Brotherhood of Thieves 1

by Stuart Daly

  Caspan very much wished he had been the one chosen to train on the padded posts, and he watched enviously as Lachlan marched over to select one. There were over a dozen of them, planted in the ground several yards to the right of where they were training. Unlike real-life opponents, the pells didn’t hit back, and they certainly weren’t going to try to impress the Master by delivering fancy counterattacks. Nor was Caspan ecstatic when Morgan partnered him up with Kilt. She’d made no effort to mask her dislike of him during the past two weeks. She’d even started to call him ‘Gutter Rat’ behind his back.

  Kilt motioned with her sword for Caspan to follow her a few feet away from the others, giving them room to wield their weapons. ‘Aren’t I the lucky one,’ she muttered, eyeing him with distaste.

  Caspan was about to comment that he wasn’t exactly bursting with excitement either, when she came at him. He jumped back and flicked up his sword, surprising himself with the speed at which he did so, and managed to block her swing. But he barely saw her next attack. Pivoting on her left foot, she lashed out with a kick to his chest, knocking him off his feet.

  ‘Keep it clean!’ Morgan warned, watching the sparring recruits. Caspan noticed that Roland had stopped fighting and scowled at Kilt. ‘I want to see how skilled you are with a sword, not at kicking one another,’ Morgan said. ‘Any old bum can do that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Kilt rested her sword on her hip and rolled up her sleeves. She stared at Caspan, her lips tightening into a malicious sneer. She waited for the Master to focus on Roland and Sara before whispering, ‘It’s good to see you back in the dirt, Gutter Rat.’

  Caspan felt his blood boil. This was the first time she’d ever called him that to his face.

  And it was going to be the last.

  He gritted his teeth as he pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his chest, and lunged at her. Kilt, having seen the attack coming, easily parried it aside, then stepped forward and hammered the wooden pommel of her sword against the side of his helmet. Although the woollen lining cushioned him from most of the impact, it felt as if a bell had rung inside his head. Caspan staggered away and fell to his knees, waiting for the ringing in his ears to stop.

  Then he rose again, drew back his sword and charged at Kilt. His blade came down in a savage, overhead swipe. Kilt deftly sidestepped the attack, pinning his sword to the ground with the heel of her boot. He caught a glimpse of her sneer, and the next thing he knew Caspan was lying on the ground again, staring up at the sky, reeling from yet another clout to the side of the helmet.

  Caspan pulled himself up to rest on one knee and leaned on his sword, his vision swimming. He wasn’t yet ready to attempt standing, but he didn’t want to give Kilt the satisfaction of seeing him beaten.

  ‘Stay down in the dirt, where you belong,’ he heard her say just before she shoved him from behind, leaving him lying face-first on the ground.

  Caspan spat aside dirt and rolled onto his back, fury building within him. He stared up at Kilt, who paced back and forth, slashing her sword aggressively through the air, a contemptuous look on her face. The time for playing by the Master’s rules was over, Caspan decided. If Kilt wanted to turn this into a street-fight, that suited him just fine.

  He rose and stepped angrily towards her, but was stopped by a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘I think we might rotate partners. Caspan, you go over there,’ Morgan said, pointing over to the pells. He motioned for Roland to train with Kilt, and Lachlan to spar with Sara.

  Caspan wasn’t sure if the Master had planned on changing partners, or if he had intervened on his behalf. Whatever the reason, he gave Kilt one last dirty look before walking over to the training posts.

  Roland grinned as he passed him and whispered, ‘Time for some payback.’

  Caspan stopped. ‘What?’

  Roland patted him on the shoulder. ‘Just watch. You won’t want to miss this for the world.’

  As Lachlan and Sara started to spar, Caspan chose a pell and positioned himself so that he could get a good look at Roland and Kilt.

  All fired up from defeating Caspan, Kilt rolled the shoulder of her sword-arm and beckoned the black-haired boy forward. Roland held up a hand, signalling for her to wait, then knelt down to dust some dirt from his boot. Kilt sighed impatiently and muttered something under her breath, missing the wink that Roland shot at Caspan. With a roguish grin, Roland rose, gave an exaggerated yawn and motioned for Kilt to attack. She came at him with striking speed, her sword drawn back to deliver a wild swipe when Roland suddenly threw the handful of dirt he’d been holding into her face. Blinded, she dropped her weapon and screamed. Roland guffawed so loudly he almost tripped over his own feet. He winked again at Caspan, then looked back at Kilt. ‘It’s not so nice being on the receiving end, is it?’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Morgan ordered, making the smirk vanish from Roland’s lips. ‘I turn my back for one second and look what happens.’ He scowled at Roland. ‘When did I tell you to start throwing dirt? You could have hurt her.’

  Roland lowered his eyes ashamedly. ‘Sorry, sir. I guess I just got a little carried away.’

  Morgan jabbed his finger at Roland’s chest, forcing the boy to take a step back. ‘Make sure that doesn’t happen again.’

  Roland swallowed and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  The Master stared at him for a moment, his lips tight. ‘Do ten laps around the training field – that should help to cool you down. Now get going, before I change my mind and make you do twenty! And carry your sword above your head.’ Morgan gave Roland a final reprimanding glare as the initiate set off around the combat yard.

  Kilt demanded that somebody hand her a water-skin and Lachlan quickly obliged. Caspan couldn’t help but notice the disgusted look on the large boy’s face when Roland had thrown the dirt, as if there had been no honour in such an underhanded trick.

  She washed the dirt from her eyes and hurled the empty container at Roland as he came past on his third lap. Then she stormed off. Ordering the recruits to stay put, Morgan followed after her. By the time the Master had coaxed her to return, Roland had already finished his laps. He made Roland apologise to Kilt before commanding the recruits to sit in front of him.

  ‘Take your training seriously, or I’ll kick you out of here quick-smart,’ he said, staring at each of them in turn. Only Lachlan was brave enough to look the Master square in the eye. ‘This training may one day save your lives. So stop wasting my time and prove to me that you are worthy of being in the Brotherhood. That doesn’t mean throwing dirt into your partner’s eyes or beating each other to a pulp. The last thing I want is to have to send one of you off to the infirmary with a broken bone. You’ll be no use to anyone then.’ He gave Kilt and Roland stern looks before adding, ‘It’s good to be competitive, but not at the expense of hurting or humiliating one another.’ He exhaled heavily and rocked back on his feet several times. Morgan’s anger seemed to fade as he folded his arms across his chest. ‘You need to learn to put aside your differences and work together as a team. You won’t last long in Dray tombs if you’re bickering amongst yourselves. Before you know it, you’ll activate a trap, and that will be the end of you all. Now, I suppose you’re keen to hear what I think of your fighting skills?’

  Caspan took off his helmet, brushed strands of wet hair from his forehead, and noticed the eager expression on his fellow recruits’ faces. He was also conscious of the foul look Kilt was giving him and Roland.

  The Master knelt before them. ‘In spite of your propensity to fool around, you’re all actually very good. I can see why you were at the top of your cadet academies.’

  The others sat up straight, inspired by Morgan’s praise. Caspan didn’t think the compliment was directed at him, though. On the contrary, he was sure the Master had compiled a list of criticisms longer than his arm and was perhaps waiting for an opportunity to talk to him in private. Caspan stared desultorily at the ground, scared of meeting the Master’s eyes and hoping that he wouldn’t e
mbarrass him by singling him out in front of his peers.

  To his relief, the Master stood up and pointed at the pells. ‘I’m sure you’ve trained with these before, back in your cadet academies. There’s no finer way to perfect your strikes.’ He indicated with his fingers for them to rise. ‘I’m going to begin by showing you some strike combinations. You’ll keep repeating them until they become instinctive. We won’t move forward until you’ve all got the sequence right. And I want no further goofing off. Am I clear on that?’

  They nodded and followed Morgan over to the pells. Caspan glanced worriedly at the Master, fearing he wouldn’t be able to perform the technique and be held solely responsible for holding back his fellow recruits. Borrowing Sara’s sword, the Master motioned with the weapon for everyone to step back. ‘This is what I want you to practise. And note where I deliver the blows: head, torso, head, torso. It’s a four-swing combination – simple but very effective. The final stroke is a reflex action, designed to catch an opponent off-guard.’ He demonstrated the manoeuvre several times, the wooden sword humming effortlessly through the air. His timing was perfectly synchronised, as if he had done this thousands of times before. When Morgan finally returned Sara’s sword he pointed at the pells. ‘Take one each, and practise the attack until I tell you to stop.’

  Wishing that he could be anywhere but here, Caspan moped over to one of the padded training posts and joined the others in performing the series of strikes. He cast a sideways glance at Lachlan, checking that he was doing it right, then carried on. Morgan strode along the line, scrutinising how well each recruit performed the combination.

  Several minutes passed before he paused behind Lachlan. ‘Focus on your technique. I don’t want to see how hard you can hit. Any brute can do that. Remember, a skilled swordsman uses his brain just as much as his blade.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Lachlan nodded and resumed his training, this time with less force behind his swings.

  The Master continued along the line until he reached Roland. He watched him for a moment, then stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘This isn’t a competition to see who can complete the sequence the most times. Slow down, or you’ll tire yourself out. Focus on perfecting the technique.’

  As Roland wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded, Caspan drew a sigh of relief, glad to see that the other recruits weren’t as advanced as he’d initially thought. With any luck, he might be able to make it through today’s training session without drawing too much attention to himself.

  It wasn’t long, however, before Morgan stopped behind him. Caspan closed his eyes and hoped that the Master would keep on walking. He delivered a few blows to the pell, trying his best, but Morgan placed a hand on his wrist, stalling his next swing.

  ‘Don’t hold your sword so tightly,’ the Master said. ‘And your wrist is as rigid as a metal bar. Loosen your grip. You’ll find that you’ll have far greater control of your blade that way.’ He stepped back, considered Caspan’s stance and pointed downwards. ‘And keep your legs wider apart. The last thing you want is to trip over your own feet.’

  Caspan did as instructed, then glanced at Morgan. ‘Is this better?’

  The Master circled around him, inspecting his stance and grip. ‘It’s an improvement, but you’re still standing too erect. Crouch down a little, and distribute your weight evenly into your legs.’ He readjusted Caspan’s grip on the sword and guided his wrist in performing a few slow swings. ‘See how this is more comfortable?’

  Caspan was so conscious of his footing that he dropped his sword. He quickly retrieved it, sighed resignedly and stared at the House of Whispers, wishing he was back in his room, free from scrutiny. He was conscious of the fact that the other recruits had stopped training and were watching him. Kilt was sneering at him. Caspan lowered his blade and stared at the ground. ‘You’re wasting your time on me. I’m no good at playing with chunks of steel.’

  ‘Is that all a sword is to you, a chunk of steel?’ Morgan drew his sword and stroked its blade affectionately. ‘A quality sword is a work of art. It might even take a master swordsmith several months to fashion it – he’d have to fold the steel over a dozen times, strengthening it with each strike of his hammer and removing any impurities from the metal. He breathes life into the blade. Many even believe that swords have souls.’ He gazed at Caspan and handed him his blade. ‘Here, take a few practice swings. Listen to it hum through the air. Tell me what it says to you.’

  Caspan cast a glance at the other recruits, then gave the Master an incredulous look. ‘It’s just a sword. It can’t talk.’

  Morgan moved behind him and turned Caspan around by the shoulders so that his back was facing the others. ‘Ignore them. Just focus on the sword. Close your eyes and slow your breathing.’ He placed a hand over Caspan’s eyes and whispered in his ear. ‘Feel the sword’s weight in your hand. Now feel the texture of the leather grip. Distribute its weight evenly along the length of your sword-arm, all the way from your fingers up to your shoulder. Imagine the sword as an extension of your hand. You are connected to it. Steel and flesh become one. When you are ready, take a swing, and you will hear it speak to you.’

  Caspan felt incredibly silly, standing there, his eyes closed, while his new friends watched on. But then he started to focus on Morgan’s voice, and on the sword he held. He drew a steadying breath and imagined himself performing the sequence of strikes, concentrating not so much on the manoeuvre itself, but on the weapon as it hummed through the air. When Caspan was ready, he opened his eyes and performed the sequence. For a fleeting moment he felt something stir from within – something he could not put into words. It was a union between himself and the sword. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared. But he had felt something.

  Roland hooted and applauded. ‘Well done, Caspan. That was perfect.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it better,’ Lachlan commended.

  Caspan smiled proudly and turned to Morgan, who patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. ‘Claw spoke to you?’ he asked.

  Caspan gazed at the sword, as if seeing it for the first time, and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Please, teach me more.’

  The following day Caspan felt anxious. He wandered through the corridors of the House of Whispers until he reached the Assembly Hall. He poured himself a tankard of honey cider from the jug he’d taken from the kitchen and sat down on one of the seats before the open hearth. He sighed as he glanced around the hall, unsure of what drew him here, and thinking back to the day he’d first met his new friends. So much had happened since then it seemed as if months had already passed. In reality, it had only been fourteen days.

  He didn’t know why he felt so worried. Yesterday’s sword-training session had started off terribly, but then Master Morgan had taught him something he never knew about swords. It was almost as if Caspan sensed a spirit within Claw; something that whispered to him and guided his hand into performing the manoeuvre. For somebody who hadn’t wielded a blade before, he felt incredibly proud of what he had achieved. He went to bed last night smiling, recalling the looks of encouragement he’d received from Lachlan, Roland and Sara. But he woke up feeling troubled, and it wasn’t until now, his gaze drawn to the tapestry of the Four Kingdoms, that he realised the source of his anxiety.

  Caspan stared at the lands to the north of Dannenland, beyond The Scar, to the frozen wastes of the Roon’s domain. He shuddered and pulled the folds of his cloak more tightly around his neck. The tattooed giants terrified him.

  As much as Caspan enjoyed training Frostbite and perfecting and honing his thieving skills, the sword-training session had been a harsh reminder of the Brotherhood’s military aspect and that, one day, he might be forced to face the Roon. This would only come to pass if the northern legions fell and the white-skinned giants advanced further south.

  Deep inside, Caspan felt that it would only be a matter of time.

  He’d always known about the threat posed by the Roon, even back in Floran, an
d he was surprised at how troubled he’d felt that morning. Perhaps he was so concerned because now he had so much to live for and feared that he would lose everything. He took a sip of his drink, hoping it would help settle his nerves, and kicked a lump of coal that had fallen from the hearth with the toe of his boot.

  Caspan sat in silence for some time, only turning when he heard footsteps approach. Gramidge’s burly frame filled the doorway. Caspan smiled warmly at the steward. He enjoyed his company and often chatted with him after dinner in the Great Hall.

  ‘Ah, Caspan,’ Gramidge announced, a surprised look on his face. ‘What brings you all the way down here? Isn’t there a lesson starting now?’

  Caspan shook his head. ‘Not just yet. I felt like I needed some peace and quiet. I hope you don’t mind?’

  The initiates didn’t usually visit this section of the House of Whispers. It wasn’t out of bounds, but there was nothing particularly interesting about the room. It was at the opposite end to their private quarters and two levels below the Duke’s and Masters’ offices.

  ‘Not in the least, lad. I often come here when I need a place to think. I sit in that exact same spot.’ He gestured with his broom at the seat nearest to Caspan. ‘Can I join you?’

  Caspan smiled. ‘Please.’

  The steward crossed the hall and plonked down in the chair. ‘Ah, that’s better.’ He stretched out his legs and patted his barrel chest. ‘Stay young and lean, otherwise it all comes back to haunt you later in life.’ He closed his eyes contentedly and turned to face one of the stained-glass windows, the morning light spilling through it. ‘Now, this is what it’s all about.’

  Caspan regarded him for a moment and took another sip of his drink. ‘What did you do before coming here?’

  ‘Me? I’ve always been in the service of the MacDains.’ Gramidge opened his eyes and glanced at Caspan, but his look was distant. ‘When I was about your age I was apprenticed to the blacksmith in the King’s castle in Briston, only it wasn’t King Rhys back in those days, but his father, King Dan. Well, as it turned out, I wasn’t particularly good at the job, but I was dutiful and hard-working, so I was passed on to the chief steward of the castle. To cut a long story short, I worked my way up through the ranks of the household staff and was eventually appointed steward of the House of Whispers. It served as a royal retreat and hunting lodge before it was turned into the Brotherhood headquarters. Back then it was called Hampton Hall.’