The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1) (5 page)

By the time he was finished, he was beyond completely full. His stomach felt tight and ready to split, but he had not left behind a single morsel of what had been on his tray. He thought about getting some more and putting it in his pockets for later. It felt as though it would be an act of madness to allow the opportunity to go by, but as he was about to do so the instructor named Bryn entered the hall and after scanning the room quickly made his way over to him.

‘I hope you are done eating, Master Dornish is in the training hall and wishes to see you,’ he said.

Soren nodded and got up to follow him. They walked out of the dining hall into the cobbled courtyard outside. Bryn led him through courtyards and around corners until they eventually reached a larger square flanked on all sides by tall buildings of the same pale stone and lined with windows. Bryn led him along the side of the square to the building on the opposite side.

As was the style of all the buildings that he had so far been in, this building was entered through massive double doors slightly recessed into the long side of the building that faced out onto the square.

‘This is the Tyro Training Hall,’ said Bryn, as he reached for the door handle. ‘If Master Dornish chooses to allow you to remain, you will get to know this hall very well.’

They entered it and any questions Soren had about why the campus seemed so quiet were answered. There were hundreds of young men, about his age or younger training all around the hall. They were running, lifting weights, climbing ropes, doing all kinds of exercises. They were fencing against each other, against stationary dummies, or against dummies that moved and attacked by themselves. This wonder seized hold of Soren’s attention for some time as he walked across the hall notionally following Bryn.

‘Master, here is the boy,’ Bryn said.

The man turned around. It was the first time Soren had seen him clearly. Master Dornish was quite a bit shorter than Soren. He could in fact see clear over the Master’s head. His hair was long and had once been black but was now liberally streaked with grey and was tied back in a tight, neat ponytail. He had a thick moustache the same colour as his hair, and a neat pointed tuft of hair growing from his chin. On closer inspection Soren realised the moustache was concealing part of a scar that ran from his cheek down to his lip. Bryn had a scar on his face also, and he recalled that Emeric had one also. It seemed to be an identifying mark for men in this trade.

‘I’ll match you against one of the tyros. They are about the same age as you, some a little older perhaps, but have already been studying the sword for at least a decade and have completed two years of study here. They are your peers and the students you must ultimately prove yourself against. If you do passably well you can stay. No one can expect much more than that from you at this point,’ he said, as they walked across the hall’s floor. ‘Ranph! Bring an extra sword.’

A boy with dark brown hair instantly stopped what he was doing and ran to one of the sword racks from which he extracted two rapiers and ran to Soren and Dornish.

‘Ranph dal Bragadin, meet Tyro Applicant Soren,’ said Master Dornish.

Other students began to gather around, followed by more as they became aware that something was going on. They formed a wide circle around Soren, Ranph and Dornish, their boots shuffling on the wooden floor. Their whispers were both irritating Soren, and intimidating him at the same time. He didn’t like being the centre of attention. They were all watching every move he made. He had always lived in the shadows, surviving by never being noticed. He could feel beads of sweat form on his brow and tried to focus his attention on the boy in front of him. He was shorter than Soren, but well built. Fit and strong in comparison to Soren’s scrawny and malnourished. His hair was of the fashionable shoulder length, held back in a ponytail more carelessly tied than Master Dornish’s, which gave him a rakish, carefree look.

Despite his attempt to concentrate, the whispers, chuckles and slights gnawed at the back of Soren’s mind. Ranph handed him a sword and then stepped back.

‘Ready? Duel,’ said Dornish.

Soren had just registered the words when Ranph lunged forward, the button tip of his rapier a blinding flash of light as it tore through the air toward him and stabbed into his chest. Guffaws of laughter, applause and cheers consumed the dull murmur of voices that had existed before. Soren felt embarrassed and angry. If he was to be thrown out of the Academy, it would not be to the sounds of the jeering laughter.

‘A touch! Excellent form, Bragadin. Again! Duel,’ said Dornish.

Soren dropped into a crouch and sprang backwards, his body moving clear of the path of Ranph’s sword not a moment too soon. Expecting another quick scoring touch Ranph committed too much weight to his otherwise perfectly executed thrust and paused a moment too long on his front foot as he pushed back to a balanced stance. Angered by the constant muttering Soren lashed out, sweeping his rapier back in an arc, twisting his body into it as he did. Ranph let out a yelp as the length of the rounded blade lashed across his back. Gasps replaced the laughter and cheering of the previous touch. There was more muttering, but now of disbelief, which made Soren smile to himself. This boy was fast, but he was faster.

‘A touch! All even. One more touch to be scored,’ said Dornish. There was a note of surprise in his voice. ‘Ready? Duel!’

Ranph was angry, both at the shame of having conceded a touch in front of his peers and at the hot red welt that was forming across his back, but he was not stupid and this time he approached with more caution. Soren had not really expected another swift attack, but had moved quickly just in case. Sword out in front, he took two quick steps to the left and brushed aside the testing feints Ranph fired in quickly but without the conviction of a proper attack.

The mocking voices in the background seemed to fade into oblivion, as Soren was only aware of his opponent, the sound of their boots scratching on the dull wooden floor and above all, the hammering of blood through his ears. Ranph lunged again, faster this time, his eyes not locked on Soren’s any more. Why not? They were locked on his target! Soren stepped to the side and twisted his torso, the blade passing a hair’s breadth away. Soren tried his fast counter again but somehow Ranph got his blade back in time and swatted away Soren’s with ease. The gathered audience gasped with the same excited tension that Soren had seen at the Amphitheatre. The thought that his actions could elicit the effect that Amero had on people filled him with an enormous sense of something he couldn’t quite describe, but the momentary lapse in concentration nearly cost him dearly. Ranph came back again, thrust after thrust, his front foot hammering down on the floor with each attack, breath hissing out of his mouth with exertion.

Eventually Ranph gave up the flurry as fury gave way to fatigue. The duellists circled one another for what felt like an age; all the while Soren waited for the next series of attacks. The tension was building to a point where Soren felt as though he could no longer bear it. He did the only thing he could think of to break the impasse. He lashed out with all the speed, strength and energy he could muster. As his body lunged forward, his arm outstretched, Ranph’s movement seemed to slow. However, as had been the case with Soren’s previous attack, this one was wild and uncontrolled. As fast as he was, his strike was not on target. Ranph ducked out of the way and fired in a counter thrust of his own.

‘A touch!’ said Dornish.

Soren held his breath, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest stinging from where he had just been struck. Had he done enough to remain?

‘Thank you, Tyro dal Bragadin, you may return to your class,’ said Dornish. When Ranph had gone and the crowd had dispersed and returned to their classes, Dornish turned to Soren.

‘That was some of the ugliest sword play I have ever seen, young man, but by the Gods you are fast! It seems the popinjay was right!’ He muttered the last words, as though he was thinking out loud. ‘I don’t know if I have ever seen anyone move quite that quickly, especially not someone your size. There are not many here that can put a touch on dal Bragadin even on a bad day; he really is very good. You can stay. I’ll have a steward find you a bunk in the Under Cadet Dormitory for now.’

He was in. Soren did not know whether to be pleased or worried. Perhaps feeling both was most appropriate. A doorway to a completely different life had been opened to him and the swift and drastic change in his circumstances left him feeling lightheaded. He was suddenly very tired, no doubt due to it being the most tumultuous day of his life, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about where his next meal would come from anymore.

C h a p t e r   6

A JUMBLE OF LETTERS

O
ne of the Academy stewards took him from the training hall to the Under Cadet dormitory. Those in their first year at the Academy were referred to as ‘Under Cadets’, or ‘Unders’ and they lived in this building. The porter had said that all four hundred of the first year students had their rooms here. This was one of the years that Soren had been skipped past, but as a newcomer there were many formalities, such as membership of a house of residence, that had yet to be addressed, so for the time being he was being given a room here.

Those that matriculated from the Under Cadet year were allotted to one of the four houses of residence on the campus, Stornado, Ancelot, New and River, when they became students of the Academy proper and began their Cadet year. Soren had also been skipped past this year to place him in a class with students closer to his age. The matriculating under cadets were offered a place in a house by the class that were graduating from the Academy, which was usually done by names being balloted on by those senior students. Those who were not invited to join a house were assigned to one and had to be content with where they were sent. The result was that the makeup of the residents in any particular house tended to be along the lines of familial alliances outside of the Academy. Aside from the Campanile, the large round tower in the front square of the Academy, the Under Cadet Dormitory was also the tallest building on the campus.

Soren had been given a room on the top floor of the building. Rooms on the higher floors were unpopular, as despite having a magnificent view over the Academy grounds, the Citadel, the city itself and the harbour below, the tight spiral staircase was a misery to climb for six floors, particularly after a hard training session. Not to mention that each floor up was also one further from the ablutions block on the ground level.

His room was tiny and designed to be shared with one other student. It was painted plain white with a cot bed on either side of a narrow space running from the door to the dormer window which jutted out from the roof that sloped sharply down from midway along the ceiling of the room. Two small closets and two footlockers were jammed into the small remaining spaces left by the beds on either side of the room. In the time it took him to survey his new home, the steward had disappeared.

He went in and sat on one of the vacant cots. The other cot and closet appeared unused, so it didn’t seem as though he was to have a roommate. A folded blanket and pillow were stacked at one end of the bed he sat on. Soren idly opened the footlocker and closet on his side of the room, not really expecting to find anything, but was still oddly disappointed when they indeed proved to be empty.

So this was his new home. His home. A smile broke out across his face.

There was to be no time afforded to Soren to settle into his new surroundings, nor to come to terms with the abrupt change to his life. His attendance at class would be expected on the following morning, and as the porter had indicated on the night he had arrived, term had begun a week before. Soren was also aware of the fact that he had many years of training to catch up on.