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 porter 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.
‘I’ve been following your exploits in the east with some interest you know. I can’t say I expected you to return as a brevet captain though, but from the reports of your conduct it is not entirely surprising. The siege of Fort Faraway, as the people have taken to calling it, was quite the talk of the town for several weeks after the reports of it reached us. So too was the young swordsman who defended it single handedly!’ He let out one of his barking, incredulous laughs. ‘I wouldn’t let it go to your head though, if I were you!’
‘I’ll try to take it with a pinch of salt, sir,’ Soren replied, a little surprised by what he had been told.
‘This is for you. There wasn’t time to give it to you before you left,’ said Dornish. He took a rectangular wooden box from a drawer in the desk and slid it across the top to Soren. He picked it up and opened it. Inside was a tightly rolled piece of parchment bound with a piece of dark blue ribbon and sealed with dark blue wax bearing the crests of the Academy and the Duchy.
‘Congratulations, Banneret Soren. Always remember that your learning never ends, this only signifies the beginning of your journey to becoming a master swordsman. You may take that certificate to the Hall of Bannerets and have your own banner emblazoned. Now, I think you have an overdue appointment with a bath. We can talk more at mess. It’s good to have you back safely, lad,’ said Dornish.
It was not seemly for a gentleman to run through the streets, even less so for a banneret, so he forced himself to walk, albeit at a brisk pace. The thought made him smile. Although he had been graduated early and had been using the title during his time in the east, as was his right, there was something uplifting about having the parchment in his possession, of it all being official. Banneret Soren. Perhaps some day he would be able to add a ‘dal something’ to the end of it. It reminded him of the block of royal grade Telastrian steel wrapped in grease-cloth at the bottom of his trunk. His ill-gotten gains would not tarnish it by paying for its smithing into a sword. They would be dropped into the poor box at a church as soon as he had the opportunity. He would have to find the money elsewhere. There was also the matter of having his banner made. He would have to start thinking of elements he would like to be incorporated into the design. Perhaps Alessandra would have some suggestions.
Despite not taking very long, it felt as though it had taken an eternity to reach the Sail and Sword. What he found there caused his jaw to drop. There was a gap on the street frontage like a missing tooth. Where once the Sail and Sword had stood, there was now nothing more than a charred remain. A low fence had been erected in front of it, so it was clear that it had burned down some time before. He hopped over the fence and wandered around in the ash. From recent habit he looked for charred bone fragments, but saw none. Perhaps no one had died in this fire. It almost seemed too much to hope for.
What had happened to Alessandra?
He left and turned back toward Highgarden, heading to Amero’s town house. He hoped that he would be there and expected that he would be. Amero was not known for spending much time out of the city at his country estates
He was recognised by the servant who led him into the palatial house and to the drawing room. Despite the wealth of his neighbours, Amero’s house was by far the most impressive on that street. He was now head of one of the oldest and wealthiest families of the Duchy. Many of his ancestors, and most recently his grandfather, had been elected as Dukes of Ostenheim. His wealth was said to be enormous and that was confirmed by his town house. There was one question about him that had never truly been answered. With such wealth why would he bother with duelling in the arena? It certainly was not the financial reward that most were drawn to it for that attracted him. The joy of perfecting his art said some; to further inflate his ego said others, usually those who disliked him. Whatever the reason, it had made him hugely popular with the ordinary people of the city.
Soren waited for some time before Amero breezed into the room with his usual alacrity. He was finely dressed as always, but not entirely in the peacock-ish fashion of many young aristocrats, particularly those who had not bothered with an Academy education, foregoing its hardships for an indolent lifestyle of idleness and luxury. His entire dress and poise suggested that he was as ready for a fight as he was a social engagement.
‘Banneret Soren! Well, the hero returns from the East. I’m sure you will be delighted to know that I have heard your name being mentioned more than once at court. It seems that my faith in your potential has proved well placed!’
‘Thank you, my Lord. I wanted to call on you promptly after returning. I am glad to see you well. I wondered though, if you might recall the girl I asked you to take the message to before I travelled east?’ said Soren.
‘The girl?’ Amero asked, as he sat down. ‘Oh yes, the girl. Emeric took her the message as requested. That’s the last I heard of it though. Why?’
‘I’m looking for her. I haven’t been able to find her yet. The Sail and Sword was burned to the ground,’ said Soren.
‘Burned to the ground? I hadn’t heard, but I’m afraid I can’t help you. Anyhow, don’t you think you were setting your sights a little low there? You’re a banneret now and have already won yourself a little fame in the east. There are wealthy ladies in society who you would have eating out of your hand. You have advanced in the world, and wealth will follow, but allying yourself with the right families is important. A well considered marriage, perhaps to the daughter of a grand burgess or a minor aristocrat, would do your career the world of good. If you wish to take your place in my retinue, better things will be expected of you.’
‘Perhaps, my Lord. Right now I just want to find out what has happened to her,’ said Soren.
He returned to the Academy, deciding to eat while he tried to work out what his next step in finding Alessandra would be. He was walking across the quad when a high-pitched voice rang out through the air.
‘Look, look! It’s the hero of Fort Faraway!’ A chorus of decidedly lower pitched laughing followed it.
Even in falsetto, Soren recognised the voice as Ranph’s. Soren awkwardly exchanged pleasantries with Ranph and the others with him for a few minutes, all the while hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere. He deflected the questions that would require lengthy answers before finally asking for a word alone with Ranph.
He explained quickly how he had gone looking for Alessandra and how that had resulted. He asked Ranph to find out what he could. Ranph agreed without hesitation, but it took a moment of uncomfortable silence before he realised that Soren wanted him to do it right away. He hurried away when he did, leaving Soren to fret, not really knowing how to make the time pass until Ranph returned.
He spent the time finding the small room that would be his for the year, which was situated in the front building of the Academy. It overlooked the Old Square, and Soren sat on the edge of his bed, staring out the window for any sign of Ranph returning. The day faded into evening, and evening quickly into night. Mage lamps created orange tinged pools of light around the square, giving it a warm, welcoming feeling. He began to wonder what could be keeping Ranph so long. Finally fatigue got the better of him and he collapsed back on the bed into a deep sleep.
He awoke to the sound of the door to his room opening. Ranph was standing at the end of his bed by the time he managed to open his eyes. It was morning and the room was bright.
‘Did you find her?’ he asked groggily, squinting at Ranph’s silhouette.
‘After a fashion. Get washed up and I will meet you at the dining hall,’ Ranph replied.
They sat at the top table in the dining hall, which was reserved for bannerets, usually members of the Collegium but occasionally also a visiting banneret from another city-state, but the privilege of being there was lost on Soren. All he wanted, all he could think about was what Ranph had to tell him.
‘I know where she is,’ Ranph said solemnly.
Soren’s heart leapt. ‘Where? Tell me! I’ll go at once.’ He blurted the sentence out, only then noticing the ominous tone in Ranph’s voice. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. Look, Soren, she’s a tavern girl. I know what your background is, but please believe that I am saying this to you as your friend. You’re a banneret now. If you want to get serious about a girl, there are plenty of nobles that would be delighted to marry a daughter off to a famous young banneret. Hells, I’d even marry you to my own sister, if she wasn’t such a harridan. I wouldn’t wish her on my worst enemy!’ He chuckled, but it sounded forced. ‘My point is though, if you want to get ahead in society, it’s the only option. I mean, if you wanted to take her as your mistress, that would be fine, but I know you and I know that’s not what you want. You need to forget about her Soren, for your own sake.’
Soren could feel his anger rising. The same anger he had felt when he thought of the Androvs being slaughtered and their daughters being taken as slaves. He pushed it away as quickly as it entered his mind; it had use in battle, but had no place here, among friends. Ranph was only trying to help. Nonetheless, when Soren spoke his voice was cold and flat.
‘Just tell me where she is,’ he said.
Ranph frowned and let out a sigh.
‘Fine. If you’re sure that’s what you want, I’ll take you,’ he said.