Read Online The First Blade of Ostia by Duncan M. Hamilton - Free Book Online
Authors: Duncan M. Hamilton
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first duel was coming up. He wanted to have a win or two under his belt before he added the pressure of having relatives in the audience.
The three of them sat in silence until the steward approached and told Bryn to ready himself. Bautisto jumped to his feet and began to direct Bryn through a sequence of attack and defence patterns intended to loosen him up and focus his mind on the task at hand. Bryn fought to concentrate. All he could think about was the significance of the occasion. It was the realisation of a dream that had begun so many years before, the pursuit of which had placed enormous financial burden on his family. He felt guilty about not having told them he was finally stepping into the arena, but once he had fought his first few duels and gotten past the initial nerves, he would.
With his mind skipping in every direction but the one in which it needed to be applied, Bryn knew his patterns were mechanical and imprecise, the type of swordplay that would ordinarily warrant a tirade of abuse from Bautisto. The sharp tongue was absent that day, surprisingly. Bryn moved from a high guard to a low and then moved as though to counter an imagined attack. He was slow, sloppy and—if honest with himself—a long way from his best. His hands were shaking, something he could not conceal.
‘Good,’ Bautisto said. ‘Smooth, controlled, precise.’
It was the mantra he repeated each time they began to learn something new. The words had a calming effect on Bryn, the familiarity sending him back to their shabby little salon in Docks rather than the small arena tucked away off a side street in the Cathedral quarter. Bautisto acknowledged a signal from the arena floor and fixed his gaze on Bryn.
‘Breathe and concentrate. The rest will follow. There is no one here today who can beat you,’ he said.
Bryn nodded, not able to think of anything to say. He struggled to keep his mind focussed. Amero gave him a nod and Bryn turned to walk into the centre of the arena. The Master of Arms was there, waiting by the black mark that would divide the two duellists before the match began. His opponent appeared a moment later, walking across the sandy arena floor toward him. As Bryn watched him approach he could feel his heart race and his mouth suddenly became very dry. Was it too late to go back to Bautisto for a quick gulp of water?
Bryn’s opponent took his place on the other side of the black mark. He was about the same height as Bryn, slender and with dark hair but several years older. He wore a beige duelling uniform that contrasted with Bryn’s dark blue kit. He seemed overly confident, while Bryn felt it was all he could do to try to hold down the contents of his stomach.
Bryn knew little about the other man. The billing was only published a few days before the match, not giving Bryn the time to study his form. His name was Nava Nozzo, a banneret who had done much of his duelling on the regional circuit. He had a single scar on his face, below his left cheek, one of the defining marks of a swordsman. It could mean many things; that he was a poor fencer, that he had a large amount of experience, that he was sloppy with his razor in the morning—there was no point in trying to read anything into it. It was only another distraction. Bryn closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The Master of Arms was speaking, but it took Bryn a moment to notice him. He felt so desperately thirsty, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
‘…salute and begin.’
Nozzo saluted with the thoughtless and practised manner of one who has done it many times. Bryn hurriedly mirrored the gesture. He had done it many times also, but never before in the arena, and never before when there seemed to be so many other things to take in. It felt awkward and unnatural, as though he had never held a sword before.
As soon as Bryn made his salute, his opponent dropped into a low guard. He would have known that Bryn was a Banneret of the Blue and
The three of them sat in silence until the steward approached and told Bryn to ready himself. Bautisto jumped to his feet and began to direct Bryn through a sequence of attack and defence patterns intended to loosen him up and focus his mind on the task at hand. Bryn fought to concentrate. All he could think about was the significance of the occasion. It was the realisation of a dream that had begun so many years before, the pursuit of which had placed enormous financial burden on his family. He felt guilty about not having told them he was finally stepping into the arena, but once he had fought his first few duels and gotten past the initial nerves, he would.
With his mind skipping in every direction but the one in which it needed to be applied, Bryn knew his patterns were mechanical and imprecise, the type of swordplay that would ordinarily warrant a tirade of abuse from Bautisto. The sharp tongue was absent that day, surprisingly. Bryn moved from a high guard to a low and then moved as though to counter an imagined attack. He was slow, sloppy and—if honest with himself—a long way from his best. His hands were shaking, something he could not conceal.
‘Good,’ Bautisto said. ‘Smooth, controlled, precise.’
It was the mantra he repeated each time they began to learn something new. The words had a calming effect on Bryn, the familiarity sending him back to their shabby little salon in Docks rather than the small arena tucked away off a side street in the Cathedral quarter. Bautisto acknowledged a signal from the arena floor and fixed his gaze on Bryn.
‘Breathe and concentrate. The rest will follow. There is no one here today who can beat you,’ he said.
Bryn nodded, not able to think of anything to say. He struggled to keep his mind focussed. Amero gave him a nod and Bryn turned to walk into the centre of the arena. The Master of Arms was there, waiting by the black mark that would divide the two duellists before the match began. His opponent appeared a moment later, walking across the sandy arena floor toward him. As Bryn watched him approach he could feel his heart race and his mouth suddenly became very dry. Was it too late to go back to Bautisto for a quick gulp of water?
Bryn’s opponent took his place on the other side of the black mark. He was about the same height as Bryn, slender and with dark hair but several years older. He wore a beige duelling uniform that contrasted with Bryn’s dark blue kit. He seemed overly confident, while Bryn felt it was all he could do to try to hold down the contents of his stomach.
Bryn knew little about the other man. The billing was only published a few days before the match, not giving Bryn the time to study his form. His name was Nava Nozzo, a banneret who had done much of his duelling on the regional circuit. He had a single scar on his face, below his left cheek, one of the defining marks of a swordsman. It could mean many things; that he was a poor fencer, that he had a large amount of experience, that he was sloppy with his razor in the morning—there was no point in trying to read anything into it. It was only another distraction. Bryn closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The Master of Arms was speaking, but it took Bryn a moment to notice him. He felt so desperately thirsty, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
‘…salute and begin.’
Nozzo saluted with the thoughtless and practised manner of one who has done it many times. Bryn hurriedly mirrored the gesture. He had done it many times also, but never before in the arena, and never before when there seemed to be so many other things to take in. It felt awkward and unnatural, as though he had never held a sword before.
As soon as Bryn made his salute, his opponent dropped into a low guard. He would have known that Bryn was a Banneret of the Blue and
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