The Tattered Banner

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  He became aware of movement around him but could not make out who it was. The barbarians most likely. Imminent death still awaited him. Voices also, but his ears felt clogged so he could not make them out. He lay still, trying to will his eyes to remain open a crack, and waited for death to come. He felt a boot nudge him.

  ‘Sergeant, this one’s alive!’ a voice called out.

  There were more sounds of movement and the harsh cracks of light in Soren’s eyes were shaded. He hesitantly opened them a little more. Two men in trooper’s uniforms stood over him. One held out a water canteen. The water washed whatever debris covered his lips into his mouth and was foul with the bitter taste of smoke and the metallic tang of blood. He could feel his throat soften as the water touched it and the relief was immeasurable.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, although it was more of a croak and sounded unintelligible even to his ears. He took more of the water, and gradually the foul tastes faded away. He took a deep breath and coughed heavily. The soldiers helped him to his knees as his lungs purged themselves of smoke.

  He looked up, his eyes gradually becoming accustomed to the harsh light. Sergeant Smit stood there.

  ‘Glad to see you still breathing, sir!’ said Smit. He had never called Soren sir before. The other two troopers left, and Smit offered a steadying hand as Soren struggled to his feet.

  ‘Likewise. I really can’t remember much after we came down from the wall. Lieutenant Dalvi, where is he?’ asked Soren.

  Smit shook his head. ‘Only six of us survived. Dalvi was dead by the time I got down from the wall. The rest of us would be too, if it weren’t for you. Fairly scared the piss out of those barbarians so you did. After you killed a score of them they weren’t so hungry for a fight, but they kept coming at us. They were even more afraid of their witch doctor than they were of you. Colonel dal Vecho turned up somewhere in the middle of it, and the barbarians ran. Left their wagons, and a couple of unfortunates that they must have picked up along the way. No sign of the Androv girls though. They were pretty young lasses; they’d fetch a high price as slaves, enough to make the entire trip worthwhile for the barbarians I’d say. Colonel dal Vecho left Fort Laed as soon as Thomas and his family arrived, so we have him to thank for the help arriving.

  ‘The Colonel wants to talk to you if you feel up to it. They brought the apothecary with them, you might want to see him first by the looks of you though,’ said Smit.

  Soren was chewing the leaves the apothecary gave him when the Colonel was finally free to see him. At first the leaves seemed to do nothing, but gradually the pain he felt in every limb seemed less severe, until it was little more than a dull ache.

  ‘I’m glad you’re still with us, Cornet,’ said dal Vecho. ‘It’s always a disappointment to lose a promising officer so early in his career. It’s a shame about Lieutenant Dalvi though, he will be difficult to replace. Sergeant Smit has nothing but praise for your conduct. He served under me in the North, and I know his praise is not easily earned. I’m giving you a field promotion to lieutenant. Reports have been coming in from all along the frontier of barbarian attacks. The attack on the Androv stead was sadly not an isolated incident. Tomorrow we’ll be riding out to hunt the rest of them down. We will not be letting these raids go unpunished. I’ve already sent my dispatches back to Ostenheim and you are mentioned favourably in them, but your work isn’t done yet. Rest up now, because you’ll be needed when we ride out in the morning.’

  Soren felt like death warmed up the next day. A bucket of cold water had happily revealed that none of the blood that had covered him was his, but it did little to alleviate the stiffness, aches or pain. He knew that the Moment had taken him over the day before, it was the Gift, but many times stronger and the strain it had placed on his body was immense. He could not work out where the Gift ended and where the Moment began or if indeed there was a clearly defined line between them.

  He was as certain as he could be that he had experienced the Gift at a stronger level before; with the belek, when Ranph’s father had been killed and when he had killed the two thugs in Ostenheim. Of those experiences only the incident with the belek had been nearly as intense as the one at the outpost. While he had lost control against the thugs, he could still at least remember everything that had happened. He had put it down to not knowing his own strength or simply sloppy swordsmanship, but this time he had lost control to such an extent that he had no memory of the experience at all. It unnerved him that this could happen at all, and it frustrated him that each time he felt as though he was beginning to grasp a basic understanding of this ability he seemed to have, something happened that rubbished his theories.

  From the bits and pieces Smit had mentioned, and from the hushed mutters of the men, it seemed as though the result had been truly terrifying. While in the Moment, killing seemed to be the easiest thing in the world. As terrifying as it was for others, the fact that he could not seem to control it terrified him also.

  Colonel dal Vecho had brought out almost the full strength of the Legion and it was quite a sight. Pennants fluttered at the tips of lances and the martial sounds of a large number of men marching to war filled the air, even if it was still only a few hundred men. It was far more in keeping with Soren’s dreams of military splendour than the small patrol had been. They didn’t move quite as fast as the patrol had, but with luck the barbarians would be slowed by their wounded.

  Dal Vecho had sent scouts to shadow the barbarians so their direction was being constantly reported to them. They had reported that the barbarians were near at hand, but to Soren’s surprise, he realised that he already knew this. The strange tingling sensation of energy dancing across his skin and through his body that he had felt when the shaman had arrived at the outpost had returned and had been growing stronger. He recognised it now though and the connection between the two had to be more than a coincidence. Perhaps the intensity of the Moment as he had experienced it at the outpost had something to do with the shaman also.

  Once cold, stiff and tired muscles began to warm, their strength returned and any discomfort faded entirely. By the time the dust cloud the barbarian’s flight kicked into the air became visible, Soren had shaken off all the soreness and fatigue that had blighted him earlier in the day. He felt relaxed, rested and ready to fight again.

  ‘Lieutenant Soren!’ shouted Colonel dal Vecho. Soren spurred his horse to a canter until he reached the front of the column.

  ‘Sir!’ he said.

  ‘Lieutenant, take Sergeant Smit and first squadron and lead the vanguard ahead. Catch them and slow them down. We shall follow in hard behind you,’ said dal Vecho.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Soren replied. He could not help himself but smile at the prospect. He wheeled his horse around and relayed the order to Smit, who barked his commands at first squadron, thirty troopers, who peeled off the main column and reformed at the side of the main formation of men.

  Soren was quickly becoming accustomed to the fact that the army was in reality run by the sergeants. Once Smit knew what his general orders were, he took care of the minutiae, leaving Soren to feel like something of a figurehead. The curious glances he got from the troopers pleased him though. They all knew the tale of what he had done at the outpost, and all wanted to see first hand. The older troopers because they did not believe it, the younger ones because they were in awe.

  On Smit’s command, the squadron broke into a trot and then to a canter that pulled them away from the main column. From the front, Soren found himself constantly looking back, trying hard to keep a smile from his face at the sight of thirty troopers with shining metal breastplates and lances with their squadron colours fluttering at the tip. As he watched them, he wished that he had had the opportunity to have his own banner made before he had left the city. It would have been nice to be able to ride into battle under his own colours, as was now his right. Nonetheless, the dreams of a street urchin were a reality.

  The barbarians spotted them before they had cove
red half the distance between the column and them. They tried to increase their pace, but it was to no avail. Several of their horses towed litters behind them with wounded men strapped to them, while others carried two men. Smit roared at the top of his lungs for them to increase to a gallop, which they did instantly. After the episode with dal Dardi and being thrown from his horse, he had never particularly enjoyed the riding classes at the Academy, but now for the first time he could see the appeal in being a competent horseman. There was something exhilarating about the thundering of the hooves, the wind tearing at his hair and clothes, and the prospect of glory in battle.

  They were within a hundred paces when the barbarians finally accepted that fleeing would no longer serve. The shaman gesticulated furiously to the men as they formed into a defensive wall to receive the cavalry charge. Everything started to slow for Soren. At first it seemed as though the gallop was slowing and the rhythmic thrum of the horses’ hooves dropped in tempo. The intensity of the feeling of energy had been building as they got closer and Soren felt certain that the Moment was not far from taking hold of him.

  The troopers formed into a wedge, and Soren slipped into its side, drawing his sword and allowing the lancers lead the charge into the enemy. Soren looked about him, at the troopers who were all staring intently at their foe. He noticed the sense of relaxed composure that had enveloped him as all the sense of haste and exigency disappeared. As they galloped on into the enemy, Soren felt the world around him continue to slow. He focussed on staying in control of how the ability took hold, to remain aware of what was happening around him. It felt as though he was submerged in water that exerted pressure all over his body, trying to force its way in.

  The charge hit the poorly arranged barbarian wall with a crash of metal, wood and screams. The weight of the charge pushed into the line and Soren was in the midst of the barbarians. A barbarian swung his axe at Soren’s thigh. Soren watched it coming toward him, realising that despite his best efforts to control it, the Gift was affecting him with greater force. He moved his leg out of the way and lashed out with his sword, slashing through the barbarian’s throat. Blood sprayed from the wound, each droplet slowly floating through the air. An angry roar sounded slurred to his other side. A barbarian, a friend or relative of the man he had just killed, came at him, his movement seeming slow. Soren revelled in the time he had to play with as the man swung a crudely sharpened sword at him.

  Soren reached out and slipped the length of his sword into the man’s armpit, unprotected as it was by the thick leather armour he wore, angling the blade so it ran through his vitals. In an effortless gesture he batted the barbarian’s sword away with the back of his free hand. He had pulled his own sword free again with a twist to ensure the wound was mortal before the man even had time to realise that he had been struck.

  It came as something of a relief that he was able to remain aware of what was going on, but his body reacted so quickly that it seemed to be almost detached from his mind, as though it was acting on instinct rather than conscious control. He still felt the pressure on him and had to focus to prevent it overcoming him completely. He scanned the crowd and spotted the shaman on the other side of the melee, screaming at his men.

  In one of his hands was a mass of blonde hair, in the other was a curved knife; the same one he had used to murder the trader at the outpost. Soren could not see what the hair was attached to, but he was willing to bet that it was one of the Androv girls. He slipped down from his horse and began to force his way through the press toward the shaman.

  The shaman stared at him with wild eyes, and at this proximity Soren could feel the energy crackling through his body. The girl was on her knees at the shaman’s feet and wide eyed with terror. The shaman extended his hand in Soren’s direction and spat some guttural words at him. A strange feeling passed over Soren, as though he was being enveloped in a warm mist. It felt as though his very being was tugged at, but the force could not pull it free. As quickly as it had begun, the feeling passed. It made him pause for a moment, but when he continued toward the shaman, the look of shock on the man’s face was profound. He stood mouth agape for a moment before hastily returning his attention to the girl. He drew back his knife to full stretch, ready for the downward blow. Soren took two fast steps forward and ran his sword through the shaman’s gullet. The shaman was wide eyed, his pain matched by his amazement at the speed with which Soren had moved. As his life ebbed away, so too did the energy in Soren. The world gradually returned to normal speed, and all the strength left his body.

  He dropped to his knees sucking in deep gasps of air as quickly as he could. He could see that Colonel dal Vecho had arrived with the remainder of the column, and all that really remained was to slaughter the last few barbarians. In what he thought a great irony, he found himself slipping into the arms of the girl he had just saved, too exhausted to complete his rescue.

  C h a p t e r 3 7

  HOME AGAIN

  At his age, seven months had seemed like a lifetime. What had started as one large raid grew into a season of crazed barbarians urged on by their shamans raiding in large numbers ever deeper into the new territories being settled by the Duchy. The smoke from their fires could even be seen from Fort Laed at times, as the barbarians grew ever more daring, drunk on the power of their shamans, hungry for slaughter and whatever wealth they could plunder from the settlers. The like of it had never been seen before, and it was not conducive to encourage new settlement. The work had been exhausting and exhilarating and the opportunity to lead men into danger on a daily basis had moulded Soren into a competent cavalry commander.

  Soren sat on his horse as it slowly trotted toward Ostenheim, which was becoming an ever-larger feature on the landscape. His time beyond the marches had been thrilling and had been an invaluable experience, not to mention improving his horsemanship immeasurably. Nonetheless he was glad to be returning home to his friends, to the Academy and most importantly to Alessandra.

  The first scent of sea air set Soren’s heart racing. It was a smell that had characterised his entire life and he had not felt its absence until it returned, and greeted him like an old friend, filling him with a happiness and excitement that surprised him. Finally he was home.

  He slouched comfortably in the saddle as he approached the city, with the confidence of a man who has seen death, who has delivered it and who has avoided its grasp many times. He had several days of dark stubble on his face that showed the potential to become a thick beard if it were not soon attended to. His wide brimmed hat with its white feather did not look as fine as it once had, his britches were dusty and his boots were worn, but he was an officer of the Duchy returning home from war and it felt fine indeed.

  For some reason he had expected things to have changed during his absence. They hadn’t. The city remained the same, a bustling hive of activity. As he rode through the main gate, down toward Crossways, he felt incredibly proud of the faded and threadbare Legion doublet that he still wore. As an officer of the Duchy, people looked at him with respect, doffed their hats and occasionally a woman would curtsey. All for a street urchin. He drank in the sights and smells of the city as his tired horse took the last steps across the Blackwater Bridge into Highgarden and finally to the ornate gates of the Academy. It felt odd to have a place that he considered home, but it was a good feeling.

  It was his plan to drop off his baggage, pay a courtesy call on Master Dornish and then go straight to the Sail and Sword to see Alessandra. He had intended to write so many times, but even now he didn’t feel comfortable expressing himself with the written word, and there had never really been the time anyway. The thought of seeing her in so short a time made him feel giddy.

  Term had already begun several weeks before and it was early in the day, so those of his classmates that had returned for the Collegium would be in lessons. He was glad of it, as running into any of them would only have further delayed his reunion with Alessandra. He left his horse and baggage with a por
ter and skipped up the steps to Master Dornish’s study. Dornish’s adjutant led him straight in, where the old master sat behind his desk tugging at his moustache as he scrutinised some roughly drawn diagrams of fighting positions. He looked up and a smile broke across his face.

  ‘It’s good to see you, lad!’ He stood and came around to the front of the desk and clapped Soren on the shoulder. ‘You certainly look more wise to the ways of the world now! I hope for your own sake that is the case anyway!’

  Soren smiled, feeling slightly uncomfortable. ‘I hope so too.’

  ‘Happily the cause of your departure is firmly in the past. I don’t think it will cause you any more trouble. Abelard Contanto was able to make the claim that the perpetrators were killed; there were two as I understand it. When it was made clear to him that if he persisted in hunting down a student at the Academy also, every banneret in the city would consider him and anyone who worked for him as little more than sport. I have had his assurance that the matter is settled.’

  ‘That’s something of a relief,’ said Soren.

  ‘It goes without saying that this caused a great deal of fuss, and you are very lucky to have had the support that you did. It will not be available to you a second time however. You might keep that in mind when seeking employment in the future.’

  ‘I understand, sir. I’ll do my best to be more discerning in future. I am glad to be back though,’ said Soren.

  ‘And it’s good to have you back, Soren. When we are done here my adjutant will show you to your new quarters in the Collegium. I’ve appointed Banneret of the Blue, Gustav Caravello as your master for the year. He’s a fine swordsman, is a former soldier and has studied many exotic fighting styles. You will learn much from him,’ said Dornish, as he returned to his leather chair.