The Tattered Banner

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  After an hour or so of observing the building from various vantage points, it was clear to him that as with the walls of the city, security was lax. There were a few armed men about, but they were inattentive and appeared bored. They weren’t expecting problems. Why would they?

  C h a p t e r 4 2

  THE LURE OF POWER

  He shambled up to the main entrance of the building. The guard took his time in noticing him. It was dark and either very late or very early in the day, so Soren did not expect him to be overly alert. He barked something at Soren in barbarian, the meaning of which was obvious enough. As he got closer, the man reached out and shoved him. Soren cut his throat with a quick slash of his dagger and shoved the body back into the darkness of the doorway. Now came the difficult part. The building was large and he had no idea where the shaman would be. It had occurred to him in a fleeting moment on the journey north that the easiest thing would be to move methodically through the building as quietly as possible, killing everyone he came across, but that seemed both excessive and to invite disaster. He would have to employ stealth and hope he could find and eliminate his target quietly.

  The doorway led through to a large high ceilinged hall with the sharp taste of smoke in the air. It was empty other than for furniture, with several doors leading out of it. At the far end of the hall there was a raised wooden platform with a wood and leather chair on it, what seemed to be a throne of some sort. There was a door behind the platform, which Soren approached. He pressed his ear to its surface and listened carefully, trying to quiet his own breathing. When he was satisfied that there were no sounds coming from behind it, he gently opened it. The short corridor behind it was dark and led to a stairwell. It grew darker as he went, forcing him to slow his pace to a hesitant crawl. He had to reach out with a hand to feel for the steps in front of him as the inky darkness seemed to grow thicker. He would have loved a mage lamp, but the darkness was as much his ally as it was his enemy.

  The steps led up to a passageway that was faintly lit by moonlight entering from unseen windows recessed into the thick walls on one side. Doors lined the other side of the passageway, which terminated in a large double door at its far end. From the layout of the floor below he reckoned on there being either a large room or a continuation of the corridor on the other side, so this was where he determined to try first. He slipped down the passageway as quietly as he could and once again pressed his ear to the door. There was sound coming from the other side, low and muffled. It was impossible to tell how far from the door its source was, or how many people were making it. He took his dagger in his left hand and drew his sword before grasping the door handle with a free finger and turning it slowly, his heart on edge as he prayed for it to turn silently. His prayers were answered as the well-oiled mechanism turned without sound and the pressure of the door against his shoulder released as it inched open.

  To his relief it was also dark on the other side of the door. Every grain of his being jumped into life. Energy flooded over him as though a gust of cold wind had blown through the opened door. He felt light headed for a moment and had to take a deep breath to steady himself. He had to fight back a brief feeling of nausea before continuing. He slipped through the doorway and quickly saw the source of the sound.

  The shaman had his back to him, kneeling on a large bed in the centre of the room. It was dark, but Soren was able to make out his naked shoulders, and the legs of the woman that were wrapped around him. The room was silent but for the sound of his deep breaths and her shallow moans. Soren’s heart was racing as he approached. He was not going to take any chances, so he struck quickly with his dagger, plunging it into the man’s back, between his ribs and into his heart. He pulled the blade free with a twist and felt blood spill over his hand. The man gasped slightly but uttered no other sound. He tried to turn to see his attacker, but shock had taken him and he tumbled sideways from the bed.

  With the man out of the way his eyes met those of the woman. She appeared a little older then he had expected, but was undeniably attractive. What really caught his attention were the markings all over her body. Dark blue swirls and symbols snaked over her pale flesh, covering her slender body from head to toe. In the darkness, they seemed to twist and writhe on her flesh. It was then that Soren became aware that there was no interruption in the energy around him. Could he have been wrong about the shaman being the source of the odd feeling he had experienced each time he had encountered one? No. It was her, not the man. She looked at him with a lustful and challenging stare. She parted her legs further and touched her upper lip with the tip of her tongue. Soren could feel his hands begin to shake, not just with the arousal of the beautiful, naked body in front of him, but with the intoxicating and inebriating effect of the energy that swirled around him and through him, like the woman’s tattoos, which almost seemed to be alive on her skin.

  He felt strong, like he could run a hundred miles and tear a city’s walls down with his bare hands. He focussed hard to resist the embrace of the Moment. He felt as though he was being pushed toward it by an unstoppable force, but he also desired it on some fundamental level despite his reason dictating that he resist with all his will. He knew that to allow himself to slip into the Moment now could mean his death. On both of the previous occasions, he had fallen unconscious as soon as it had ended. If that were to happen here, it would mean capture, most likely torture and then execution. He had to fight to stay in control and to prevent himself from going from the Gift into the Moment.

  The temptations on offer threatened to overwhelm his senses. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman. More than even Alessandra, who now seemed worthless. It was primal and fundamental desire. Her mouth twisted slightly, the corners turning up in a triumphant and anticipatory smile. With constant access to her energy he would be undefeatable. In an instant he knew that with her at his side he could conquer an army, could conquer the world. He felt that without her he would not be able to go on, not even for another moment. She reached down between her legs with one hand and beckoned him toward her with the other. She said something that he did not understand, but her voice was low, husky and filled with lust. He felt his heart race and his resolve seeping away. All he could think of was the power, and what it would feel like to be between her legs. As though he had tasted of it before, he knew that the pleasure would be exquisite. The joys of dream seed would be but a passing fancy compared to the ecstasy of a moment with her.

  Like a glass dropped on the pavement, the spell was smashed in an instant. He didn’t know how or why, but suddenly he was free of her and she knew it. The lust and seduction left her eyes and were replaced with surprise.

  He took her throat out with a flick of his sword. She gagged loudly, and grasped her throat with both hands, blood, dark and oily streaming from between her fingers. Soren felt as though someone who had been holding him up, weightless, had just dropped him. In an hour or two he knew he would be too exhausted to move. He ran her through the chest to be sure the job was done, turned and began to run.

  The kill had been quiet enough to get out of the building without incident. It was still dark, but dawn could not be far off, and the bodies would surely be discovered at daybreak, if not sooner. He also expected that there must have been others who would be sensitive to the disruption in the power that had been emanating from her as he had been. His sole concern was to get as far from the city as he could before the discovery was made and the fatigue became too much for him to bear.

  The sun was making its presence known but still below the western horizon when he felt that he could go no further. The sky was a pale blue and its serenity distracted him momentarily from the pain. He felt as though he had not slept in a year. Every single one of his muscles burned as though they had been doused in pitch and set alight. He could only dream of the sweet relief of being back in her presence, of how she could have made him feel. He cursed himself for having killed her; forsaking the joy he could have known had he let
her live. Then, despite the brightening of the sky, he collapsed to the ground, unable to go any further.

  C h a p t e r 4 3

  THE REWARD OF FOLLY

  It was daylight when he woke. The sun was high in the sky and he felt confused and disorientated. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but he felt even worse than before, if such were possible. His lips were dry and cracked, and it felt like his tongue was stuck to the back of his throat when he tried to swallow. The skin on his face felt tight and sore to the touch. It seemed he had been lying there for some time. It took a moment for him to recall what brought him to be there and he sat up with a start.

  The plains seemed almost endless from where he was, the horizon disappearing into the haze. He looked around but could see no sign of the barbarian city and was pleased that he had managed to put in so much distance before collapsing. He had no idea where he was, and he had no idea if he was being hunted, but it stood to reason that if he hadn’t been found while he was asleep, then it was likely that he was out of harm’s way. Perhaps the barbarians had been telling the truth when they said they were as eager for the shaman’s death as anyone. The thought of the shaman made his heart jump. The temptation of the power she had presented still sent a shudder through his body. For the first time he could empathise with the dream seed addicts that wandered around the streets of Ostenheim. At least he had managed to destroy the source of his temptation.

  He got to his feet and could feel every muscle in his body protest. The bottom of his feet stung when he put weight on them, and he could not remember ever having felt quite this bad. Clearly the years of good living had made him soft, he thought, which made him laugh painfully. He looked up to the sun and tried to take a rough bearing from it. It was high, which made it difficult to be sure, but he satisfied himself that south was where he thought it was and headed in that direction.

  As he walked he began to chastise himself about the way in which he had carried out his mission. He had been in such a rush to carry it out he hadn’t given proper thought to what would come after, and how best to make his escape. He had no water, and no idea of where to get any. It was likely that he would not get any until he re-joined the army, if he actually managed to find them again, an eventuality he was beginning to doubt.

  Seconds stretched to minutes and minutes stretched to hours as he walked, ever more slowly. His throat was so dry that he could not swallow any more, and his tongue felt as though it had doubled in size. His eyes itched and burned at the same time, but when he rubbed them the burning doubled and his vision blurred. His lips cracked when he smiled at the thought that this was all down to his own stupidity. Instead of taking his time and planning properly, he had succumbed to his own arrogance. Now he was going to die of thirst on the endless dusty plains. It would be a foolish death for a deserving fool.

  He walked until he collapsed with exhaustion that night, and was amazed when he awoke the next day. How he had survived through the cold of the night was anyone’s guess, but he had, so he struggled to his feet and continued to walk. At this point he didn’t even know where he was going, but walking seemed better than just lying down on the featureless plain and waiting for death to come.

  The sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon when he spotted a short, stunted tree in the distance. It was the only feature on the otherwise barren plain, so for no reason other than that, he walked toward it. It took him some time to get there, shambling along with barely enough energy to lift his feet. When he did, he slumped to the ground and shuffled under its meagre shade. It was as good a place as any to die.

  As he leaned back against the gnarled trunk he watched the leaves moving gently in the breeze. Where their edges touched the sky, there was the faintest of blue tinges. It was strange, yet familiar. A trick of the light he thought, or perhaps he was hallucinating. He let his mind drift. He thought of the snowy north. He had liked the peacefulness of the snow-blanketed woods. It would have been nice to see them again. He thought of Alys and of the belek. He wondered what she was doing now. It was a shame he had never had the opportunity to wear his cloak. It was just too damned warm in the south for the heavy fur. He thought of Alessandra, and the way he had reacted when he found out what she had become. He wished more than anything that he had apologised for the way he behaved before he had left, but there was nothing that could be done about that now. The thought caused him pain, but what she had become caused him more. And Amero. He had caused it all. He didn’t even want to think of him.

  His rambling train of thought came to an abrupt halt. His mind suddenly felt clearer. Where for so many hours there had been only a disorientated stream of consciousness and a primal desire to survive, there was now focus. He didn’t feel quite as tired as he had. His eyes flicked to the leaves as his mind demanded an answer to his sudden feeling of wellbeing. The blue tinge was still there, but his eyes were no longer foggy and ranging in and out of focus. His sight was sharp once more and the tinge was, if anything, even clearer. He reached out with his hand to touch it and felt the faintest, almost imperceptible tingle at his fingertips. Warmth spread through his hand, which had been numb with cold the second before. The tinge fluctuated ever so slightly, and understanding came to him like a light being turned on in a darkened room.

  As the clarity continued to return to his train of thought, he could recall the times that he had seen the blue glow before, the belek standing out foremost in his mind. He considered that to have been the first time he had experienced the Moment. He had noticed the glow just before he had entered it and now it seemed that he could see it again. He had discounted it on those previous occasions as a figment of his imagination, and perhaps this time it was also, but unlike the previous times, it was not a fleeting glimpse; the glow remained.

  The warmth it had bestowed on his cold, tired fingers continued to spread down his arm toward his shoulder. He looked elsewhere for the blue glow, but the tree was the only feature for miles around and he could not see anything on the short, scrubby grass that covered the plains.

  He toyed with the glow, which stuck to his finger as he slowly drew it away from the leaf until it stretched and pulled away as though it was syrup. His head felt so much clearer that he was sure he was not imagining it. The tingle was unmistakeable and the glow did not go away, it was definitely there. What was more, there could be little doubt in his mind that it was responsible for, or at least connected to, his increasing feeling of well being. Considering that he had seen the blue glow prior to entering the Moment on previous occasions, did that also mean that it was responsible for causing the Moment? Was this blue glow the manifestation of the energy that caused the Gift of Grace, that fuelled the Moment?

  He thought over what he knew of the history of the old bannerets, but there was so little that was of any use to him now. The old stories and legends had made them out to have exceptional speed and strength that allowed them to achieve feats far beyond those of a normal man. He would have discounted the stories as nothing more than fairy tales were it not for Master Dornish having lent them credence when he suggested that Soren too might have these exceptional abilities. Now they started to make sense. If this blue glow was indeed an energy source that he could draw on to enhance his speed and strength, then perhaps they were true.

  He did not know enough about what the Gift of Grace was, nor how it had come about to work out how it related to the energy, but it made sense that the Gift was what had allowed the early bannerets to make use of this energy. The Order of the Bannerets had been created by the mages, an elite bodyguard to protect them, presumably in times of vulnerability, although the reason was never mentioned in any of the histories he had read. So much of the documentation had been destroyed or lost to the passage of time; perhaps it would never be known.

  Once bestowed with the Gift, the bannerets could experience the Moment, but that was all either he, or seemingly also Master Dornish could find out about it. To Soren, it seemed he was influenced by the G
ift almost all the time, although it did wax and wane in intensity. Then there was the Moment, which it seemed allowed him to push beyond all physical limitations.

  One glaring question remained. If it was the mages that bestowed the original bannerets with their ability, the Gift of Grace, how did he come by it? There were no mages left; they had been wiped out in the Mage Wars centuries before. The practice of magic had been illegal and mercilessly rooted out ever since. To his knowledge there was no one alive in Ostia, or any of the other states of the Middle Sea, who could perform anything more than a parlour trick. There had been the shaman of course, but he had experienced the Moment before ever coming into contact with them. Indeed, when he thought on it, he had been exhibiting signs of the Gift since his late teens.

  The mages, their society had been known as the College of Mages, had grown arrogant and drunk on power. They had thought themselves beyond the laws of men and had delved into ever darker magics as, in their megalomania, they sought out more power. Eventually their dark acts became too much to bear and the Empire, and even their own bodyguards, the bannerets, turned on them. The wars lasted for years, but in the end the mages were defeated and any survivors were hunted to extinction, by the bannerets.

  With the mages gone, there was no longer anyone to imbue future bannerets with the Gift of Grace. They, like their former masters, were gone from the world in only a generation. There was an irony in that, Soren thought. The concept of bannerets continued however, until the present day, but those with the right to bear their own banner no longer had any skills beyond those earned through countless hours of training. That was until Soren, it seemed.