The Swordsman's Intent Read online

  The Swordsman's Intent

  A Royal Champion Novella

  G.M. White

  Twin Star Press

  Contents

  A Note On Spellings

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  The Swordsman’s Lament - Preview

  G.M. White

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Afterword

  By the author

  About the Author

  The Swordsman’s Intent

  G.M. White

  * * *

  Editor: Vicky Brewster

  Cover design: Get Covers

  * * *

  Copyright © 2020 by G.M. White

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  A Note On Spellings

  Please note, the author is British, and so uses British English spellings throughout.

  1

  Ervan looked at the invitation that one of the staff had just handed him. The wax that sealed it had been pressed into two crossed swords, the crest of Markus, the Royal Champion of Villan, defender of the king’s honour. His hands had a slight tremble to them as he opened the envelope.

  “Well, what is it?” his mother, Lavinia, asked from behind her teacup. They were sat in one of the most luxuriously appointed parlours in their home, chosen by his mother for the midmorning light that came in through the windows. She found it particularly alluring at this time of year. They had been sitting down to tea when the servant knocked gently on the door before delivering up his missive.

  Ervan’s eyes scanned the contents of the envelope, a slight frown resting on his brow. He was a handsome young man in his early twenties, dressed in what some deemed to be the overly foppish fashions popular at court this year. His sandy blond hair was cut rakishly long, his black doublet slashed with red velvet and trimmed with large quantities of lace at the neck and wrists. Despite his good looks, there was a coldness to his gaze that no one could quite thaw.

  “It’s an invitation.”

  “I can see that. From the Royal Champion himself, unless my eyes deceive me. But to what?” His mother was a handsome woman, her black hair only faintly laced with silver, her face almost unlined, but her eyes held a similar chill to Ervan’s. She dressed more modestly, in the fashions of the previous generation: a high-cut gown with elaborately embroidered panels, scarlet foxes chasing each other across her décolletage.

  “To train. With him and some other specially selected students.”

  “He can’t have failed to notice your talent with a blade. You’ve won every fencing competition worth note in the city. Perhaps...”

  Ervan looked up at his mother. “Perhaps what?”

  “He’s not getting any younger. Perhaps he’s looking for his replacement.”

  A slow smile crept across Ervan’s face. “Perhaps he is.”

  Lavinia sniffed. “Then perhaps all those expensive fencing lessons were worth it.” A smile took a little of the bite from her words.

  Belasko ducked under the tent flap, preparing himself for a meeting with his superior officer—who was not always the easiest person to read.

  She sat behind a small writing desk, her silver hair gleaming in the lamplight. She smiled, the glimmer in her eyes undimmed by age. “You’re going up in the world,” General Zakian said. “I have a letter here asking for your release from your commission so you can attend some training.”

  Belasko swallowed. “Training? What sort of training?”

  “That’s the thing. It’s not terribly clear.” She frowned. “I’m guessing, as it came from Markus, our esteemed Royal Champion, that it’s something to do with swordplay.” She stopped, softening for a moment. “You’re a damn fine swordsman, Belasko. You do the army proud, so I suppose it’s only right you be summoned. Although you’ll be difficult to replace.”

  “Summoned?” Belasko frowned. “Summoned to what?”

  General Zakian sat back in her chair, picking up the envelope that contained the only clue to Belasko’s immediate future and tapping it on the desk. She paused, a thoughtful look on her face, before arriving at a conclusion. She nodded to herself. “Yes, that must be it.” She sat up straighter. “Markus isn’t a young man anymore. I hear word that he’s looking to step down. He may be looking for his replacement.”

  “As Royal Champion? And he wants me?”

  She laughed. “Don’t go getting ahead of yourself, Belasko. From the way they phrase this letter, I warrant you’ll not be the only one in attendance. You’ll likely have to prove yourself against the finest blades in the kingdom. Here, have a look for yourself.” She tossed him the letter, which he snatched out of the air, removed from its envelope, and quickly scanned its contents.

  Belasko looked up at the General. “This says they request my presence next week.”

  General Zakian nodded. “That’s right.”

  “But we’re in the middle of training fresh recruits, finding places for them. I can’t just leave.”

  “No, you can’t. It would be a dereliction of duty, and I know you’re not a man who would skip out on his duties. So you’ll be released, but not until your replacement arrives.” She picked up another letter from her desk, waving it in the air. “As luck would have it, a replacement that has already been arranged. Hopefully, they’ll arrive in time for you to be on your way and attend this training.”

  Belasko stood for a moment, uncertainty writ large across his face. “But I’m a soldier, not a fencer. I’m not going to fit in at all.”

  General Zakian stood, coming around from behind her desk to stand in front of Belasko. She grasped him by the shoulders. “Yes, you are a soldier, and a damn good one. More than that, you’re a warrior born. The Royal Champion isn’t just some toffee-nosed fencing school figure. They’re the embodiment of the king’s own honour, the country’s honour, which they are called upon to defend from time to time. As I believe I’ve already said, you’re a damn fine swordsman. Perhaps the best I’ve seen in a long time. Your feats during the war with the Baskans are already becoming legend. So go to this training. Show those society nitwits in Villan what a soldier is made of.” She smiled. “Now get out of my tent. I have work to do.”

  Belasko left, going back to the tent he shared with his fellow officer and best friend, Orren. The big bear of a man stood up as Belasko entered, brushing back his shaggy blond hair that never seemed to be cut to regulation length. He handed Belasko a cup of wine that he had at the ready.

  “What did the General want? New orders?”

  Belasko took a long swallow of his wine. He drew the back of his free hand across his lips and nodded. “Of a sort. For me, at least.”

  Orren frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “My presence is requested by the Royal Champion to attend some training. General Zakian thinks he’s looking to choose his successor.”

  “You?” Orren snorted. “A farmer’s son, among all the high muckety mucks from those fancy fencing schools?”

  Belasko sighed. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Actually,” Orren said, laughing, “I was thinking I’d love to see you dump them on their high and mighty arses. You’re pretty handy with that pig sticker.” He pointed at the army regulation arming sword scabbarded at Belasko’s waist. “In fact, please tell them that’s how you learned to use it. Chasing pigs around the farmyard.”

  Belasko laughed as well. “I might just do that.” He drained his wine, which Orren
refilled, topping up his own cup as well. “To think, I have a chance to become the next Royal Champion. That would be... I mean, the Royal Champion is acknowledged as the best blade in the kingdom. It’s an amazing opportunity.”

  “Yes, to enjoy the wealth and privilege that goes along with it! You’ve come a long way from your parents’ mountain farm. When do you leave? How long for?” Orren asked.

  Belasko shrugged. “As soon as my replacement arrives, and I don’t know. The letter they sent said nothing about how long I would be away.”

  “Don’t forget you have an important engagement to be at next month.” Orren pointed a meaty finger at Belasko. “You’re to stand by me when I marry Della. I wouldn’t have anyone else by my side.”

  “How could I forget? Of course I’ll be there. I’ll explain if needs be. I’m sure they’ll be understanding.”

  “Good. They’d better be!” Orren enveloped Belasko in a fierce bear hug. “I love you, my brother. I need you there when I wed Della. It’ll be the most important day of my life.”

  Belasko patted his best friend’s back. “I love you too, brother.” He managed to keep the sadness out of his voice.

  They had gathered, these invited few, for this first day of... What? thought Ervan. A fencing school? The young noble looked around him, taking in the rag-tag bunch that were gathered. There were eighteen others apart from him, all fairly young—men, women, higher and lower class. Some were dressed in court finery, others in the uniforms of assorted branches of the Villanese military. The only unifying characteristic among them was that they all moved with the grace of experienced—or at least well-practised—swordsmen and women.

  They had all been summoned to this place, a long low-ceilinged room in a former city watch barracks. The barracks itself was in a down at heel area just within the city’s outer wall. It was now a little too antiquated for its intended purpose and was available for their use as the watch company in question had moved on to newer surroundings, and there was to be a short period before it was repurposed permanently.

  Markus, the Royal Champion and the person who had convened this gathering, looked around, taking in those gathered. His forehead creased in a slight frown, then he shook his head and called for quiet. He was a tall man of wiry strength and deceptive speed, whose dark brown hair was thinning. Hair and beard were both shot through with grey, and he was quietly spoken. They all leaned in to listen.

  “Thank you all for coming. I’m glad to see that you decided to attend. In fact, only one I invited is missing, which is better than I expected. So why did I ask you here? Well, I—”

  Markus was interrupted as the door crashed open, admitting a soldier who was in something of a hurry.

  “Sorry I’m late,” the newcomer said. “I was only released from my commission yesterday. I rode through the night to get here.” He was an unprepossessing fellow in appearance, Ervan thought. Slender and of average height, but again he moved well, and his travel-stained uniform showed that he was a Colonel. A lofty rank for one who wasn’t much older than Ervan himself.

  Markus smiled. “I’m glad you could join us. Come in and close the door after you. Where was I? Oh yes...”

  Belasko closed the door gently behind him, staying near the back of the group as Markus continued his speech.

  “... are all here because of your skill with a blade. I have been looking, for some time, to find my replacement. It is my belief that they stand here, in this room. I have always kept my eyes open for those gifted with a blade. Some of you I have seen fight with my own eyes; others I know only by reputation. The next few weeks will see if those reputations are deserved. I will put you through your paces. We will work and train alongside each other, and by the end of our time together, I hope I will have named my replacement, the one who will follow me as Royal Champion to the King of Villan.”

  A murmur ran around the room, and it surprised Belasko to find that he could feel his heart beating like a drum in his chest. Could he... could he be the next Champion?

  “Now then,” Markus said as they all quieted down, “while you all come from varied walks of life, you are all here as students. I don’t care what your station is outside these doors. Here you are equals and will treat each other as such. Am I understood?” His new students looked around at each other, nodding and mumbling their assent. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” This time the students chorused their approval. Markus smiled. “Good. Now, over here, we have an array of training blades. Find one that suits you and let’s begin.”

  Belasko wandered over to the rack of training blades, nodding to his fellow students as he caught their eye. Only one student didn’t go to the rack, instead collecting a case set against the wall of the salon. He was a foppish looking young man, dressed in the latest fashions of court, which to Belasko’s mind, involved far too much lace. The man shook his blond hair out of his eyes and undid the clasps on the case. He perused the contents, lips pursed, and eventually drew out a training blade of fine make: a rapier.

  “Watching young master Ervan won’t help you select your own blade.” The voice sounded from over Belasko’s shoulder, making him jump. He whirled around to find Markus stood just behind him, a gentle smile on his face taking any sting out of his words. “Here, let me help you.”

  Markus took Belasko’s elbow and led him the rest of the way to the rack. “Now, let me see...” The older man stroked his beard in thought. “You’ve come up through the infantry, yes?” Belasko nodded. “You may be more used to a single-handed arming sword, but I think you’ll find one of these more suitable for our work here. Yes, this one I’d say.” Markus drew a training rapier from the rack and passed it to Belasko. “The length and weight should suit you, unless I’ve lost my eye. Here, try it for balance.”

  Belasko held the blade, feeling its balance as he tried out a few test slashes and thrusts, sending the blade whistling through the air as he did so. He nodded to himself before turning back to Markus. “Thank you,” he said. “I have used a rapier before, usually alongside a dagger, but you haven’t lost your eye. It’s as if it were made for me.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, on both counts. The rapier is a duelist’s weapon—light enough that it won’t tire you too fast, but heavy enough to do some damage. Sharp enough normally, too, although these are blunted. Get more acquainted with her while I help some others find their blades.” He patted Belasko on the shoulder before moving off toward another student dressed in cavalry uniform who was weighing a training sabre in her hands. “Ah yes, a suitable choice, but have you considered a shorter blade? You might find that a little unwieldy...”

  Belasko moved into the centre of the room to warm up. While he had been talking to Markus, the young courtier who the Royal Champion had named as Ervan had been moving through a warm-up routine of his own. Belasko had to admit that he moved well, with a deadly grace that belied his foppish appearance. As Ervan turned towards him, Belasko caught his eye and nodded a greeting. The courtier’s eyes met his with no accompanying look of recognition. Then the young man turned his back on Belasko.

  Ervan ignored the peasant in the military uniform. Markus could make all the high minded speeches he liked. You couldn’t deny the truth of Villanese society. He was different from most of these others—of noble blood, and he wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. His family could trace their roots right back to the founding of the first city. What could he possibly have in common with these peasants?

  Markus had finished helping others to select their blades. He moved back into the centre of the room and gestured them all to gather around. Ervan ceased his warm-up routine, placing his hands on the pommel of his training blade as he rested it point down on the floor. The Royal Champion began to speak.

  “There are some among you, judging by your uniforms, who have already fought for the highest stakes: your lives. There are others here who are fresh from fencing academies, who’ve yet to face an opponent with anything other than a practice blade.
This is nothing to be ashamed of, but I’d like to get a measure of the experience in the room. So, put your hands up. You’ll take them down again when called.”

  Everyone did as he asked, with a few sheepish glances among them.

  “Now,” Markus said, “lower your hand if you’ve only ever faced an opponent with a practice blade.”

  Ervan, faced flushed with embarrassment, took his hand down. He wasn’t the only one, but quite a few hands remained raised.

  Markus nodded. “Good—and there’s no shame in that. We all start from somewhere. Now, who has faced an opponent with live blades and fought to the death, not first blood?”

  The only hands that remained belonged to members of the Villanese military.

  “And who has fought in a duel?”

  Only one hand stayed in the air. It belonged to the soldier who had arrived late.

  “Which obviously you won, or you wouldn’t be standing with us today.” Markus smiled. “Would you care to tell the class where you fought your duel, and with whom?”

  Quietly, so they had to strain to hear, the soldier said, “At Dellan pass. I fought the champion of the Baskan army.”

  A murmur ran around the room, and Ervan found himself staring at the soldier. This was Belasko, the great hero of the Last War? The one the troubadours sang of?

  “We have some impressive reputations here with us. All of you have unique experience. And those with more will help those who are closer to the start of their journey. Let us begin.”