duchy and the powers that be want me to call in and deliver some dispatches seeing as we’re passing that way anyway. Regardless, we couldn’t get any further north by sea at this time of the year. It will still be iced up any farther north. We will overland from there to Brixen. I hear that they call it the “Mirrored City”, because of the lake it overlooks. I’ve never been there myself but it’s meant to be beautiful, as are their women, which I have to admit I’m a damn sight more interested in seeing!’ said Amero.