The First Blade of Ostia (23 page)

‘Fine, lead on and we’ll stop there for the night.’

‘That was brave of you,’ she said. ‘To stand up to them like that.’

Bryn opened his mouth to say something gallant, but found himself shrugging and saying nothing.

‘You wouldn’t have been able to fight them, would you?’

She knew well that he couldn’t, and didn’t wait for an answer.

‘You could have given me to them. Joined them maybe. If they’d found out about your arms you wouldn’t have lasted a second.’

He shook his head. ‘They didn’t find out.’

‘No, they didn’t. Thank you.’

They walked in silence until they reached the village, a collection of single storey wooden buildings clustered around a muddy road. There was not much to be seen in the village, and there was nowhere clearly identifiable as an inn. Despite not having any money, it was still Bryn’s first thought on entering the town. Few didn’t have an inn of some description; there were always travellers passing through looking for somewhere to spend a night, grateful for the opportunity to have a roof over their heads.

It was not late, but it was well past the hour when hardworking folk retreated to their homes for their evening meal and, in an agricultural community characterised by hard physical work, bed. Bryn stood in what seemed to be the centre of the village, looking around and wondering what to do next.

‘I don’t see an inn,’ he said.

‘How d’you plan to pay for it?’

‘Good point.’

They continued on past the village until they spotted a hayshed one field over from the edge of the road. They had been walking by moonlight, and neither of them had the desire to continue any farther.

The shed was a basic affair, four posts with a shallow apex roof of planks topping them, and no walls. The hay had been there for some time and smelt musty, but was dry. They ate the little food she had brought with her, and he fell asleep almost as soon as he had stopped chewing.

‘
T
hey’re saying
you’re going to be the fastest man to achieve one hundred and twenty-five,’ Renald said.

‘Nice to see you too, Father,’ Amero said. He would love to tell his servant to turn his father away at the door, but Renald owned the apartment and also paid the servant’s wages.

‘Any hope I had of you putting this showboating behind you before too many people noticed is long gone,’ Renald said. ‘Which leaves me to wonder what to do now.’

Amero said nothing, but knew it was too much to hope for that his father would go away if ignored. His independent wealth was growing rapidly, so he could afford to be openly hostile to Renald without having to worry about the threats of having his allowance cut off. Unfortunately that did not completely free Amero of his influence.

‘The fact of the matter,’ Renald said, ‘is that if you leave the arena now, it will likely cause more damage than remaining. They’ll say you couldn’t take the pressure. Don’t have what it takes.’

‘I assure you,’ Amero said, ‘I have what it takes, as I prove every time I step out onto the arena floor.’

‘Be that as it may, you’ve brought far more attention to our house than I like. It’s always been our way to serve the state with honour and fidelity. Any glory that we attracted was a consequence of that. Morenos do not seek glory for glory’s sake. In that, you are, and will continue to be, a disappointment to me. There’s little that can be done about it now however, and failing will bring greater shame on our house than continuing to prance about the arena like a prize horse.’

‘Your point?’ Amero said.

‘My point is this. You now have my full support and all of the resources of our house. You achieve your one hundred and twenty-five, then you retire; attend to your duty as a leading son of Ostia.’

There were times when Renald spoke that Amero thought he could hear the blowing of trumpets and the screeching of eagles. There were few men alive who had not obeyed his every word, and he was unaccustomed to the alternative. He was the doyen of mindless patriotism, something Amero had always thought difficult to reconcile with his utter ruthlessness. Perhaps he simply enjoyed killing people more than he did politics. Doing it in the name of Ostia made it all legal.

If he was happy being nothing more than the duke’s battering ram that was his business, but he lacked ambition. In any other country, the Morenos would have been kings. In Ostenheim they sat by waiting for their turn to be eligible for election to the ducal throne, and even then won it only occasionally. Amero wanted far more.

The offer left him suppressing a smile. It was a small, temporary victory, but a victory nonetheless. Not having to wonder what his father might do to nobble him was also one less thing to worry about. The deal suited him for now, even if it would not when it came to his turn to abide by it.

A
yla was already awake
when Bryn emerged from a deep sleep. The sun was still low in the sky, so he had not over-slept. His first thought on waking was how hungry he was; his second was how stiff and sore his legs were. It was disappointing how far his condition had slipped from only a few weeks previously.

Once that brief but serene moment after waking when all in the world seems well had passed, his next thought was always of his arms. Had another night’s sleep led to further improvement? He tried to flex his fingers and was encouraged by what seemed to be a greater amount of movement than the day before. It was still little more than a twitch though. He tried to flex his arms, gritting his teeth in expectation of the grinding pain, but it also felt less than before. When he let his palms rest on the ground, he was certain that he could feel the prickly ends of the straw stalks beneath them.

‘You’re awake,’ she said. ‘I need to go and find us something to eat.’

He struggled to his feet and looked over his shoulders at the various pieces of straw that had stuck to his clothes. He wanted to brush them off, but couldn’t. Seeing them there was like having an itch that he couldn’t scratch and the consternation must have shown on his face, for Ayla laughed. It was the first time he had heard her laugh and it brought a smile to his face. In that moment, for the first time in an age, it felt like everything would work out.

She wandered off to look for something to eat, telling him she would be back as soon as she found something. He sat in the shed and watched her go, wishing that he could be a help.

A
fter facing Panceri Mistria
, Amero doubted he would ever find an opponent daunting again. On that day, he had merely been confident that he would win; there was room for doubt. Today, however, he was certain that victory would be his. There was a sense of occasion that made it difficult not to feel a little nervous, though. Today, if Divine Fortune favoured him, he would reach one hundred and twenty-five. Even if she didn’t, he would take the victory without her, and in so doing become the fastest swordsman to ever achieve the feat. He almost felt pity for Mistria. A few months before, he had been fêted as the greatest swordsman of the age. Now Amero’s shadow had consigned his memory to obscurity.

The Amphitheatre was full long before his match was due to take place. Every person in Ostenheim wanted to be there, even those with little interest in the sport. They were there to watch him make history, and take his place as First Blade of Ostia. He showed his chit to the guard at the competitors’ entrance, but there was no need; he was recognised immediately.

As he walked through the gate, a small boy of no more than five years charged past him and disappeared into the dark bowels of the Amphitheatre.

‘Get back here, you little bastard!’ the guard shouted. He made to close the gate and give chase.

Amero laughed. He was a quick little fellow. ‘Leave him,’ he said to the guard. ‘What harm is one more little boy in the crowd? Here.’ Amero flicked a crown to the guard. ‘The price of his admission.’

The guard looked at the gold coin, far more than the cost of most tickets, and then at Amero. ‘That’s very generous of you, my Lord. May Divine Fortune smile on you this evening.’

‘Thank you,’ Amero said. ‘I certainly hope she does.’ He nodded his thanks and headed for the Bannerets’ Enclosure. Small acts like that cost him nothing but a coin and a smile, and would win him loyal and passionate fans. That guard would tell all of his friends about Amero’s generosity, and so his legend would grow.

Salvestre Besulto was the man who stood between Amero and the fame his achievement would bring. He was very good; but then every man whose name reached the first few pages of the Ladder was.

Amero’s trainers spoke to him as he sat waiting in the Bannerets’ Enclosure; words of advice and encouragement. Amero blocked them out. He blocked out all the noise, all the movement. All he thought of was his opponent. He had watched Besulto duel several times. Amero knew how he moved, how he thought.

The Master of Arms signalled for Amero to go out onto the sand. He stood and ignored the trainers. He focussed on the black line in the centre of the arena and started toward it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Besulto making his way out from the other part of the enclosure. Amero didn’t look over, but he could tell Besulto was watching him. Amero saw it as a sign of weakness.

They took their places by the black line, and the Master of Arms started to outline the instructions. Amero didn’t pay them any attention. He knew them by heart. Only now did he look at Besulto. He locked his gaze on his opponent and smiled. Besulto showed no reaction, but Amero knew it was going to be his day.

‘Duel!’

Amero pounced forward, two sweeping cuts and a thrust, the combination he had decided on to open the duel. Besulto would have known that Amero would start fast, and parried all three strikes. He was unsettled though. Amero circled him like a cat toying with a mouse. Besulto watched him, a forced calm on his face. He might have been able to control his emotions, but having to do so at all weakened his concentration.

Amero attacked again, steel grating against steel as he tested Besulto’s defence. It was good; Amero feinted twice and thrust. A touch. It was not good enough.

Amero smiled as he walked back to the black mark. The crowd could have been deathly silent, or they could have been screaming their lungs out; Amero could not hear them. All that existed was the victory that was about to be his.

Besulto attacked as soon as they restarted. He was First Blade of Ostia, not an accolade anyone gave up easily. He was fast, precise, and aggressive. Amero moved back fluidly as he parried each strike. It was testing; Amero preferred to be on the front foot rather than the back. Besulto thrust and Amero’s sword was too far away. He sucked his belly in and twisted, watching as the blade passed him by no more than a hair’s breadth.

Besulto followed up without pause, two attacks that were picture perfect, good enough to grace any printed treatise. Amero parried and riposted, seizing the initiative. He fired in a half dozen fast thrusts, pushing Besulto’s blade wider to the left each time. He angled his wrist to the right with a beautiful flourish and struck Besulto on the shoulder. Two to nothing.

You are truly magnificent, Amero thought to himself as he walked back to the line. He wondered if Besulto would accept his fate, or if he would fight down to the last point. Some men knew when they were beaten, and had no desire to prolong the agony. Amero found himself hoping he would fight, for no other reason than it would allow him to further inflame the crowd.

Besulto was dangerous coming forward, as he had shown, and Amero had no desire to take unnecessary risks. He launched forward at the restart, taking the initiative without any intention of allowing Besulto to have it again. He could not afford to be as ostentatious as he would have liked. There was too much at stake. He recalled Bautisto’s words; smooth, controlled, precise. It was good advice, even if he was a bore. Amero saw an opening. He saw victory. He struck. Besulto managed to get his sword in the way and Amero’s heart leaped to his mouth as he felt his blade be diverted away. He had gambled everything on the strike; if it failed, he would be exposed.

He felt the tip impact, and the wave of relief that came with it. There was such force that his blunt tip cut through Besulto’s thick doublet and across his upper arm. There was blood on his blade when Amero withdrew it. The match was won, but Besulto fixed Amero with a knowing look. The thrust had more than enough force to kill. He knew what Amero had intended.

Amero ignored him and turned to face the crowd. He opened himself to all the distractions of the Amphitheatre, which flushed away his anger at not having finished the match, and his historic achievement, with a kill as he had desired. He bowed, sweeping the tip of his sword out to the side, a movement he had prepared for this moment. The crowd roared. The sound reverberated in Amero’s chest. It filled his head with so much noise there was no room for thought. Their passion was overwhelming. It was primal. It was his.

S
omehow Ayla managed
to keep them fed for the first few days of the journey. Each morning she would disappear for an hour and return, more often than not with a mischievous ‘don’t ask where I got it’ look on her face. Small pails of milk, eggs, various items of fruit and once even a fresh loaf of bread. Quite how she managed it impressed and intrigued him. All things considered, they were eating well—certainly no worse than they had when they were at the hunting shack.

Each day he had a little less pain, a little more movement in his arms and a little more strength in his fingers. Each day brought him closer to home and each step raised his spirits a little higher. The end to the ordeal was in sight.

The weather remained fine until several days into their long walk. A light drizzle set in as a small town loomed into view. By the time they reached its outskirts it was raining heavily and they were both quickly soaked. Bryn had no idea how far they still had to go to Ostenheim as he hadn’t seen a signpost in some time. Irrespective of how far it was, a rain-induced chill wasn’t going to do either of them any good. They were unprepared for bad weather, and he wanted to get them out of it as quickly as possible.

Rather than go into the town itself—they still had no money—he skirted around its edge, along the low walls that marked out the gardens and yards of the houses. In a region used to the passage of armies and mercenaries, Bryn didn’t think penniless travellers would be welcomed. Eventually, as darkness fell, he spotted a manger in the yard behind one of the houses. Doing their best to shield themselves from the rain they both charged into the manger—and into its sole occupant, a large pig. Its response to this intrusion was to start squealing as though a butcher’s cleaver was being waved before its eyes.

It wasn’t an ideal situation for either party, and Bryn was just coming around to accepting the fact that they would have to find somewhere else for the night when some noise came from the house at the front of the muddy yard. There was the sound of a metal latch scraping and the squeak of door hinges.

‘Who’s there? Piss off or there’ll be trouble! If that’s you, Arno, I’m telling your father in the morning!’

Ayla took his hand and they fled from the yard, laughing so hard it almost made him forget about the pain.

B
ryn awoke first
the next morning. It had been cold during the night, but at some point it had stopped raining. They had taken shelter under a tree a short distance from the village. He suspected that the cold, rather than the wet had been the greater influence on the fact that when he awoke, he and Ayla were wrapped together as tightly as could be. They were so close he could feel the warmth and touch of each breath that left her mouth.

He wasn’t sure how they had ended up like that, and he didn’t know how to react to it. He found himself wishing that she had woken up first and so have to deal with it rather than him. He was considering the possibility of pretending to be asleep when she stirred. Before he had the chance to shut his eyes and drop his jaw to mimic his version of deep sleep, her eyes opened. She smiled lazily and looked up at him, a reaction that came as a surprise, and one that filled him with an overwhelming sense of happiness. His heart raced as she quickly remembered where she was and he could feel her body tense.

‘It was cold last night,’ he said, a little too quickly, making it sound like an excuse rather than an explanation.

‘I’ll go and get some food.’ She untangled herself and got up.

Bryn said nothing, just watched her as she made her way off to forage, feeling curiously alone without her next to him.

T
hey walked
in silence for much of that morning, neither mentioning the embrace they had woken in. The sun had come out but the road was wet and muddy, and it was hard going. It wound its way down a gentle slope toward a wooded area and then disappeared out of sight. The journey was beginning to take its toll on Bryn, and he found himself wishing for the sight of Ostenheim every time they reached a rise on the road. His feet were blistered and his calves ached. Ayla hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint though, and he was determined not to be the first to do so. He knew they still had a long way to go.

Concentrating on not slipping on the mucky road was fully occupying both of their thoughts, so the silence was not as awkward as it might have been otherwise. Bryn found his mind increasingly occupied by the way they’d woken. He couldn’t recall ever having felt as content as he had for those few waking moments in her arms, nor as happy as he had been for the past few days. He was so caught up in his thoughts that it caused him to miss the figure standing at the side of the road just inside the tree line.

‘Ho there!’ the man called when they were no more than a few steps from him.

The road entered the forest at the bottom of the slope, and it was wetter and more churned up there. The voice came as a shock to both of them. Bryn looked up and they both stopped as the man stepped out from the verge onto the road, theatrically lifting his booted feet free of the sucking mud.

‘Not the best day for walking the roads, is it?’ he said.

‘Indeed not,’ Bryn said, trying to remain friendly. Deep down he knew any conversation with a stranger on the road was unlikely to remain friendly for long.

‘I’m afraid for you, it’s just gotten a good deal worse,’ the man said.

Bryn moved for his sword, hopeful that his ruse would work for a second time, but the man brushed back his heavy black travelling cloak to reveal a small crossbow, loaded, primed and pointed at Bryn’s abdomen. Bryn hesitated.

‘We’ve got no money,’ Bryn said.

‘That might be the case,’ the man said, ‘but it’s been a while since anyone has happened along, and I’m getting bored.’

‘I hate to have to bore you further,’ Bryn said, ‘but really, we’ve got nothing. Do we really look like we’re the moneyed sort?’

‘It’s a possibility that you aren’t, I agree, but the last fellow I had make the same claim—dressed in tatters he was—turned out to have a belt of gold crowns strapped around his waist. It taught me that rags are often the best way to hide a fortune, and I cursed myself for all the beggars and vagabonds that I have allowed to pass unobstructed over the years. It’s a lesson that brings bad news for you I’m afraid. And anyway, that pretty rapier there makes me think you’re a liar.’ Holding his bow steady and trained on Bryn’s stomach in one hand, he drew his sword and pointed it at Bryn with the other, its length enough to span the distance between them. ‘Now, remove your doublet and shirt, if you please.’

Bryn cast a glance to Ayla, who was a little farther from him than he would have liked, and closer to the man. There was no way he would be able to get between them if things got any uglier than they already were. Would he be able to remove his doublet and shirt? Reluctantly, he began to undo his doublet. The feeling in his hands was still poor, and he fumbled with the buttons, his fingers clumsy, but he had regained enough movement to be able to carry out the task, albeit slowly and without grace.

‘No games. Be quick about it,’ the highwayman said. He dropped the cavalier, almost friendly tone.

Bryn could feel sweat break out on his brow from the effort and concentration this simple task required. His hand faltered and the highwayman’s patience was exceeded. He drew his arm back to cut at Bryn. Bryn went for his sword, a task that had once required neither thought nor effort, but now felt like an impossible challenge. He had no idea what he would do with it even if he managed to draw it. As he moved, Ayla dropped to the ground. Bryn’s heart jumped into his throat and his eyes instantly went to the highwayman’s crossbow, but he had not fired; the bolt was still in place and the string still primed.

The highwayman ignored her and advanced on Bryn, who backed away as he struggled to draw his sword. Ayla leaped to her feet clutching a sizeable rock. She stretched full, using the momentum of standing up to drive the rock forward. She had been closer to the highwayman than Bryn, but their assailant had taken her for granted, seeing Bryn and his sword as the real threat.

She smashed the rock into the back of his head. It made a sickening crack and the highwayman crumpled to the ground without so much as a groan. His crossbow, aimed in Bryn’s direction, went off as he fell with an audible click and thrum. Bryn dived for the ground as soon as his brain registered what was happening. He squelched into the mud and had the air knocked from his lungs. He heard Ayla cry out.

He lay still on the ground for a moment, trying to work out if he had been hit. Not feeling the intense pain he would expect from a crossbow wound, he tried to press himself up from the ground, but his arms were still too weak and he slumped back into the mud. He rolled over onto his back, and sat up. Ayla was over him in an instant.

‘Are you all right? Did he hit you?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘He missed.’ Ayla helped him to his feet. He walked over to the highwayman and knelt down beside him. He stared at the highwayman’s chest for a moment.

‘Still breathing.’

Ayla said nothing and Bryn wasn’t entirely sure if it was due to concern or disappointment.

‘What should we do with him?’ she said.

‘Nothing. He’d have done us in so I’m not going to worry myself about leaving him here. He’ll wake up in a while with a headache, but it’s nothing more than he deserves. If we pass a town before nightfall we can tell any watchmen we come across that there’s a highwayman out here, but he’ll probably have woken and gone by then. We should move him to the side of the road so he doesn’t get hit by a passing carriage, but that’s all I’m doing for him. Help me drag him.’

Bryn looped his arms under the highwayman’s shoulders, having just enough strength and mobility in them to manage it with Ayla’s help, and together they dragged him to the verge at the side of the road. Bryn was terrified by how helpless he had been. Without Ayla, the highwayman could have killed him, and wouldn’t even have broken a sweat. When were his shoulders going to get better?

Bryn grimaced with discomfort and frustration at his debilitation as he dumped the highwayman’s body on the grass. There was a chink of metal as he did it. Bryn looked up to Ayla, who had also heard the sound. She frisked the highwayman and came away with a coin purse. It was small, and didn’t look to contain that stash of gold crowns the highwayman had mentioned, but still held a healthy sum.

Ayla looked to Bryn and raised her eyebrows.

He shrugged. ‘He’d have taken ours.’