The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1) (37 page)

They were within a hundred paces when the barbarians finally accepted that fleeing would no longer serve. The shaman gesticulated furiously to the men as they formed into a defensive wall to receive the cavalry charge. Everything started to slow for Soren. At first it seemed as though the gallop was slowing and the rhythmic thrum of the horses’ hooves dropped in tempo. The intensity of the feeling of energy had been building as they got closer and Soren felt certain that the Moment was not far from taking hold of him.

The troopers formed into a wedge, and Soren slipped into its side, drawing his sword and allowing the lancers lead the charge into the enemy. Soren looked about him, at the troopers who were all staring intently at their foe. He noticed the sense of relaxed composure that had enveloped him as all the sense of haste and exigency disappeared. As they galloped on into the enemy, Soren felt the world around him continue to slow. He focussed on staying in control of how the ability took hold, to remain aware of what was happening around him. It felt as though he was submerged in water that exerted pressure all over his body, trying to force its way in.

The charge hit the poorly arranged barbarian wall with a crash of metal, wood and screams. The weight of the charge pushed into the line and Soren was in the midst of the barbarians. A barbarian swung his axe at Soren’s thigh. Soren watched it coming toward him, realising that despite his best efforts to control it, the Gift was affecting him with greater force. He moved his leg out of the way and lashed out with his sword, slashing through the barbarian’s throat. Blood sprayed from the wound, each droplet slowly floating through the air. An angry roar sounded slurred to his other side. A barbarian, a friend or relative of the man he had just killed, came at him, his movement seeming slow. Soren revelled in the time he had to play with as the man swung a crudely sharpened sword at him.

Soren reached out and slipped the length of his sword into the man’s armpit, unprotected as it was by the thick leather armour he wore, angling the blade so it ran through his vitals. In an effortless gesture he batted the barbarian’s sword away with the back of his free hand. He had pulled his own sword free again with a twist to ensure the wound was mortal before the man even had time to realise that he had been struck.

It came as something of a relief that he was able to remain aware of what was going on, but his body reacted so quickly that it seemed to be almost detached from his mind, as though it was acting on instinct rather than conscious control. He still felt the pressure on him and had to focus to prevent it overcoming him completely. He scanned the crowd and spotted the shaman on the other side of the melee, screaming at his men.

In one of his hands was a mass of blonde hair, in the other was a curved knife; the same one he had used to murder the trader at the outpost. Soren could not see what the hair was attached to, but he was willing to bet that it was one of the Androv girls. He slipped down from his horse and began to force his way through the press toward the shaman.

The shaman stared at him with wild eyes, and at this proximity Soren could feel the energy crackling through his body. The girl was on her knees at the shaman’s feet and wide eyed with terror. The shaman extended his hand in Soren’s direction and spat some guttural words at him. A strange feeling passed over Soren, as though he was being enveloped in a warm mist. It felt as though his very being was tugged at, but the force could not pull it free. As quickly as it had begun, the feeling passed. It made him pause for a moment, but when he continued toward the shaman, the look of shock on the man’s face was profound. He stood mouth agape for a moment before hastily returning his attention to the girl. He drew back his knife to full stretch, ready for the downward blow. Soren took two fast steps forward and ran his sword through the shaman’s gullet. The shaman was wide eyed, his pain matched by his amazement at the speed with which Soren had moved. As his life ebbed away, so too did the energy in Soren. The world gradually returned to normal speed, and all the strength left his body.

He dropped to his knees sucking in deep gasps of air as quickly as he could. He could see that Colonel dal Vecho had arrived with the remainder of the column, and all that really remained was to slaughter the last few barbarians. In what he thought a great irony, he found himself slipping into the arms of the girl he had just saved, too exhausted to complete his rescue.

C h a p t e r   3 7

HOME AGAIN

A
t his age, seven months had seemed like a lifetime. What had started as one large raid grew into a season of crazed barbarians urged on by their shamans raiding in large numbers ever deeper into the new territories being settled by the Duchy. The smoke from their fires could even be seen from Fort Laed at times, as the barbarians grew ever more daring, drunk on the power of their shamans, hungry for slaughter and whatever wealth they could plunder from the settlers. The like of it had never been seen before, and it was not conducive to encourage new settlement. The work had been exhausting and exhilarating and the opportunity to lead men into danger on a daily basis had moulded Soren into a competent cavalry commander.

Soren sat on his horse as it slowly trotted toward Ostenheim, which was becoming an ever-larger feature on the landscape. His time beyond the marches had been thrilling and had been an invaluable experience, not to mention improving his horsemanship immeasurably. Nonetheless he was glad to be returning home to his friends, to the Academy and most importantly to Alessandra.

The first scent of sea air set Soren’s heart racing. It was a smell that had characterised his entire life and he had not felt its absence until it returned, and greeted him like an old friend, filling him with a happiness and excitement that surprised him. Finally he was home.

He slouched comfortably in the saddle as he approached the city, with the confidence of a man who has seen death, who has delivered it and who has avoided its grasp many times. He had several days of dark stubble on his face that showed the potential to become a thick beard if it were not soon attended to. His wide brimmed hat with its white feather did not look as fine as it once had, his britches were dusty and his boots were worn, but he was an officer of the Duchy returning home from war and it felt fine indeed.

For some reason he had expected things to have changed during his absence. They hadn’t. The city remained the same, a bustling hive of activity. As he rode through the main gate, down toward Crossways, he felt incredibly proud of the faded and threadbare Legion doublet that he still wore. As an officer of the Duchy, people looked at him with respect, doffed their hats and occasionally a woman would curtsey. All for a street urchin. He drank in the sights and smells of the city as his tired horse took the last steps across the Blackwater Bridge into Highgarden and finally to the ornate gates of the Academy. It felt odd to have a place that he considered home, but it was a good feeling.

It was his plan to drop off his baggage, pay a courtesy call on Master Dornish and then go straight to the Sail and Sword to see Alessandra. He had intended to write so many times, but even now he didn’t feel comfortable expressing himself with the written word, and there had never really been the time anyway. The thought of seeing her in so short a time made him feel giddy.

Term had already begun several weeks before and it was early in the day, so those of his classmates that had returned for the Collegium would be in lessons. He was glad of it, as running into any of them would only have further delayed his reunion with Alessandra. He left his horse and baggage with a porter and skipped up the steps to Master Dornish’s study. Dornish’s adjutant led him straight in, where the old master sat behind his desk tugging at his moustache as he scrutinised some roughly drawn diagrams of fighting positions. He looked up and a smile broke across his face.

‘It’s good to see you, lad!’ He stood and came around to the front of the desk and clapped Soren on the shoulder. ‘You certainly look more wise to the ways of the world now! I hope for your own sake that is the case anyway!’

Soren smiled, feeling slightly uncomfortable. ‘I hope so too.’

‘Happily the cause of your departure is firmly in the past. I don’t think it will cause you any more trouble. Abelard Contanto was able to make the claim that the perpetrators were killed; there were two as I understand it. When it was made clear to him that if he persisted in hunting down a student at the Academy also, every banneret in the city would consider him and anyone who worked for him as little more than sport. I have had his assurance that the matter is settled.’

‘That’s something of a relief,’ said Soren.

‘It goes without saying that this caused a great deal of fuss, and you are very lucky to have had the support that you did. It will not be available to you a second time however. You might keep that in mind when seeking employment in the future.’

‘I understand, sir. I’ll do my best to be more discerning in future. I am glad to be back though,’ said Soren.

‘And it’s good to have you back, Soren. When we are done here my adjutant will show you to your new quarters in the Collegium. I’ve appointed Banneret of the Blue, Gustav Caravello as your master for the year. He’s a fine swordsman, is a former soldier and has studied many exotic fighting styles. You will learn much from him,’ said Dornish, as he returned to his leather chair.

‘I’ve been following your exploits in the east with some interest you know. I can’t say I expected you to return as a brevet captain though, but from the reports of your conduct it is not entirely surprising. The siege of Fort Faraway, as the people have taken to calling it, was quite the talk of the town for several weeks after the reports of it reached us. So too was the young swordsman who defended it single handedly!’ He let out one of his barking, incredulous laughs. ‘I wouldn’t let it go to your head though, if I were you!’

‘I’ll try to take it with a pinch of salt, sir,’ Soren replied, a little surprised by what he had been told.

‘This is for you. There wasn’t time to give it to you before you left,’ said Dornish. He took a rectangular wooden box from a drawer in the desk and slid it across the top to Soren. He picked it up and opened it. Inside was a tightly rolled piece of parchment bound with a piece of dark blue ribbon and sealed with dark blue wax bearing the crests of the Academy and the Duchy.

‘Congratulations, Banneret Soren. Always remember that your learning never ends, this only signifies the beginning of your journey to becoming a master swordsman. You may take that certificate to the Hall of Bannerets and have your own banner emblazoned. Now, I think you have an overdue appointment with a bath. We can talk more at mess. It’s good to have you back safely, lad,’ said Dornish.

It was not seemly for a gentleman to run through the streets, even less so for a banneret, so he forced himself to walk, albeit at a brisk pace. The thought made him smile. Although he had been graduated early and had been using the title during his time in the east, as was his right, there was something uplifting about having the parchment in his possession, of it all being official. Banneret Soren. Perhaps some day he would be able to add a ‘dal something’ to the end of it. It reminded him of the block of royal grade Telastrian steel wrapped in grease-cloth at the bottom of his trunk. His ill-gotten gains would not tarnish it by paying for its smithing into a sword. They would be dropped into the poor box at a church as soon as he had the opportunity. He would have to find the money elsewhere. There was also the matter of having his banner made. He would have to start thinking of elements he would like to be incorporated into the design. Perhaps Alessandra would have some suggestions.