The Tattered Banner

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Master Thadeo mounted his own horse with the smooth and practiced efficiency of an expert and galloped off toward the rest of the class who were in a group at the far side of the field, cantering along. Soren pulled on the left rein and eased off on the right one as instructed, and Barto turned to the left without moving forward. His hooves clacked and scraped on the solid cobbles of the stable yard, and Soren wondered what it would feel like on the softer turf of the field.

  In spite of his initial anxiety, he found that he was enjoying the experience tremendously. He urged Barto forward at a walk, the clip-clop of his hooves silencing to dull thuds as he moved onto the grass. He had just reached the far side of the manoeuvres field and begun to turn around when he noticed a rider break away from his group of classmates at the opposite end of the field and head in his direction. He kept Barto walking forward as he watched the group cantering as one cohesive unit, wheeling left and right, speeding up and slowing down. It was an impressive sight to watch but he tried to shut it out and concentrate on the task at hand. As the student sent to assist him drew closer, his heart sank however and his rising concerns made concentration impossible.

  ‘Well, well. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rat on a horse before. Perhaps a large dog would be a more appropriate mount for you!’ said dal Dardi.

  Soren wasn’t sure if he was just a victim of circumstance, or if dal Dardi had volunteered to supervise him. He suspected the latter, but he was certain that the situation would not end well. He wished Master Thadeo had taught him how to make Barto back up, but as it was, forward, left and right were the only options available to him.

  ‘I’m glad to see your face is healing,’ said Soren. He just couldn’t stop himself from baiting dal Dardi. ‘It’s just a shame that with the swelling gone everyone can see what an ugly sack of shit you are again!’

  Dal Dardi started circling his horse around Soren and Barto, but Soren’s balance was still precarious at best and he could not twist in his saddle to watch him when he went around behind him. He felt a shiver run down his spine as dal Dardi circled around out of view, and his entire body tensed. He almost breathed a sigh of relief when dal Dardi came back into his line of sight.

  ‘Hmm, not bad for a gutter rat,’ he said. ‘But your bridle is all wrong. Let me help you with it.’ He reached forward and undid the noseband and pulled the bit from Barto’s mouth.

  ‘There, much better,’ he said. ‘You’ll find the control a little different when you gallop, but I think you’ll like it,’ he added, with mock sincerity.

  It was all that Soren could do to remain still and try to ensure he did not fall from Barto’s back. Reaching forward to fix the bridle was a challenge too great for him. Dal Dardi backed his horse up, once more out of Soren’s view. There was a loud slapping noise, and Barto reared up before breaking into a bucking gallop.

  Soren did his best to hang on but the reins were ineffectual and did not provide any resistance for him to be able to pull against. He roared at the horse to stop as he dropped the reins and clung desperately to the edge of his saddle. He managed to hold on for a few moments, but with each stride Barto took, Soren was bounced further out of the saddle until he lost contact with it altogether. As he flew through the air it felt like the world was slowing all around him. He could see Barto galloping off across the field, and all of his classmates watching in bewilderment. Above all, he could hear dal Dardi’s laughter. There was a bright flash behind his eyes, and then darkness.

  Soren woke up later that afternoon in the infirmary. At first he was not able to remember what had happened, but even at that point dal Dardi’s laughter echoed in his ears. Gradually, as his memory of the events returned, anger twisted in his stomach.

  His first visitor was Master Thadeo, who felt obligated to check on Soren’s recovery. He said that dal Dardi had claimed the incident had occurred without his involvement, but he was clearly of the opinion that this was a lie. He had fitted the bridle himself and did not believe that it could have come loose without interference. Once he had confirmed that Soren had not tried to adjust it himself, he seemed satisfied with his belief. Soren’s second visitor was more of a surprise.

  Ranph dal Bragadin appeared with a somewhat sheepish expression at the end of Soren’s bed.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ said Soren guardedly. He didn’t see what Ranph was there for, as he didn’t seem the type to gloat, or to try to make out that Soren had gotten what was coming to him for breaking dal Dardi’s nose.

  ‘Look, I’ll come right to the point,’ said Ranph. ‘We all know what Reitz did, and it was a stupid, dangerous and low thing to do to someone who has never been on a horse before. He’s brought dishonour on Stornado House, and both I and the other Stornados want you to know that should you choose to call him out over it, you will be entirely within your rights.’ With that he left.

  Soren was left bemused. It struck him as having been an apology of sorts, but he didn’t really have a clue what Ranph had meant by ‘call him out’.

  He was allowed to rest in the infirmary for the remainder of the day before being sent back to River House in the evening.

  C h a p t e r 1 1

  THE DIKTAT OF HONOUR

  As sore as he had felt the day before, a night’s sleep did little to improve things. All of his joints ached, every muscle was stiff and to top it all there was a large purple bruise running from his backside to half way down his left thigh that screamed at him every time he put any pressure on it or brushed against something, even gently.

  He sat in the dining hall seeking the comforting solace that food usually brought him, but was so uncomfortable sitting awkwardly on his right side that the food was little help in lifting his spirits. It didn’t stop him from making short work of it, but he could not get past the fact that dal Dardi had gotten the better of him and that twisted his insides with a mixture of anger and impuissance.

  He was just contemplating a second plate when Henn and Jost appeared in the hall. Soren had been woken every time he had rolled onto his bruised side and eventually gave up on sleeping, so he had arrived far earlier than necessary for breakfast, when the hall was still empty and the staff were only beginning to put things out. The main crowd was only beginning to arrive as he finished. He asked Jost to bring him another glass of orange juice as they passed. They collected their breakfasts and then joined him.

  Jost slid the orange juice across the table, regarding Soren closely as he did.

  ‘You know your little spill on the manoeuvres field is the talk of the Academy,’ he said.

  Soren groaned inwardly. He disliked being the centre of attention when the event that drew the attention was not of his design.

  ‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ said Soren, ‘but I’d really rather that wasn’t the case.’

  ‘He’s never been popular, dal Dardi, but what he did could have gotten you killed, and that’s just beyond anyone’s opinion of what’s acceptable. Most people expect you to call him out,’ said Henn.

  ‘Yeah, Ranph said something about calling him out. What does that even mean?’ asked Soren.

  ‘To call him out. For a duel. Things have gotten to the point where it’s the only acceptable way to settle the matter. It’s against the Academy rules of course; duelling between students is strictly forbidden, but it does go on, more often than you might think,’ said Henn. ‘Just so long as you don’t kill or maim him, everyone will look the other way. If you do kill or maim him, well, let’s not even consider that!’

  ‘You’re talking like it’s already settled that I will duel him,’ said Soren. ‘Until a moment ago, I hadn’t even thought of it!’

  ‘Well, look at the alternative,’ said Jost. ‘Dal Dardi and everyone else expects you to now. It’s part of the unwritten honour code. If you don’t, it will be difficult for you to get any respect from anyone, and dal Dardi will take it as an invitation to run roughshod over you for the rest o
f your time here.’

  ‘I don’t like being dictated to, least of all by some bloody honour code that isn’t even permitted by the Academy. Maybe it’s different for you two; you have nice little estates to run home to in Moreno if anything goes wrong here. It won’t make much of a difference to your life if you get thrown out. If I cock up here and get thrown out, I’m done. I’m back on the street and have nothing. For me, being here is everything. I’m not going to risk that for your honour code or anything else,’ said Soren.

  Henn just looked to Jost, who shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘There are just certain ways that things have to be done Soren, like it or not. You know what the alternative is; if you’re ok with that…’ said Jost.

  Soren found that he was actively avoiding company over the next several days. Gradually the pain and stiffness from his fall from the horse faded and he had been trying to avoid thinking about dal Dardi and the expectations that ‘honour’ seemed to be placing on him, but on a number of occasions he had seen others looking at him and whispering. He was beginning to become concerned that the whispers were no longer about if he would duel dal Dardi, but rather saying that he was a coward, and it was difficult to keep the issue from the forefront of his mind.

  It was easy for the privileged aristocrats to make such judgements on honour, but Soren had not exaggerated when he had told Henn and Jost that being at the Academy was everything to him. Honour alone would not fill his belly. The whole matter was playing on his mind far more than he would have liked. He had hoped the matter would blow over and he would be able to exact an appropriate but more discreet revenge on dal Dardi, but even that seemed as though it would be impossible. Any action that he took would be viewed as dishonourable and carried out because he was too craven to face dal Dardi in a duel.

  He sat in Hoplology class, usually one of his favourites, and not down to the fact that it involved little reading or writing, which was the case, but because he found the study of different weapons fascinating. For him the rapier, or the rapier paired with a dagger would always be the ultimate. He had spent far too many years sneaking into the Amphitheatre to watch them being used to perfection and imagining himself doing the same, to be tempted away to a preference for something else. A hand and a half, or perhaps a two handed sword would have been more appropriate to his large and rapidly strengthening frame, but despite encouragement to focus on them by the master, he steadfastly refused and maintained the rapier as his primary weapon of study.

  Despite his interest in the subject, he found that he could not concentrate. His mind was too occupied by dal Dardi, and the whispers that were being exchanged with him as the subject matter. His attention was pulled back to the class every time the master removed a new object from the glass display cabinet at the back of the lecture theatre, but the diversion was only temporary, as he felt the need to deal with dal Dardi to be ever more pressing. What fools these pampered aristocrats were, to risk so much for something as intangible as honour.

  Soren was not in any way worried by the prospect of facing dal Dardi in a duel. On the one occasion in which they had crossed swords, Soren had found him to be only a middling swordsman who relied on underhand tactics and cheap shots to cover his shortcomings. These things were not an issue for Soren. Perhaps had he been steeped in the rigidity of a formal training since childhood it may have been different, but for him, a kick, punch or elbow intermixed with swordplay seemed to be no more than a common sense approach. It took considerable concentration to ensure he did not incorporate any of this into his own swordplay during sparring, as it was explicitly against the rules. Dal Dardi seemed to have no compunction about it however, which made Soren smile bitterly when he compared dal Dardi’s behaviour to the lofty notions of honour that were so hypocritically espoused in the Academy. It seemed to him that honour was a shoe that fit many feet.

  However angry it made him, he knew that anger would not bring him any closer to a solution. Henn and Jost had outlined how honour duels were fought. All the usual rules of the Academy applied, except that sharp blades were used and the fight was to first blood. Once blood had been drawn, it was considered that honour on all sides was satisfied and life would return to normal as though the duel, and all matters leading to it, had never happened. It seemed to be a bizarre way to do things, but then he could not profess to understand how the aristocratic mind functioned.

  Soren’s only concern about a duel was the potential impact it might have on his presence at the Academy. He didn’t give a damn if he killed dal Dardi. In his estimation Soren had met few that deserved it more, but this would be devastating to any hope he might have to remain at the Academy. Not only would he be expelled, he would more than likely be handed over to the Watch and from there dumped in a dungeon cell, with the release of the headsman’s block being the only thing to look forward to. Maiming would have much the same result, perhaps only with the omission of the headsman’s block.

  As long as he was careful, he saw no reason for either of these eventualities to occur. He knew that dal Dardi would happily utilise whatever dirty trick he could come up with, so he felt his best plan of action was to utilise his speed to score a quick cut to a non-vital part of the body and be done with the whole thing.

  He realised that he had started planning how to deal with the duel before ever acknowledging even in his own mind that he would actually fight it. It seemed that the duel was always a foregone conclusion, even in his own head. He still disliked the way he felt as though he had been left with no option but to take this course, but if he wished to remain at the Academy and to thrive there, it seemed he would have to tread a narrow line between doing what was expected of him and what was required to ensure his own advancement.

  With his course of action settled upon, he found it was far easier to return his attention to his classwork, and the gnawing sense of anxiety he had been feeling seemed to have disappeared.

  Alien as it was to him, Soren’s next step was to discuss with Henn and Jost how exactly he would go about calling dal Dardi out. As everything else seemed to be dictated by the honour code, he expected that the method of initiating a duel would be also. The whole matter made Soren quite uncomfortable. It was not the way he would have chosen to deal with matters.

  He did not want the fact that he now intended to fight a duel to put the issues with dal Dardi behind him to become common knowledge. He accepted that once the challenge was made it would be the gossip of the Academy and there was little that could be done about that. Up until that point however, he wanted as few people to know of his intentions as possible.

  He arranged to meet Henn and Jost in one of the private reading rooms in the library. He made sure that he was there well before them, but felt faintly ridiculous about the surreptitious way he was going about things.

  Henn and Jost arrived together and sat down with Soren around the single table in the room.

  ‘How does this work?’ asked Soren.

  ‘The duel you mean?’ said Henn.

  ‘Yes, of course the duel. What else?’

  ‘Well, you have to call him out. I think that means a challenge to him in public,’ said Jost. ‘I’ve never actually seen it being done though. Striking him in front of others and demanding satisfaction is the traditional way I think.’

  ‘And won’t making a public challenge bring the whole thing to the attention of the masters?’ said Soren.

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Jost. ‘As we told you before, as long as there isn’t a death or serious injury, there isn’t a problem. I assume you’ve seen the scars on Master Dornish and Master Bryn’s faces?’

  Soren nodded. He thought also of the scar on Emeric’s face.

  ‘Well,’ continued Jost, ‘how do you think they got them? A blind eye will be turned so long as the duel is limited to first blood. Just make sure that it is. There will be others there to make sure tempers don’t flare and cause things to get out of hand. Which brings me to the other thing. You’ll need a
second to take care of all the details once the challenge is made. I’m happy to do that for you, or Henn said he would either; it really doesn’t matter. All the seconds do is arrange the time and venue and inspect the weapons before the duel and ensure that the rules are complied with.’

  ‘All right,’ said Soren. ‘Tomorrow then, in the dining hall at breakfast. Since you offered, Jost, I’d like you to be my second.’

  Jost nodded. ‘Tomorrow then.’

  C h a p t e r 1 2

  THE CHALLENGE

  While he wasn’t worried by the prospect of duelling dal Dardi, he felt a sense of foreboding about the whole situation. His ambivalence about having to fight the duel at all, according to someone else’s rules had not subsided. Events had overtaken him and taken on a life of their own. Even on the street he had, to a certain extent, been the master of his own destiny. He was quickly learning that this was no longer the case.

  He was full of nervous energy that he knew would keep him from sleeping, so instead he slipped out of River House after lights out and made his way to the training hall. He was hoping to kill two birds with one stone, the extra training would tire him out enough to sleep and the extra practice certainly would not hurt either.

  He called out two drones, which like biddable animals came out from their storage area and hovered, waiting for further instructions. Soren equipped each of the four arms on both drones with practice rapiers. He had only ever been allowed spar against one at a time previously, but he had never found a single drone to be a particular challenge before, and his state of anxiety was such that he wanted as demanding a session as he could take without being hurt in the process. Despite the practice rapiers being blunt, button tipped and slightly more flexible than a real sword, being struck hard by one was still painful, and if that strike was in the wrong place, it could cause injury.