Three of Swords
Page 2
Finished at last, he nodded. There were other details that remained unresolved, of course. The exact terms of the ersatz union with Asturia and the genuine one with Lorester, for example. Even smaller items such as the size of Nicolas’ escort and the proposed wedding date were yet to be determined, but Hermann was confident in the general outline of things. In any case, it made sense to give Marko a hand in the final preparations. To do so would provide valuable experience, and he would have to live with the results far longer than Hermann himself.
The king readied himself for the onslaught of questions.
“They’ll kill him.”
Not a question, then. A simple statement, and Hermann found himself once again confronted by every reservation he had felt for days, ever since the plan began to formulate in his scheming imagination. Yet as king, Hermann dared not show a shred of hesitation. Doubts were a sign of weakness not afforded to rulers.
He nodded. “Almost certainly.” He allowed himself a pause, then continued with his rehearsed response. “In fact, it is better for everyone that they do.”
This was the line of reasoning that he had used to convince himself, and Hermann now used it on Marko. “It is the best way to ensure that your own ascension to the throne goes smoothly. Trust me on this, young prince. You do not wish a challenge at the very time when you need to consolidate support.”
“Nico has no interest in ruling Akenberg, let alone the empire.”
“He is ambitious.”
“About his swordplay. That doesn’t mean he wishes to rule.”
“Perhaps not now. But power is not a prize easily cast aside. I know you feel a brother’s kinship with him, but a ruler must set personal feelings aside to do what is best for his realm. Akenberg would not be well served by a civil war.”
“But to punish him before he has shown any sign of disloyalty? This seems to contradict the proper justice of which you often speak.”
“True, but it is not only Nicolas you must concern yourself with. As soon as you are king, you will accumulate enemies. Such is the nature of the position. What do you believe will happen when they begin to whisper in his ear, telling him he would do better? He will be a natural and persistent rallying point for dissent. And believe me when I say dissent never goes away, it only hides in the shadows.”
Hermann could see that Marko was struggling to contain his emotions, but the point had gotten through. Now came time to reinforce it. “My son, you will make a good king. But you have much to learn first. Especially about the essence of man. Men are, above all else, inherently self-serving. They are respectful and trustworthy until that becomes in any way inconvenient. Always make certain that loyalty is profitable. Never force a man to choose between his ruler and himself.”
“I understand.” A pause. “There…are other things I would ask of you.”
Good. The most difficult hurdle was now behind them. The rest was trivial. “Anything.”
“If he already distrusts us, why would King Anton agree to the proposal?”
“He is weak, and getting weaker. His land is divided, his rule challenged by the separatists of Feana. The rumors have it that Duke Iago raises an army and seizes land by force. Anton’s ego will bristle, but he must accept our offer. Or at least give it long contemplation, which is very much the same to us.”
“If he accepts, why not simply go through with that marriage? What makes Lorester a better ally?”
“The problem is Anton himself. He is younger than I, and equally ambitious. He would make an unreliable ally. He would bide his time until we are weakened, or threatened, and then he will fight. He will challenge you when you are most vulnerable. Far better to deal with him now than later.”
“Is not Maximil capable of the same?”
“He is less capable and ambitious than Anton, but there is merit to your doubts. No one is incapable of treachery. Still, we can only deal with one at a time, and Anton is the greater threat. A ruler must often weigh difficult choices. You must learn to make the most of each opportunity.”
Reading the thoughtful expression on Marko’s face, Hermann paused from the lecturing for a moment. Another breeze blew through the room, which had gotten noticeably chillier since the start of their discussion. The gravity of the conversation had kept him from noticing, but now he failed to repress a shiver. Pollak noticed and raised his head in concern. Hermann smiled and scratched behind the dog’s ears, a reward for fidelity.
Marko was now pacing back and forth across the room while he pondered. It was an unusual action for anyone in Hermann’s presence, yet he did not mind. The young man no longer needed to show supplication to his father. Soon he must accustom himself to being the one supplicated to.
“How far will we take these false hostilities with Chissenhall?”
“Not far. Our emissaries tell me that negotiations go well. I expect completion within a tenday or two. Then a few more to escalate rhetoric, purely for public consumption. An allowance for the rumors to reach Anton… No more than four or five tendays of pretense. By then the reserves will be called to duty and the army ready to march on Cormona.
“I have reason to believe Anton will be more distracted by the Feanic uprising than our squabbles with Lorester…” Hermann caught himself and elected not to go into that now. There was a limit to how much he wanted to burden Marko with at once. They would need to delve into some of the nastier aspects of ruling in the Twelve Kingdoms soon enough.
“Now, let us discuss your role in all this. I believe it best if the people begin to see you at the head of the army. A fighting prince always cuts a dashing figure…”
While he spoke, Hermann was barely aware that Marko had retrieved a heavy knit blanket from one of the chamber’s settees. The prince approached his father and quietly spread it over his legs, silently nodding along. Next, he went to the hearth and added a log before resuming his pacing, only then interrupting the exposition with a question.
“If it comes to actual fighting—with Lorester or Asturia—will I be allowed to command as I see fit?”
Hermann considered. His son looked the role of a young general, but he lacked experience. Ideally, he should be gradually exposed to increasing levels of responsibility. Circumstances were seldom ideal, however.
“Your legitimacy will be strengthened by a bloodless victory over Lorester—even a prearranged one. And a subsequent one over Asturia will make you beloved. I suggest you rely heavily on your advisers, but yes. A leader should lead.”
Marko smiled at this. Hermann had never known his son—this son—to be particularly martial. He had trained in the use of sword and shield and learned to ride with the best of them, but had never shown the same enthusiasm as his younger brother. Perhaps there was a hint of sibling rivalry after all.
“Father, I need to reflect on this further. I also have promised to sup with the Duchess Lorana and her charming daughters. There is need to speak more of this, however. May I return this eve?”
“Certainly. We still have much to consider. Come whenever you are able.”
Marko bowed crisply, then strode from the room, his heavy steps echoing for some time in Hermann’s mind.
The encounter had gone as well as could be expected, and for that he felt a palpable sense of relief. Yet the strain did not entirely dissipate. In fact, Hermann could not fight back another shiver, despite the added warmth of the blanket and fire.
He had never made a habit of second-guessing his decisions, be they petty or monumental. This attitude had served him well through the years. He was on the cusp of achieving his immortal legacy. What then was this nagging apprehension that bothered him so?
Chapter One
Neublusten
“DEFEND.”
Nicolas lifted the practice shield just in time to block Renard’s sudden strike. The sound of hard wood upon wood rattled his ears, but he was long accustomed to the deafening noise of swordplay.
“Defend.”
Renard took a sw
ing at Nico’s head. The shield shot up again. It was lighter than his personal one, and in his haste, he nearly lifted it too high. Renard’s slash deflected off the lower edge and narrowly missed scoring a serious hit on his exposed side.
“Sloppy.” Renard did not hide his disgust. “You need to practice more with all weights and sizes. You’ve become too complacent with your own gear.”
Nico did not argue. It was true. His own sword felt so comfortable in his grip that he rarely trained with anything else.
“Defend.”
Renard aimed a quick thrust at Nico’s right arm. The shield came up—and suddenly the high thrust turned into a low slash, directed at his left leg. Nico was prepared for the feint, redirected his movements, and blocked the attack simultaneously with a step forward on his right leg. He could easily have pressed the advantage, but Renard had not issued an attack command.
These blocks were straight from the school of Grimaldi, one of the greatest duelists in history—not to mention another proud Akenberger. The old master’s techniques were among the first that Nico had learned, and long years of constant practice made his execution nearly flawless. Not that Renard would ever acknowledge that proficiency.
“Defend,” he repeated, and the one-sided fighting continued.
Nico understood why the older man was doing this. One year ago, they had watched today’s opponent win his Proving with an aggressive style that appeared as reckless as it was effective. If that man used the same tactics today…
“Attack.”
Nico hesitated for a split second, having expected another command to defend. Now he lunged at Renard’s exposed leg. If Nico had been properly prepared, he could have picked a bolder target, but the delay had cost him a valuable fraction of a second. Even a trivial score was better than none at all.
Except that Renard easily blocked the move and unexpectedly counterattacked. The other practice sword swung down hard on Nico’s, the resulting shock wave forcing the weapon out of the prince’s grip. The sound as it clattered to the stone floor was even more upsetting than the stinging in his hand.
“What the rotting Devil was that?” Renard demanded, barely tempering his criticism despite a sudden rise in temper.
“I expected another ‘defend.’ I thought you were preparing me for Dolen’s aggressive style.”
Renard sniffed, causing Nico to wince. Sniffing was one of many signs that his retainer—and trainer, and mentor—was too disappointed for words. If Nico had been a common soldier, the profanities would come out in a long, vicious stream. But despite Nico’s frequent requests to not be treated deferentially, he was still nobility, and was learning how that fact could never be cast aside. If Renard was ever overheard admonishing a prince in the manner used with soldiers, word might get back to the king. That would quickly put an end to their partnership, and possibly Renard’s life.
Another sniff, followed by a sigh. Renard was not truly as angry as he showed, Nico knew. The man used anger as a tool to get a job done. Some men needed to be berated into action, while some required other forms of motivation. Nico had no doubt he would benefit from a good tongue-lashing, but since that was impossible, he knew his teacher would fall back on explanations.
“Your upcoming opponent did not win his Proving because of this ‘aggressive style’ you describe. He was not any more skilled than the man he defeated. He just did something unexpected. He won with imagination as much as power and precision. Do you really think he will fight the exact same way against you?”
There was no time to give it any thought. The door to the small practice chamber opened and a messenger appeared. “Prince Nicolas. The Proving begins.”
Nico nodded and the man disappeared. It was time.
He had been waiting for this moment for a year—no, for as long as he could remember. And now that it was here, he found himself unprepared. Renard had just told him something immensely important, but Nico had already forgotten what that was. His hand still stung from being disarmed. He tried to swallow but could not, tried to breathe through his nose and nearly choked.
He looked at Renard, a sudden sense of despair overtaking him. It was hard to believe. All this anticipation, all this time to prepare, and still he was going to lose. And there would be no second chance.
“I’m not ready,” he said aloud. But his eyes spoke more. What do we do? Can we ask for more time?
“You’re ready. You don’t feel it now—but as soon as the fighting starts, you’ll feel something trigger. For some men, it’s self-preservation. I think for you, it’ll be whatever you need to get the job done.” The thick mustache curled. Renard was smiling. He reached out to tap Nico’s chest. “There’s more steel in here than you know. You’re a prince—you’re not going to lose.”
Nico wondered exactly what his teacher meant by that. Did he think they would throw the match to him, simply because he was royalty? Or that his blood gave him some innate quality of superiority? Provings did not work like that. But commoners like Renard often had a distorted, reverential perspective of nobility.
Yet there was still comfort in the words. Renard had served as an instructor in Hermann’s army for more than two tenyears. He had been forced into retirement at just around the time of Nico’s thirteenth birthday, the age when boys and girls begin training as an apprentice for whatever industry they would spend their life in. Most children are born into that industry, but Nico had been fortunate—spoiled was probably the better term—enough to be able to choose. He had been even more spoiled to seek out the kingdom’s expert—a man who should have been allowed to enjoy his retirement and modest pension—and “ask” him for personal training. Nico had not appreciated at the time how impossible it was for Renard to say no.
Five years together had brought understanding and an odd form of camaraderie between them. Nico had spent far more time with this man than he had his own father. Or even his brother. He and Marko had once been close, but the elder prince’s responsibilities had stolen him away long ago. Perhaps Renard had functioned as a replacement. It would have been amusing to think of this gruff, profane old man as a brother if Nico’s anxious mind had any room for amusement. It did not. His nerves were settling, and it was time to go prove himself.
The Swordthanes were an order that predated Emperor Eberhart, but Nico’s understanding was that the emperor had been the one to codify the rules and rites that governed the organization. To be a Swordthane was to be a privileged member of society, one of a select few respected by all. There were only a few dozen Swordthanes in the entire empire at any one time. But even within this tiny society there existed a hierarchy. Eberhart was the First of Swords, the point of a blade that widened beneath him. There were two Seconds, each of whom was Patron to three Thirds—and there the titles ended. Each Third was Patron to their own three followers, but these were thanes without special distinction. This bottom tier was where every new member entered—and it was the level which Nico aspired to join today.
Every Swordthane, of every rank, was expected to defend their position once per year, provided a challenger came forward. According to legend, Eberhart himself had been challenged only once. The Seconds usually faced challenges every handful of years, and the Thirds more frequently still. Those at the bottom level, however, fought every year—the only way for the ambitious many to join the honored few. These fights were the Provings.
Although the order did not specify one, most communities adopted a tournament of their own to determine the right to challenge a Swordthane. Castle Neublusten had done so, but Nico did not feel particularly tested considering the level of competition he had faced to this point. Few of his father’s soldiers wanted to risk reputation by opposing their liege’s progeny, and even fewer commoners had sufficient training with a sword to take the event seriously. Even the reserves—men who had served in the army and agreed to join a mobilization in time of need in exchange for a small pension—mostly allowed their skills to atrophy from disuse.
The Proving itself was a simple affair, conducted with surprisingly little fanfare, for the coveting of attention ran contrary to the ideals of the order. Castle Neublusten had cordoned off an ample section of the sparring chamber for this single bout. Nico was more than a little familiar with this room, having performed a significant amount of training here, but never had it seemed quite so cold and intimidating as it did now. He was reminded of the first time he had set foot in it for his first practice duel at the age of fifteen, for he currently felt the same sense of unease that had gripped him then. Nico glanced at the large banner mounted on the wall—the white mountain of Akenberg on a background of dark blue—hoping for reassurance, but receiving none. He was on his own.
Because the order did not seek publicity, today’s showdown was unheralded. Nevertheless, word had spread to more than a few ears, for several dozen bystanders moved out of the way as Nico and Renard passed through. A few hands reached out to pat his shoulder or back, a few words of encouragement carelessly tossed his way—but his perception was narrowing by the second, making him oblivious to such distractions.
Each competitor was given the choice of broadsword or sword and shield, depending on whether they fought in a one or two-handed style. Nico found the shield to be far too useful to forgo and rarely trained without one. Today’s lesson had taught him to reconsider that practice, but that was a thought for another time. If there was another time.