The First Blade Of Ostia Read online

  ‘Again!’

  Bautisto’s Estranzan accent was beginning to occupy a regular place in Bryn’s nightmares. Bautisto ran both he and Amero harder than Bryn thought was possible. Nothing he had done before, either in the Collegium or in preparation for the Competition, had come close.

  Sweat pooled at his eyebrows and his arms burned. Holding his sword out in front of him took supreme effort. From the expression on Amero’s face, it appeared that he felt much the same way.

  After two weeks of training Amero had yet to make another complaint about the salon or their trainer, other than the occasional offhand remark about him having missed his true calling as a slave driver. It could have been down to the fact that he was simply too tired to moan and trek across the city to find himself a nice spot on a couch in Cavzanigo’s, but he had not complained and that made Bryn feel satisfied.

  Bryn pulled his tired and meandering thoughts back to the present and responded to Bautisto’s command. He dropped back into what Bautisto referred to as the ‘first guard’, the position he favoured for both initiating and receiving attack. Bryn’s feet felt as though they were attached to blocks of lead and he just couldn’t move them quickly enough to satisfy Bautisto.

  ‘Faster!’ Bautisto yelled. When he became particularly animated, which was something in itself considering how energetic he was ordinarily, his face went bright red and the veins in his forehead bulged. It could be distracting and at times Bryn felt genuine concern for his health, but to give any indication that he was not concentrating fully would result in a tongue-lashing or another routine of exhausting exercise.

  He tried to move his feet faster, but they burned and felt so heavy nothing made them move the way he wanted. His sword felt like it had doubled or tripled in weight, and the ache in his shoulder provided an unwelcome distraction from the pain in his feet. A child with a wooden sword could have bested him with little difficulty.

  ‘That is enough for today. Eat, and sleep at least ten hours. I will see you in the morning.’ Bautisto turned and went back to his small room, leaving Amero and Bryn wavering with exhaustion. Amero slumped to the ground and sat cross-legged and hunched over, drawing in deep breaths of air. Bryn spiked the ground with the tip of his training sword and leaned on it, trying to shift some of his weight from his legs onto the makeshift support.

  They hobbled home, as they did each afternoon once Bautisto was done with them. They must have seemed like two drunks as they swayed on exhausted legs and bumped into one another. Amero’s cook had been told to have food ready for them when they arrived back. They would eat in silence, then Bryn would fall asleep mid-afternoon, either on one of the couches in the living room or if he had the energy left, he would crawl to bed.

  * * *

  BRYN HAD SPOTTED Mistria’s name on a billboard for a duel in one of the city’s larger arenas, one of those in the tier directly below the Amphitheatre, and was determined to go and watch no matter how tired he was.

  Amero had arranged for them to meet some old Academy friends later in the evening, but he would have time for a nap between the two events.

  Bigger arenas drew larger crowds and higher profile duellists. Bryn hadn’t recognised the name of Mistria’s opponent, but in this arena there would be no ambitious thugs or double-jobbing soldiers. They would all be bannerets. It seemed that there was a young generation of duellists starting to come to prominence. During his time at the Collegium, Bryn had been far too busy to keep abreast of who the promising up-and-comers were, so there were few names on the billing that he did recognise, all bannerets who had been a few years ahead of him at the Academy. The prospect that they might all be as good as Mistria whetted his appetite for the spectacle to come, and he hadn’t felt that excited about attending a duel in some time.

  Mistria’s duel was the second on the billing. The first was impressive; both swordsmen knew what they were about and were hungry for the victory. There could only be one winner however, and the match ended in a three touches to two score. It made him regret that he would not be able to stay any longer than Mistria’s duel, knowing that he would need at least an hour’s sleep if he was to make it back out to meet his friends that evening.

  The arena’s stands were full by the time Mistria walked out onto the arena floor. There was a strong response to his appearance, and he was definitely the man Bryn had passed on the stairway at Valdrio’s salon.

  The Master of Arms raised his hands and lowered them to hush the crowd. ‘Banneret Mistria of Maestro Valdrio’s Salle, and Banneret Aureo of Maestro Cavzanigo’s Salle. Banneret Mistria has achieved a perfect score in his last fifteen duels.’

  Bryn raised his eyebrows at the announcement. Mistria’s opponent was from Cavzanigo’s, one of the salons he and Amero had looked at and one he had immediately dismissed as being a vanity salon. He was curious to see what Banneret Aureo was made of.

  The second reason for his interest was Mistria’s track record, and the explanation it gave for his appearance in the small arena. A duellist’s previous twenty-five matches were counted for his Ladder ranking. A perfect score, where the duellist did not concede a single touch, earned five points. It was not unheard of for a duellist to inflate his score with a few easier matches with low-rank opponents in back street arenas. To do it too often would draw the ire of the Bannerets’ Commission, though. It was crafty, but it was accepted within reason.

  It was rare for a duellist to achieve the maximum one hundred and twenty-five points, but it did happen. To do so was to be numbered among the greats, and have your banner hung in the Bannerets’ Hall in pride of place. It was a huge achievement and a lofty dream. Thinking about it made Bryn’s heart race.

  On the Master of Arms’s signal, Mistria took the initiative. He danced forward with his quick, light-footed grace, and thrust. Aureo was no slouch. He parried and riposted, but Mistria had already moved back to a safe distance. Bryn felt a tingle run along his spine when he heard the first clash of steel. Excitement coursed through his veins, tempered only by his jealousy that it was them on the arena floor and not him.

  * * *

  BRYN WAS STILL ELATED LATER that evening as he headed to the tavern in Docks to meet with Amero and his former classmates. He had not managed to sleep at all, despite telling Amero to go on ahead and that he would join them later. The duel had energised him and filled him with confidence that he had made the correct career choice. He wanted to take his place amongst the duellists in the arena more than anything.

  The Sail and Sword was a dump, but it was an Academy favourite and the tavern keeper generally turned a blind eye to the students’ excesses—and was even known to allow them out the back way in the event of a raid by the City Watch.

  Students at the Academy proper were not supposed to be out in the city after ten bells. It was an accommodation reached between the Master of the Academy and the Captain of the City Watch centuries before, due to the danger of having so many trained swordsmen carousing around the city drunk out of their minds as young men were wont to do when at their liberty. It was a concession to nostalgia that the Sail and Sword was the chosen venue that evening.

  The others were all there when he arrived, propping up the bar and laughing raucously. Bryn was well known enough to be acknowledged by the tavern keeper when he entered and to have a mug filled for him without having to ask. He walked up to the others and slapped Amero on the back.

  ‘What are a bunch of upstanding gentlemen like you doing in a place of ill repute such as this?’ he said.

  ‘Waiting for your sister,’ one of the others said, to a chorus of laughter and baiting.

  Caught without a comeback, Bryn nodded, acknowledging his defeat to the smiles of his opponent.

  They hadn’t seen each other in several weeks, so the banter continued hard and fast along with rounds of drinks until the early hours. They had each taken a different career path since leaving the Collegium, and it was strange to think that after so many years in each other
’s company—they had all entered the Academy together as Under Cadets, what seemed like a lifetime ago—it was unlikely that they would all be together at the same time again.

  Two had joined the army, and one was due to leave Ostenheim the following week to continue his studies at the Academy in Humberland, on the other side of the Middle Sea. The conversation turned to what Bryn was doing.

  ‘I’m training for the arena,’ he said, wishing he had at least one duel under his belt at that point. It wouldn’t seem real until he had. ‘So’s Amero here. Hopefully it’ll keep him from mischief.’

  One of the others, Barago, laughed. ‘I thought after the Academy you’d have retired to the family estate to chase the maids and farm girls until your dotage.’

  ‘I thought you’d have realised swordplay wasn’t for you and answered your true calling as a rent boy,’ Amero said.

  They all fell silent. The banter and ribaldry had been non-stop all night, but it had all been in good humour. There was venom in Amero’s voice now though. The uncomfortable silence continued until Bryn broke it.

  ‘Well, I think we’ve all had our fill of booze for one night,’ Bryn said. ‘Perhaps this’s a good point to call a halt.’ He smiled, hoping the tension would diffuse, but his words and friendly manner had little effect.

  ‘Indeed,’ Amero said. He took a long drink from his mug, slammed it down on the bar and with a mock salute, stumbled out of the tavern.

  When he was gone, the others all looked at Bryn. He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘He’s been acting a bit tetchy ever since he visited home when we graduated. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. Just a few too many drinks.’

  * * *

  ‘TOO FLASHY! Too flashy!’ Bautisto shouted. He paced around Bryn and Amero as they sparred, hands on hips and his brow furrowed.

  ‘Too flashy’ was a phrase that Bryn was hearing all too often, but thankfully it was never directed at him. For Amero, it was not just the result of a bout that mattered. The look of how he got there was just as important to him. Unfortunately, the punishments that his flourishes brought were equally shared.

  Bautisto had a distinctive technique; Bryn had noticed it the first time they had sparred. It was the Estranzan style, characterised by economy of movement and precision. There was nothing flashy about it and if he was being honest with himself, it wasn’t particularly interesting to watch. There was no sustainable argument to be made against its effectiveness however, and Bryn could certainly appreciate that. He would take whatever advantage he could with him into the arena.

  Amero was of a differing opinion. He had always revelled in the flourishing style of some of the old Ostian masters; sweeping cuts and extremely angled thrusts mingled with spins and twists that when properly executed were a joy to watch. It was something that Amero excelled at, and with their new trainer espousing a different approach he was finding it difficult to adapt—or he was not willing to try.

  Amero lowered his sword and stepped back. ‘Who gives a damn if it’s flashy if it works?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you to stop,’ Bautisto said.

  It was the first time Amero had clashed with Bautisto head on and Bryn was curious to see how it turned out.

  Amero glared at Bautisto for a moment before taking his guard once more. Bryn was a little surprised that Amero backed down so quickly, but thus far it was difficult to find fault with anything Bautisto had done in their training. They were both greatly improved since they had started working with him; even Amero could not deny this despite their philosophies of swordsmanship running contrary to one another.

  ‘Good. Continue,’ Bautisto said as he recommenced his slow circling.

  Amero came at Bryn with a wide cut that Bryn was easily able to parry. His counter, a quick thrust that was more akin to the Estranzan style than the Ostian one failed to find its way through. So the exchange continued.

  ‘Cardolo,’ Bautisto said without breaking step.

  At first Bryn couldn’t work out what Bautisto meant. Cardolo was one of the Estranzan fencing masters, one that Bautisto had him studying.

  Amero came at him again with a sweeping cut, one of his favourite attacks and one that he always executed to perfection. Bryn parried with one of Cardolo’s favoured guards and countered with the appropriate thrust. A touch.

  Bautisto stopped walking. ‘I think that will be all for today.’

  CHAPTER 7

  The arena was small and quiet, but that was very much as Bryn had expected for his first duel. At capacity the low circular stand enclosing the sandy arena floor could have accommodated three or four hundred people, but if there were more than a few dozen there that day, Bryn would have been surprised.

  The audience that were there were bored. They expected to see three types of swordsmen duelling that day. First, there were those like Bryn who were starting off. They had no name or reputation and most of them never would. The second type had once been able to draw a larger crowd, deserving of their place at a larger venue, but now were either too old or too broken to remain there. The final group had never amounted to anything but couldn’t accept the fact and were still eking out a meagre existence pursuing the deluded hope that they might still make it. They were the ones that Bryn felt the most pity for, and whom he most feared becoming.

  There was also the chance of a predatory high-ranking duellist hunting in shallower waters, as Mistria had been doing that first day Bryn saw him duel. It was an unlikely, but unnerving possibility. He had no desire to be made to look a fool in his first duel by a far more experienced swordsman. Entering the Ladder marked as ‘one duel—no points’ would be a disaster and a huge embarrassment.

  He was scheduled to fight first, a lower billing to the matches that would follow. He wondered if the crowd was small only because of the early hour and the arena would fill up later, when the main duels were scheduled. It didn’t matter; he wouldn’t be there to find out.

  Despite the humbling size of the crowd, he was glad of having first billing. He hadn’t given much thought to fencing before an audience, in spite of the Major’s warning on his last day at the Academy. The prospect of fighting in front of those there to be entertained made him anxious. That the arena was all but empty gave him some small comfort.

  Both Amero and Bautisto had gone with him, Bautisto out of professional necessity and Amero out of friendship. He knew his mother, and perhaps with more reluctance his sister, would have been there, but he had not told them that his first duel was coming up. He wanted to have a win or two under his belt before he added the pressure of having relatives in the audience.

  The three of them sat in silence until the steward approached and told Bryn to ready himself. Bautisto jumped to his feet and began to direct Bryn through a sequence of attack and defence patterns intended to loosen him up and focus his mind on the task at hand. Bryn fought to concentrate. All he could think about was the significance of the occasion. It was the realisation of a dream that had begun so many years before, the pursuit of which had placed enormous financial burden on his family. He felt guilty about not having told them he was finally stepping into the arena, but once he had fought his first few duels and gotten past the initial nerves, he would.

  With his mind skipping in every direction but the one in which it needed to be applied, Bryn knew his patterns were mechanical and imprecise, the type of swordplay that would ordinarily warrant a tirade of abuse from Bautisto. The sharp tongue was absent that day, surprisingly. Bryn moved from a high guard to a low and then moved as though to counter an imagined attack. He was slow, sloppy and—if honest with himself—a long way from his best. His hands were shaking, something he could not conceal.

  ‘Good,’ Bautisto said. ‘Smooth, controlled, precise.’

  It was the mantra he repeated each time they began to learn something new. The words had a calming effect on Bryn, the familiarity sending him back to their shabby little salon in Docks rather than the small
arena tucked away off a side street in the Cathedral quarter. Bautisto acknowledged a signal from the arena floor and fixed his gaze on Bryn.

  ‘Breathe and concentrate. The rest will follow. There is no one here today who can beat you,’ he said.

  Bryn nodded, not able to think of anything to say. He struggled to keep his mind focussed. Amero gave him a nod and Bryn turned to walk into the centre of the arena. The Master of Arms was there, waiting by the black mark that would divide the two duellists before the match began. His opponent appeared a moment later, walking across the sandy arena floor toward him. As Bryn watched him approach he could feel his heart race and his mouth suddenly became very dry. Was it too late to go back to Bautisto for a quick gulp of water?

  Bryn’s opponent took his place on the other side of the black mark. He was about the same height as Bryn, slender and with dark hair but several years older. He wore a beige duelling uniform that contrasted with Bryn’s dark blue kit. He seemed overly confident, while Bryn felt it was all he could do to try to hold down the contents of his stomach.

  Bryn knew little about the other man. The billing was only published a few days before the match, not giving Bryn the time to study his form. His name was Nava Nozzo, a banneret who had done much of his duelling on the regional circuit. He had a single scar on his face, below his left cheek, one of the defining marks of a swordsman. It could mean many things; that he was a poor fencer, that he had a large amount of experience, that he was sloppy with his razor in the morning—there was no point in trying to read anything into it. It was only another distraction. Bryn closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  The Master of Arms was speaking, but it took Bryn a moment to notice him. He felt so desperately thirsty, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

  ‘…salute and begin.’

  Nozzo saluted with the thoughtless and practised manner of one who has done it many times. Bryn hurriedly mirrored the gesture. He had done it many times also, but never before in the arena, and never before when there seemed to be so many other things to take in. It felt awkward and unnatural, as though he had never held a sword before.