The First Blade Of Ostia

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  As soon as Bryn made his salute, his opponent dropped into a low guard. He would have known that Bryn was a Banneret of the Blue and even if this was his first time in the arena he was not a threat to be quickly dismissed. Bryn took two steps back, not committing himself to any form or guard. Nozzo made two probing strikes, beating on Bryn’s blade with his own. They were either taunts or invitations, but Bryn would not be drawn. He would dictate his own actions.

  The first contact of steel against steel settled Bryn’s nerves. Gone were the thoughts of the audience, the heat and dust of the arena, the oppressive thirst he had felt. Now there was just him, his opponent, and their weapons—a situation he had been in more times than he could recall. If Nozzo was content to wait for the fight to be brought to him, then bring it Bryn would.

  He lunged forward. It was an obvious attack, but a feint. He hoped his inexperience in the arena might lead Nozzo to be less suspicious of deceptive swordplay. He made to parry Bryn’s thrust, but by the time his sword was where the strike had been aimed, there was nothing there. Bryn had quickly changed direction, the tip of his sword flicking through clear air and into the chest of his opponent.

  There was not enough force behind the attack to puncture the thick material on the front of his opponent’s doublet with the rounded, dull tip, but that was not necessary. A touch was all that was required, and it had been obvious and spotted by the Master of Arms. A ripple of excitement ran through Bryn’s chest. He had scored his first point in the arena.

  There was some applause from the stands, but so little that it was possible to identify each individual clap. Bryn didn’t care; all he was interested in was the reset and the chance to score a second touch in the best-of-five duel.

  The Master of Arms brought them back to the black marker and they saluted once more. Bryn’s opponent seized the initiative this time, coming at Bryn straight away. Bryn danced back, parrying effortlessly with his rapier, not needing to use his dagger. He felt light on his feet as he moved, the reward of the hours of nausea-inducing training that Bautisto had forced on them.

  Nozzo would be more wary now; if he had any brains at all he wouldn’t succumb to underestimation again and see a novice mistake where there was none. Bryn had only used the trick because he wanted the easiest way to get his first touch out of the way and calm his nerves. It wouldn’t work again, so the true test was to come.

  Bryn allowed Nozzo take the initiative, defending as he considered what to do next. He threw in the occasional riposte to keep Nozzo on his toes, but wanted time to find his rhythm. Bryn was revelling in the duel, but the sense of occasion made it difficult to concentrate. So many years watching, yearning. Now he was doing. There was something about it that made it feel far more real than any of the training, examination or competition duels he had fought. It seemed as though he had spent his life up to that point reading about a subject but was now, for the first time, experiencing it first-hand.

  Bryn shook all the nonsense from his head. He parried the attacking sword and dagger and launched into a blistering series of attacks. He pressed forward with speed and intensity, raining in strikes, none of which were intended to score a touch. He knew he was fitter, and wanted to take advantage of it. He kept up the intensity until he could see that it was beginning to have an effect. Nozzo was labouring for breath, strain showing on his face. Every moment of Bautisto’s punishing training was now paying dividends. To be able to drive up the pace of a duel to exhaust a more experienced swordsman without any detrimental effect to himself was an asset beyond description.

  When his opponent was red-faced and gasping for breath, Bryn fired in a scoring touch that the man didn’t have the wind to defend against. As they both returned to their places, Bryn could hear Bautisto’s applause standing out from the other more muted displays of appreciation. By now Bryn was tingling with excitement. He was on the verge of winning his first duel in the arena. Despite his nerves and the spectre of self-doubt lurking in the back of his mind, he had been in complete control from the outset. He had been foolish to get so nervous. This was what he was made for, what he had spent his life preparing for.

  They reset and Bryn went straight at his opponent. Nozzo was still fatigued after the previous point; the brief respite of the reset had not been enough for him to catch his breath. Bryn had no intention of allowing him to do so now. He pressed in, sure that the duel was all but over. He had proved to himself that Nozzo couldn’t keep up with him. So focussed was he on his attack that it wasn’t until he could feel a point pressing against the material of his doublet that he realised he had been an over-confident fool. He hadn’t even noticed his opponent’s attack. He bit his lip to stifle his anger with himself.

  He cursed himself as he walked back to the line, furious at his stupidity, but also realising that an important lesson had been learned. As they saluted and took their guards, Bryn could see that his opponent was still tired. Bryn had lost the previous point rather than Nozzo having won it. There would be no overconfidence this time, no mistakes.

  The Master of Arms gave the command and Bryn went forward. Smooth, controlled, precise; just as Bautisto always said. A feint with his rapier and a thrust with his dagger was all that it took. A resigned look fell over Nozzo’s face as he was forced to accept defeat at the hands of a debutant. He displayed good grace in their final salute before Bryn hurried off the arena floor to talk with Bautisto and Amero. Every fibre of his being was electrified by the experience, but he could not shake the lingering disappointment of having conceded that point so foolishly. Few of the spectators paid him any attention, but he did not care; he was now a duellist.

  * * *

  ‘IT’S good to see you, Renald,’ Kristo dal Ronvel said.

  Renald nodded and smiled, but did not get up from his seat in the Bannerets’ Hall lounge. ‘Likewise.’

  ‘What brings you to the city? You’re hardly ever here, even when the parliament is in session.’

  ‘Some business to attend to,’ Renald said. ‘I thought it would be nice to catch up with some old friends while I’m here. I’m not likely to be back before the next session in autumn.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you got in touch. It’s been too long.’

  Renald was too experienced a soldier to launch straight into his true purpose; he would manoeuvre first. He allowed the conversation to flow along, pandering to dal Ronvel’s overly nostalgic disposition. They had been friends once, comrades in arms. Renald supposed they still were, but he found as he got older he had less time for friends, only for those who could be of use to him. He gently steered the conversation along, until when dal Ronvel finally asked him about Amero, it seemed as though it was his idea entirely.

  ‘Oh, you know how young men are,’ Renald said. ‘I still remember all too clearly what we were like at that age.’

  Dal Ronvel smiled in agreement. ‘Fighting, boozing, and whoring I expect, if he’s anything like my two lads. Has he joined a regiment yet?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ Renald said. ‘Young fool’s taken it into his head to enter the arena.’

  Dal Ronvel raised his eyebrows. ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘How do you think I feel? He’s a Banneret of the Blue, so he must have some skill. However, I won’t have him making a public spectacle of himself, or making a mockery of our family name.’

  ‘So that’s what you wanted to meet me about.’

  Renald nodded. Dal Ronvel had never been a fool, but he was disappointed that his subtlety had gone to waste. ‘Not entirely, but I’d be very much obliged to you if you could help me knock this whole ridiculous charade on the head, sooner rather than later.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’ dal Ronvel said.

  ‘You still have influence with the Bannerets’ Commission, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not on it anymore, but yes, I’m still involved.’

  ‘I want Amero’s first fight to be a mismatch.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ dal Ronvel s
aid, his voice hushed despite the lounge being otherwise empty. ‘Arranging for your son to win his first duel goes against everything the Commission was established to do.’

  Renald laughed. ‘You misunderstand me, Kristo. I want Amero to be outclassed, defeated and made to feel like a fool. But I want it done somewhere discreet, where there won’t be many to see it happen. One good, sharp kick to his pride should knock this nonsense from his head before he draws too much attention to himself.’

  ‘Even still, Renald. You’re asking too much. The only way I can see of doing it is to have him placed high on the Ladder before he starts, so he meets an experienced, successful duellist first time out. Tampering with the Ladder though…’

  ‘I seem to recall you once telling me you were in my debt. I think I was pulling you out from under a dead horse at the time.’

  Dal Ronvel flushed. After a moment he shook his head and sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t promise anything. How good is he?’

  Renald smiled. ‘He got his Blue, but he’s young, inexperienced, headstrong. Nothing someone with a few tricks up their sleeve couldn’t handle, I expect.’

  CHAPTER 8

  There was no fame, no glory and—contrary to what Amero seemed to believe—no adulation from a horde of beautiful women for victory. There was, however, a purse of silver florins that now hung from Bryn’s belt, the weight of which could not have felt more satisfying were it stuffed to capacity with gold crowns.

  It was the first time that he had money earned by his own hand, and small sum though it might be, that in itself brought an extraordinary sense of accomplishment. That he had earned prize money from duelling in the arena was almost beyond his comprehension. There were too many years of dreaming and too many hours of training for him to be able to fully take that in.

  Now that he had fought a duel and won, there was only one thing on his mind. Even a day after the event his name would be on the Ladder, and he had waited a lifetime to see it there in black and white.

  * * *

  ‘I’D LIKE to see the Ladder please,’ Bryn said. It was early and the Bannerets’ Hall was empty but for some staff.

  The clerk looked at Bryn with sleepy eyes before shuffling away from the counter and into a back room. He reappeared a moment later with a leather folio bulging with sheets of paper. He dropped it down onto the counter with a thud and returned to a stool by the doorway to the back room.

  Bryn felt his skin tingle with excitement as his hand hovered over the folio. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t come to the Bannerets’ Hall to look at the Ladder until he had several winning duels under his belt, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. His name was in there now, inked onto the same pages as the duellists he had supported obsessively in his youth. Great men, men he very much admired had done as he was now doing; opening the Ladder to see their name contained within for the first time.

  The leather folio—the Ladder in its physical incarnation—contained a listing of every registered duellist in the city and their ranking. It was updated regularly, and Bryn fully expected that his name would now be included in it.

  Being in the Ladder was a rite of passage for any aspiring duellist. Baldario, Rosetto, Calduro; the names of all the greats had been contained within at some point, with all of the retired pages stored within the Bannerets’ Hall’s archive. All of his life he had dreamed of having his name join theirs within. Now it had.

  He flipped open the leather cover to reveal the first page. He knew his name would be far from it, but he wanted to savour the moment, to allow his anticipation build until finally he came upon his own name, contained somewhere toward the back.

  There were several columns written in black ink in a neat, uniform hand; rank, name, year of graduation from the Academy, number of duels fought, points scored, and an arrow with a number beside it, indicating their position in the previous edition and whether they had moved up or down. Number one was Panceri Mistria. In the excitement and fuss of preparing for his own duel, Bryn had missed Mistria’s most recent matches. Eighteen perfect scores. It seemed that he was destined to hit the magical one hundred and twenty-five. No one could stand in his way. In his most ambitious flights of fancy, Bryn saw himself stopping that meteoric rise, although he realised it was unlikely they would meet in the arena for months or perhaps years, if ever.

  He flipped to the next page and scanned it briefly, some familiar names, some not so. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he flipped all the way to the last page. He ran his eyes down the list quickly until his heart leaped before his brain had the chance to register what his eyes had seen. There, five lines from the bottom of the last page, was his name. It had a star beside it indicating that he was a new addition to the Ladder. The rank didn’t matter to him, only the fact that there, in black, waterproof ink, was his name. Bryn Pendollo.

  He felt an enormous sense of satisfaction as he stood staring at the page for what must have been an inappropriately long time. The clerk cleared his throat, still looking at Bryn with his languid eyes.

  Aside from fulfilling the lifelong ambition of seeing his name on the Ladder, he did have another purpose in visiting the Bannerets’ Hall. The Ladder would also give him an idea of who his next competition would be. Tearing his eyes away from his own name, he ran his finger up the page, reading each name and trying to remember them.

  As with the first two pages there were names that he recognised because they were his contemporaries. Two had been with him at the Academy, but had not gone on to the Collegium as Bryn had after graduating from the Academy. They had spent two years on the duelling circuit but had clearly not prospered if their names were so close to Bryn’s. At the bottom of the page was Nava Nozzo’s name.

  He felt conflicted by the sight, both guilt and pride in the knowledge that he was responsible for the small downward pointing arrow next to his name. He flipped through the next few pages, wondering how many matches it would take him to reach and pass the familiar names on them. Again he ran his finger along the list, recognising a name here and there, until he stopped at one that he was very familiar with. Amero dal Moreno.

  He turned back to the page that his name was on, checked the number and went back to Amero’s listing. He was ranked two hundred and forty places higher than Bryn, despite not yet having fought a duel. Where the number indicating his duels fought and points won should be, there were the letters ‘FR’. Bryn stared at the listing in bemusement, again for what must have been too long as the clerk cleared his throat once more. ‘FR’ meant ‘foreign ranking’. When a duellist from another country travelled abroad to test his skill, he could, with the appropriate letters of reference, be admitted to the foreign Ladder at a place commensurate with his home ranking. To the best of Bryn’s knowledge, Amero had not been out of the country in years. Having seen all he needed to, but no closer to understanding, he closed the folio and slid it across the countertop toward the clerk.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MAJOR event in their schedule was Amero’s first duel. Bautisto had decided to refine his approach to how he would prepare them both for their matches. He intended to alternate their fixtures, so that he could tailor their training to address the needs of the one with the impending match for the few days leading up to it.

  The system made sense to Bryn; it would allow each of them to focus on their own weaknesses and the strengths of their opponent in the run up to any individual duel. It wasn’t possible with Bryn’s first match as being a new entry, it was impossible to tell who he would be paired with. That would be different for his next match, but Amero’s rank meant they could narrow the list of potentials to five or six men.

  Bryn was still confused about how Amero had been able to take his place on the Ladder but he kept the fact to himself. Bautisto had no reason to suspect there was anything unusual, or if he did he was too circumspect to comment. To anyone else asking, it would not be difficult for someone with Amero’s resources to fabricate
documentation of a foreign ranking. It was also not that unusual, some men preferring to make their name elsewhere before coming home to compete. He recalled how Amero had been able to circumvent the complicated process of being registered as a duellist and realised that it must come down to his family’s position and the connections that brought with it. Drawing attention to the issue would not do Bryn any good, even had he wished to injure Amero by so doing. Putting the matter aside, Bryn was happy to help his friend prepare for his duel.

  CHAPTER 9

  While Bryn had fought his first duel in a nondescript little arena, Amero would not suffer any such indignity. His first duel was in one of the small boutique arenas in Lowgarden. It was only when Bryn saw the venue that he fully appreciated the reason behind the phoney entry on the Ladder. By starting where he had, Amero would be spared fighting in the grottiest of the city’s arenas; the fictitious ranking being the minimum needed to get him to Lowgarden’s arenas.

  The audience would be small, but they would all be wealthy and there were some decent swordsmen on the listing that evening. This type of arena was one that Bryn would hope to reach after perhaps two or three months of successful competition. Amero was starting there, and Bryn could not help but feel a tug of jealousy. A higher ranked swordsman at the salon would increase its profile and benefit him though, so he swallowed his feelings.

  As Amero had done for him, Bryn attended the duel. Sitting next to Bautisto he noticed all of the differences between that arena and the one he had fought in. Stone steps formed the tiered stands surrounding the arena that Bryn had duelled in. They were covered with wooden planks; faded, worn and splintering. The crowd had been small and all of the competitors undistinguished. Here, the benches were covered with padded leather and were particularly comfortable. The most expensive seats had silken cushions. The sand of the arena floor was immaculate. It had been raked so that it was perfectly flat, with no ruts or holes that might cause a trip or fall.