Tempered Steel
Page 1
Tempered Steel
Power Ascending: Prequel
Paul J Bennett
And so it begins…
The sword came crashing down, driving Ludwig’s weapon to within a finger's length of his face as he desperately tried to parry. Angling his blade, he pushed back with all the strength he could muster, forcing his opponent's weapon to slide to the side as he stepped forward, sword tip at the ready.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Kurt,” said Ludwig. “After all, you taught me everything I know about sword fighting.”
“Agreed,” the older, dark-haired man replied. “And yet I didn’t teach you everything I know.” Kurt stomped forward, tapping the lord on the side of his knee. “I believe that’s my point.”
Ludwig lowered his weapon, using his left forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “That’s hardly fair.”
“Fair? You’re learning how to fight, not dance. There’s no such thing as fairness in battle, my friend.”
“What of honour?” asked Ludwig.
“Don’t talk to me of honour,” said Kurt. “On the battlefield, it’s kill or be killed. There is little place for such things as honour.”
“I don’t believe you. Surely, men of character are governed by the rules of war?”
“You are still relatively young,” said Kurt, “and uninitiated in the ways of battle, so I will forgive you your naivety.”
“I am twenty-five,” countered Ludwig, “and more than capable of holding my own in a battle.”
“If only that were true, but there's a world of difference between a friendly duel and the horrors of a battlefield. Enjoy your time at court, and leave the real fighting to men like me.”
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Contents
Map of the Continent
1. Ludwig
2. Charlaine
3. Dinner
4. The Delivery
5. Payment
6. The Dagger
7. The Taphouse
8. The Ruins
9. Motherly Advice
10. Reflection
11. The Town
12. Shipwreck
13. The Village
14. Trouble
15. The Inn
16. The Ultimatum
17. Destiny
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About the Author
1
Ludwig
Summer 1094 SR*
(*Saints Reckoning)
* * *
The sword came crashing down, driving Ludwig’s weapon to within a finger's length of his face as he desperately tried to parry. Angling his blade, he pushed back with all the strength he could muster, forcing his opponent's weapon to slide to the side as he stepped forward, sword tip at the ready.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Kurt,” said Ludwig. “After all, you taught me everything I know about sword fighting.”
“Agreed,” the older, dark-haired man replied. “And yet I didn’t teach you everything I know.” Kurt stomped forward, tapping the lord on the side of his knee. “I believe that’s my point.”
Ludwig lowered his weapon, using his left forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “That’s hardly fair.”
“Fair? You’re learning how to fight, not dance. There’s no such thing as fairness in battle, my friend.”
“What of honour?” asked Ludwig.
“Don’t talk to me of honour,” said Kurt. “On the battlefield, it’s kill or be killed. There is little place for such things as honour.”
“I don’t believe you. Surely, men of character are governed by the rules of war?”
“You are still relatively young,” said Kurt, “and uninitiated in the ways of battle, so I will forgive you your naivety.”
“I am twenty-five,” countered Ludwig, “and more than capable of holding my own in a battle.”
“If only that were true, but there's a world of difference between a friendly duel and the horrors of a battlefield. Enjoy your time at court, and leave the real fighting to men like me.”
“You think I would fail a test of valour?” pressed Ludwig.
“I think a man of your position should take leisure in the style to which he has become accustomed. Your father is the baron after all.”
“My father’s position does not dictate my actions.”
“Doesn’t it?” said Kurt. “You could have fooled me. You’re the one that spends your evenings in the company of so many ladies. Live your life to the fullest, Ludwig, and let the rest of us handle the unsavoury duties.”
The lord's face reddened. “I’m more than capable of looking after the duties of the barony. My father relies on me more and more.”
“Only because he prefers to spend time with his new wife.”
Ludwig made a face of disgust. “I can’t understand what he sees in her.”
“I can,” said Kurt. "She holds the wealth of her late husband, or did you forget?”
“Hardly, for she lords it over him constantly.”
“And one day, a wealthy woman will do the same to you. It is inevitable.”
“I don’t see why you think it has to be so,” said Ludwig. “I will marry whom I want!”
“You must face facts, my young lord,” Kurt replied. “Verfeld is a poor barony, one that requires outside funds to support itself. When you're older, you'll see the wisdom of your father’s actions.”
“I can see that now, but why, of all people, did it have to be her? And why someone who came with so much baggage?”
Kurt chuckled. “I can only assume you mean Berthold.”
“Who else?”
“Your stepmother comes from a previous marriage. What kind of mother would she be if she abandoned her only son?”
“Berthold is a grown man. Surely he can look after himself?”
“Can you say any different of yourself? After all, you are only his senior by about a year.”
“Things were so much easier when my mother was alive.”
“You remember her fondly,” said Kurt, moving to the bench, “but she’s been gone for more than a decade. It’s time you put it behind you and got on with your life.” He picked up a chalice, drinking deeply.
“Berthold wants the title,” claimed Ludwig.
“You give your stepbrother too much credit. You’re the eldest. You’d have to die for him to inherit.”
“I’m sure that would suit him fine.”
Kurt shook his head. “Your father is cousin to the king. Even should you die, there would be other claims. After all, Berthold’s not of the bloodline.” He drained the cup. “You worry too much, Ludwig. You must concentrate on your swordplay, you’ve been slacking off of late.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, my lord, that you haven’t been practising as often as you should be.”
“Perhaps that’s because you have no more to teach me,” suggested Ludwig with a grin.
Kurt set his cup on the bench and retrieved his sword. “I suppose I shall have to disabuse you of that notion,” he said, raising the weapon's tip and pointing it at his adversary.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Ludwig, “but by all means, catch your breath first, old man.”
Kurt laughed. “Old man, is it?
I might remind you I’m only five years your senior!” He stepped forward, jabbing out with the tip of his sword.
Ludwig easily knocked the blade aside. “You may be only slightly older,” he said, “but you move like you’re ninety.”
“Ninety, is it? Well then, young Master Altenburg, let’s see if you can keep up with this old man.”
Kurt moved quickly, striking left then right, forcing Ludwig back with the ferocity of his attack. Steel met breastplate, clanging loudly in the courtyard.
“There,” said Kurt, “you’re dead.”
Ludwig looked down, noting the scratch across his armour. True, it was only practice, but the very notion that he would have died had the combat been real was chilling.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
“You forget, I’ve fought in a real war, and not just some peasant uprising, mind you.”
Ludwig lowered his sword. “What was it like?”
“What, war?”
“No, battle.”
Kurt wiped his brow. “Mostly just a stinking mess. People talk of the glory of battle, but the grim reality of it is that it smells of blood, shit, and urine.”
“Is there no such thing as a glorious victory?”
“You live a sheltered life here, Ludwig. The outside world is a harsh place, full of foul men and bloody vengeance.”
“You survived,” accused Ludwig.
“I did, and do you know how I did it?”
The lord smiled. “No, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“I learned at a young age to keep my wits about me and keep my mouth shut. You’d be surprised how far that'll get you in life.”
“But you’re still relatively young,” said Ludwig, “far too young to be giving grandfatherly advice.”
Kurt grinned. “True enough, my lord. Now, have you had enough practice for today, or shall I whup your arse again?”
“I don’t recall a whupping,” said Ludwig, grinning, “but then again, you provincial types don’t seem to understand the meaning of the word.”
The master swordsman raised his weapon. “Very well. Watch closely as I demonstrate a new technique.”
He moved in quickly, twisting his sword at the last moment, and catching Ludwig off guard. His sword struck the lord's weapon and sent it flying from his hand.
“How did you do that?” asked Ludwig.
“It’s an old trick,” said Kurt, “and only works when your opponent least expects it.”
“You must teach me.”
“Very well,” the master continued. “Come and stand beside me, and I will show you how it’s done.”
Ludwig retrieved his sword, then stepped closer, the better to see what his tutor was about to demonstrate. Footsteps echoed across the courtyard, and then Lord Frederick Altenburg came into view.
Kurt bowed. “My lord, I trust all is well this morning?”
“It is,” the baron replied, “and how fares my son this day?”
“Well, Father,” said Ludwig. “Master Wasser was just about to show me a new technique.”
“Was he, now? I should like to see this trick of his, continue if you will.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Kurt showed Ludwig how to rotate his hand, flicking the blade at the last possible moment. “You have to be careful,” he warned. “If your opponent has a firm grip on his weapon, you’ll open yourself up to a counter-move.”
“So only use it if you have the element of surprise,” said Ludwig.
“You learn quickly,” said Kurt. “Now, let’s give it a try, shall we?” He backed up, holding his sword before him in a loose grip.
Ludwig stepped forward, quickly striking blade against blade. He slid his sword down Kurt's until just before the crossguard and then flicked the blade clumsily, failing to dislodge his mentor's grip.
“A good first effort,” said the master. “Try it again, but this time do it slowly. We’ll work on form after you've mastered the basic manoeuvre.”
The young lord tried again, this time with more success.
“Good, now let’s speed it up, shall we?”
“This is all well and good,” interrupted Lord Frederick, “but I want to see my son’s skill with the sword.” He wandered over to the weapon's rack, selecting a blade, then advanced on Ludwig. “Come now, let us see how you fare against a real opponent.”
Ludwig moved forward, quickly slashing out with his blade, his father easily avoiding the attack.
“The point wins in this type of attack,” advised the baron. “Remember, on the battlefield, you’ll be encased in armour, but at court, you’ll have naught but the clothes on your back. It’s an entirely different style of fighting.”
Ludwig brought his sword up, holding it two-handed in the middle position.
“That’s better. Now, come at me like you mean it.”
Ludwig lunged, punching out with the blade.
“Clumsy. Try again, but this time don’t overextend yourself.”
He did as his father bid, the point of his sword stabbing out in a controlled manner.
“Very good,” Frederick praised. "Now, show me a high block." He swung his sword overhead, watching in appreciation as his son moved into a defensive position, his sword countering the attack, the weapons ringing out as they struck.
“You’re fast,” said Ludwig.
“Still some steel left in the old man, eh?” said the baron.
Ludwig lowered his weapon. “It looks like I still have much to learn.”
“You’ve made remarkable progress. Perhaps you could teach your brother a thing or two.”
“He’s NOT my brother,” Ludwig said fiercely.
Lord Frederick regarded him with a look of resignation. “True,” he said, “but even stepbrothers are family, and I won’t have you talking ill of him. Lady Astrid is my wife now, and nothing will change that. It’s only fair that you treat her son as a blood relative.”
“I apologize, Father,” said Ludwig. “I shall endeavour to show him more respect.”
“See that you do,” said the baron. He walked to the bench, grabbing a towel to wipe his brow. “I’m afraid all this excitement has worn me out. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“None of us are, my lord,” said Kurt.
“And this coming from the battle-hardened Master Wasser? I thought you, of all people, would be bursting with energy.”
“It has been a long morning, my lord.”
Lord Frederick barked out a laugh. “I see my son wears on us all.” He returned his attention to Ludwig. “That blade of yours is looking badly worn. It’s time you had a new one, one more befitting your station.”
“There are plenty of weapons here, Father.”
“So there are, but we must find you one that matches your status as the heir of Verfeld. I have, in fact, commissioned just such a blade from one of the finest swordsmiths in Malburg.”
“In town?” said Ludwig. “I would have thought Master Granwald more than capable of making a sword.”
“Our own smith makes quite serviceable weapons for our troops, but you are my son and, as such, deserve a weapon from a master smith. Tomas deShandria has been forging swords for years.”
“The Calabrian?”
“None other,” said the baron. “I was hoping to surprise you for your birthday, but I must confess I couldn’t hold it in much longer. Your mother would have told you eventually, so I’m only preempting the inevitable.”
“Stepmother,” corrected Ludwig.
“For Saint’s sake, Ludwig, let it go. Your mother is dead, has been for years. Isn't it about time you accepted that Lady Astrid is a part of your life now?”
“I’m sorry, but where you see love, I see only deceit.”
“I understand your reticence, but, to be blunt, you have little experience in such things.”
“Nevertheless,” said Ludwig, “I cannot help but feel she is a selfish woman.”
“And wha
t if she is?” his father replied. “We’re all selfish in one way or another. It is the way of the world. Now, you must get yourself cleaned up. We have guests coming for dinner.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again. I am the Baron of Verfeld, just as you will be one day. It's important that we are seen to be gracious hosts. What would your cousin Otto say?”
“The king?” said Ludwig. “He’d probably agree with me that we have far too many visitors, all eating our food and drinking our wine.”
Lord Frederick barked out a laugh. “Perhaps he would, now that you mention it, but he’d still agree it’s the right thing to do.”
“Who is it this time, more merchants?”
“No, the local Prior of Saint Mathew." He saw the look of disappointment on his son’s face. “Cheer up, Ludwig, he’s bound to bring a couple of Temple Knights with him.”
“Yes, but they're Mathewites, not real warriors.”
“Their armour might be archaic, but they’re still more than capable of fighting. Temple Knights are the finest warriors on the Continent.”
“You’re speaking of the Temple Knights of Saint Cunar,” corrected Ludwig, “not the Mathewites. Their main concern is working with the sick and poor, or did you forget?”
“I don’t need you to lecture me on religion. I’m the one that taught you, remember? Now, what is it I always say about the Church?”
“That we should worship all the Saints, not just one.”
“Exactly!" said his father.
2
Charlaine