The fourth was more wary—smarter perhaps, or now forewarned. He made two feints with his short sword and bounced on the balls of his feet as though to give the impression he possessed some skill. Bryn thrust and stabbed him through the eye. He was turning to face the innkeeper before the bandit collapsed to the ground.
That left only the innkeeper in the taproom and their young accomplice outside, who would be galloping away as fast as he could by now if he had any sense. That meant Bryn needed the phoney innkeeper alive. Seeing his friends cut down with so little effort seemed to have robbed him of any desire to fight. He backed away from Bryn, his mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out. A cudgel hung limply from his fingers, and his eyes flicked from left to right as though he was looking for an escape route.
‘The post carriage that stopped here today. There was a woman travelling on it.’
The innkeeper shook his head. ‘We didn’t touch her. Honest.’
‘Where is she then?’ Bryn took a step toward him and aimed the point of his rapier at the innkeeper’s throat.
‘Upstairs. Upstairs. Locked in a room. She’s fine. See for yourself. We didn’t lay a finger on her. You arrived before we could—’ The innkeeper snapped his mouth shut, clearly fearful that he had said too much.
‘Before you could do what?’ Bryn said. He felt a flush of anger. He took a deep breath and restrained himself. ‘Show me where she is.’
‘And you’ll let me live?’
Bryn shrugged. ‘Depends on how she is.’
The innkeeper nodded emphatically and beckoned for Bryn to follow him as he made for the staircase.
Bryn followed him at a distance, aware of the possibility that there might be more brigands hiding upstairs. He kept a lookout over his shoulder for the stable boy, although the threat posed by an unarmed boy was not a concern if his grown friends were anything to go by. Bryn suspected he was long gone anyway.
The innkeeper stopped outside a door on the upper landing and fumbled in his pocket for a key. His hands were shaking as he put the key in the lock, but Bryn was under no illusions; he might be frightened, but he would stick a knife in Bryn’s back the first chance he got.
He smiled congenially as he opened the door, trying to ingratiate himself with Bryn.
‘Stay away! I’ll cut you if you come anywhere near me!’ a woman snarled. Ayla.
Bryn couldn’t help but smile, but his relief was far greater than his amusement. He realised how frightened she must be, and didn’t want to prolong her ordeal. He gave the barkeeper a hard kick in the backside and sent him sprawling into the room. Bryn followed him.
‘Bryn?’ Ayla said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bryn said. It was all he could think of, and was something that was overdue.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘I came to get you. To bring you home.’
‘I don’t have a home anymore,’ she said. ‘It was burned to the ground.’
‘Yes you do. I’m sorry that I didn’t make that clearer to you. There were so many things from before I left the city, before I met you, that felt… unfinished. I thought I had to deal with them. Now I realise they aren’t worth it. I want you to come back with me.’
‘Bryn!’
The ardour of her response came as a surprise, and it took Bryn an instant to realise it was a warning. He turned in time to see the fake innkeeper lunge at him with a small knife. Bryn stepped back and out of the way. His reflexes were too well conditioned to be tested by a bandit. His thrust was an automatic response, and the fake innkeeper was dead before Bryn gave the attack any thought.
He pulled his sword free and looked to Ayla, concerned by her reaction of having seen him kill a man. She seemed unmoved. ‘Come back with me,’ he said. ‘Please.’
The hard look on her face faltered. ‘Things will be different?’
‘They will,’ Bryn said. ‘I promise. I know what’s important now. I can’t lose you.’
CHAPTER 49
Despite the storm of abuse Bryn was sure awaited him back in the city, he felt better than he had in months as he and Ayla rode back to Ostenheim. All of the things that had been gnawing away at him were forgotten, or seemed so small as to barely be worthy of notice. His only regret was the guilt he felt knowing that Bautisto had been left to deal with the mess when they realised that Bryn wasn’t showing up for the duel.
For the first time, Bryn felt completely free of the addictive grip the desire to settle the score with Amero had placed on him. When he thought of it now, he couldn’t understand how he had ever been willing to sacrifice a single thing for it.
Amero was driven by his own demons; a desire to step out from the shadow of his family name, ambition, greed, arrogance. There were many that Bryn could think of, vices all, and in the end they would consume him entirely. Bryn even felt a small measure of pity for his former friend, but the farther he could put himself from it all, the happier he would be. With Ayla beside him, Bryn knew he had all he could ever want, or need.
* * *
THERE WAS no hostile mob waiting for him when he got back to Ostenheim, the worst-case scenario he had envisioned. He left his horse back at the stables, and sold the second one he had taken from the inn for Ayla—the brigands had no more use for it, and he considered it a modest payment for the public service he had done. That brought a handful of coins, which were gratefully received.
From there, they walked back to his mother’s house. As they went, Bryn tried to eavesdrop on every conversation, both curious to hear if they were about his non-appearance and terrified that they would be. All he heard was gossip and idle chat; no mention of his name. It was as though they had never even heard of the intended duel. He expected that his mother or Gilia would be able to fill him in on how the city reacted.
When they arrived back at the door, his mother embraced Ayla without saying a word. Even Gilia gave Bryn a grudging nod of approval.
At the first opportunity, Bryn took his mother aside.
‘What was the reaction?’ he said. He’d wanted to ask from the moment they got back, but knew he had to tread carefully. There was still much work to be done to repair the damage he had caused.
‘The duel?’
Bryn nodded.
‘I knew you wouldn’t be back in time, so I went to see Maestro Bautisto after you left and told him what had happened,’ she said.
Bryn grimaced, not sure if he wanted to hear any more. At least Bautisto had been forewarned.
‘I think he was relieved, if anything,’ his mother said. ‘He sent a note to Amero’s people, said there was a gang of youths chanting abuse outside the salon. He said he was withdrawing you from the duel and was going to sue for breach of contract. He assured me that it would work, but didn’t explain why. It seemed to do the trick though, I didn’t hear anything said about it after that.’
Bryn sighed with relief and then smiled. He had worried that him not showing up would have made it all but impossible to find work in Ostenheim—there was only so much abuse a reputation could take before it was irreparable. He had resolved that he would leave the city if needs be. His brother-in-law’s business in Tanosa had seemed like his best bet, but perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary. He would have to get the full details of how it all played out from Bautisto.
‘Maestro Bautisto sent this around this morning,’ his mother said. She handed him a fat leather purse. ‘The note that came with it said it was in full and final settlement of any dispute arising out of the contract. Bautisto said in it that Amero’s people were worried that any fuss would harm Amero’s standing, so they require us to never talk about any of it again. Bautisto agreed on our behalf, and said that he’d explain it all to you when he sees you again.’
Bryn raised his eyebrows. Amero must have been very worried about his standing with the arena promoters if he was that eager to hush things up. It seemed like too much success might not be such a good thing after all. Either way, Bryn found that
he really didn’t care. He opened the purse—it was stuffed to capacity with gold crowns. At a glance, it looked enough to live on for two years if he was careful with it. If they were careful with it.
* * *
BRYN CONTINUED to help Bautisto out in the salon while he looked for tutoring jobs. He felt it was the least he could do, after all Bautisto had done for him.
He was cleaning and oiling the training swords when dal Corsi blustered into the salon with his usual sense of entitlement, his little retinue of lickspittles scurrying after him. Bautisto was out giving a private lesson, so Bryn was the only one there. He groaned when he saw dal Corsi walk through the door.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ Bryn said.
‘Do I have an appointment?’ dal Corsi said, incredulously. ‘Do you hear that? Do I have an appointment?’ he said to his two aides. He turned back to Bryn. ‘You’re the one who had an appointment, lad. And you fucking missed it!’
It was the only time Bryn had ever heard anything other than arrogance in dal Corsi’s voice.
‘Didn’t feel like being used by you again,’ Bryn said. ‘You’ll have to find some other poor fool to make Amero look good.’
‘Oh, I will. You can count on that. You’re the bloody fool though. I’ll make sure you never get work in this city again. You can count yourself lucky that Amero’s having such trouble with opponents at the moment. If he wasn’t so concerned at upsetting the other promoters, you’d be getting pilloried right now. Don’t think for a minute that anyone fell for your breach of contract stunt. Absolute bullshit, and we all know it. If it were up to me I’d see you called a coward from here to Highgarden, and not fit to wear the Blue. Don’t think you can walk away from it all with no consequence though, you little shit. There won’t be a door open to you in this city. Mark my word.’
‘Maybe I am a fool,’ Bryn said, with a smile. ‘I didn’t think a fat old boor like you had the influence.’ Bryn looked at the broom and dustpan lying on the floor ready for his next chore. ‘There’s always shit to be shovelled, Banneret dal Corsi. It just won’t be your shit that I shovel. I think I’ll get by.’
Dal Corsi bristled with indignation, but there was nothing he could do. He was too old to draw his sword, and he had already levelled every threat he could at Bryn. He had nothing left, so he stormed out.
Bryn watched the door for a moment after dal Corsi left. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel, but his general sentiment these days was contentment, and that was unchanged. As soon as he resumed his sweeping, he heard the door open again.
‘Finally thought of a smart retort? Why don’t you just…’ He looked up at the door. ‘Master Dornish.’
‘Expecting someone else, Bryn?’
‘Yes, well, no.’ He laughed. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Death and the opportunities it brings,’ Dornish said, with his usual sardonic humour. ‘But more of that in a moment. I hear tell you’ve been working on a new technique.’
‘I have,’ Bryn said. ‘I’m surprised word of it has reached far beyond these four walls though.’
‘Well, all sorts of morsels of information come my way these days, and I like to keep abreast of what my former students are up to.’ He unbuttoned his cloak, letting it drop to the floor, and tapped the hilt of his rapier. ‘Any chance of a demonstration?’
Bryn shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why not?’ He pulled his rapier from where it hung in its scabbard. He took his guard, and Dornish stepped forward to meet him.
Dornish attacked with slow, probing thrusts; nothing that challenged Bryn.
‘I know I was injured,’ Bryn said, ‘but give me some credit.’
Dornish nodded and Bryn launched into a blistering combination of attacks; tight, punchy and aggressive. It was ugly, but brutally effective. Above all, it was fast. He drove Dornish back across the salon floor, revelling in the way each strike flowed into the next, sword and body moving in perfect harmony. It was what he loved more than anything—almost anything—and losing it would have been something he would never have been able to come to terms with.
Dornish nodded and raised his eyebrows. ‘Quite a change from the last time we did this,’ Dornish said, wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow. ‘Not sure I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.’
‘Not surprised,’ Bryn said. ‘It’s entirely a creation of Bautisto’s Salon of Arms. I don’t have as good a range of motion in my shoulders anymore; they healed tight, so it’s tailored to allow for that. I’m trying to convince him to write an instruction manual for the style.’
‘It’s certainly effective,’ Dornish said.
Bryn raised an eyebrow.
‘More than effective,’ Dornish acknowledged. ‘I can imagine it will be very popular with Bannerets of a certain age who aren’t quite ready to hang up their swords, among others.’ He cleared his throat self referentially and attacked again.
He came at Bryn faster now, age obviously not having slowed or impeded him as much as he might have implied. Bryn was well able to deal with it. Indeed, better able than he was the last time they had fenced for his final Collegium examination at the Academy. There was no consideration for pride or style in what he did, only efficiency.
His attack spent, Dornish lowered his sword to indicate the bout was over, and saluted.
‘I’m impressed, he said, ‘and it confirms a decision I had all but made.’
Bryn furrowed his brow and gave Dornish a quizzical look.
‘Death and opportunities,’ Dornish said again. ‘Major dal Damaso passed away a short time ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Bryn said. He hadn’t been keeping up on Academy news with all the preparation for the rematch. ‘I always liked him.’
‘As did I. But that brings me to the topic of opportunity. I’ve been appointed as Master of the Academy.’
‘Congratulations,’ Bryn said, genuinely pleased for his former tutor.
‘The appointment of a new master always brings changes; people move on, some take it as time to retire. I want some fresh blood in the masters’ ranks, and was hoping you’d consider coming to teach.’
* * *
THERE WERE some formalities to be complied with to become an instructor at the Academy; paperwork to be completed mainly. With it all done, he left the Bannerets’ Hall, excited by the challenge that lay ahead.
Dornish had seen to it that Bryn was paid his first term’s salary in advance, which covered the cost of his impending wedding, which he had to admit made him more nervous than any duel he had ever fought.
He stepped out into the street and almost stumbled into Joranna dal Verrara. It took a moment for them both to realise who the other was, followed by an uncomfortable silence while they both tried to decide what to do.
For Bryn, the discomfort was only fleeting. She represented a life that he no longer wanted, and a time he was happy to forget. Once it had passed, he felt nothing, except perhaps for pity. Joranna looked well, but she always did. It was a requirement for someone trying to find herself a wealthy husband, something it looked as though she had yet to achieve. He smiled at her, and as she was beginning to open her mouth to say something, he walked away.
EPILOGUE
Hundreds of eyes, expectant, nervous, afraid, were locked on him as he walked to the front of the hall. Their owners had all fallen silent the moment he entered, and the thumping of the heels of his boots on the polished wooden floor were the only sounds to be heard. Hundreds of young men, deathly silent, all waiting to see what he would do next. Once at the front of the hall, he stopped and surveyed the gathered throng. It would be an uphill battle to earn the respect of his students after all that had been said about him, but in his experience that was true of everything in life. It was just one more obstacle to face, but with Ayla by his side, he would not be facing this one alone.
‘I am Banneret of the Blue Bryn Pendollo. I will be your chief instructor for the year. Take up your swords, and we shall begin.’
ALSO BY DUNCAN M. HAMILTON
The Society of the Sword Trilogy
The Tattered Banner
The Huntsman’s Amulet
The Telastrian Song
Short Tales of the Middle Sea
The Swordsman of Tanosa
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Duncan is a writer of fantasy fiction novels and short stories that are set in a world influenced by Renaissance Europe. He has a Master’s Degree in History, and is particularly interested in the Medieval and Renaissance periods.
His debut novel, The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword 1) was featured on Buzzfeed’s 12 Greatest Fantasy Books of 2013.
He doesn’t live anywhere particularly exotic, and when not writing he enjoys cycling, skiing and windsurfing.
You can sign up for Duncan’s New Release Newsletter here.
You can get in touch with Duncan at any of the below places:
@DuncanMHamilton
DuncanMHamilton
duncanmhamilton.com
[email protected]
The First Blade Of Ostia Page 32