The Swordsman's Descent Read online

  The Swordsman's Descent

  The Royal Champion

  Book 2

  G.M. White

  Contents

  A Word On Spellings

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Also by G.M. White

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  The Swordsman’s Descent

  G.M. White

  * * *

  Editor: Vicky Brewster

  Cover design: Get Covers

  * * *

  Copyright © 2022 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.

  This book is dedicated to all those front line workers that have kept the world going during the pandemic.

  * * *

  Special thanks go to the staff at Watford General Hospital for their care of my aunt, Carole Gresswell, during her last days.

  A Word On Spellings

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

  1

  BELASKO TRAINED, ALONE. He was in the main hall at his academy. Once, before it was gifted to him by the late King Mallor, it had been the manor house of an important noble family. Their line had dwindled to nothing, and when the king had been looking to bestow the house and surrounding land on someone, his eye had alighted on his champion, who had recently proposed establishing an academy of the martial arts—to help improve the standard of training throughout the Villanese military and, ultimately, help choose his own successor. So the juicy prize had gone his way. Another reason for the nobles to hate him, the upstart son of a farmer. As they saw it, anyway.

  From an open window, high in the wood-panelled wall, came the sounds of his students sparring, practising their drills, young voices raised in encouragement, derision and occasional laughter.

  Belasko worked his way across the room, moving in the odd stuttering gait he had adopted to work around the pain in his damaged foot and other joints. A fighter adapts, and Belasko had adapted his technique to take into account his physical ailments.

  It was why he trained alone. Shrouded in secrecy, his students assumed he was developing a new technique. A new fighting style that they were all desperate to learn. He forbade them, insisting instead that they follow the drills and teachings of himself and their other instructors.

  “Master the basics first, then you can branch out.” His new motto, so often repeated that the students would start to chorus it before he got to the end of the sentence.

  Few knew the reason why he trained alone, developing new techniques, was because his body was failing him. More and more, year by year, he was less the man he had been. War hero. Legendary duellist. Royal Champion.

  Belasko snorted as he worked through a drill, sweeping his practice blade high and then low, countering multiple imaginary opponents. A Royal Champion whose hands, some mornings, are so stiff they can barely hold a blade.

  His pace quickened, blade sending the motes of dust that hung in the air spiralling into new and interesting patterns. He still moved with some of his old speed. A lifetime of training and practice stood for something. When he did train with his students or other instructors, none could land a touch on him. When challengers came, they were defeated and sent away. Either on their feet or in a wooden box.

  A knock came at the door. Belasko finished his drill, returning to a guard position, before calling out, “Yes? Come in.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and frowned. “Come in, what is it?”

  The door opened as Belasko moved to a table by the wall, revealing Denna. The wife of Belasko’s oldest friend, Orren, she had taken over her husband’s position as the steward of Belasko’s Academy upon his death. Honey-blonde hair pulled back in a bun, clad in a sober gown, her mischievous eyes had taken on a more serious cast in the last few years. She no longer wore mourning black, but there was no doubting the depth of her loss.

  “Good morning,” she said. “There’s a challenger at the gates.”

  Belasko sighed as he replaced his practice blade in its polished hardwood case, snapping the case shut with a long-practised motion.

  “Good morning, Denna. Is it a serious challenger today, or another drunken young noble on a dare?” Belasko shrugged on a black jacket.

  Denna rolled her eyes. “A rather serious young man, a Baskan. Come to seek vengeance for his father’s death at Dellan Pass.”

  Belasko sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dellan Pass. The day that had made his name. Made him a legend. It had begun to feel like a millstone around his neck.

  He straightened up, shrugging his shoulders. “Bring him here. Does he have a second with him? If not, ask one of the instructors—Ailvin perhaps—to stand with the boy. Please ask Byrta if she’ll serve the same office for me.”

  Denna nodded and went out. Belasko eyed up his sword belt and rapier, which he had taken off to train and now rested on the table next to his practice blade in its case.

  Denna appeared at the open door, followed by a Baskan man who looked to be in his early twenties, with the dark hair and olive skin that were common among his people. He moved well, and the blade that rode at his hip seemed well made and cared for, as did the sword belt and scabbard it sat in.

  Filing in behind them came Ailvin, a slender redheaded man who was relatively new to Belasko’s staff, and Byrta, who wasn’t

  They had trained together under Markus, the previous Royal Champion, when he had been looking to appoint a successor. A former cavalry officer, she was one of the first instructors Belasko had recruited for his Academy, where she led on mounted combat and sabre techniques. Brown hair tied back in a long tail, a white shirt rather haphazardly tucked into riding trousers, she gave the impression that they had interrupted her at something and she was not best pleased about it.

  The young man marched up to Belasko and offered him a perfunctory bow. “You are Belasko, the villain of Dellan Pass?”

  Belasko nodded. “I suppose I am, from your point of view.” He shrugged. “Although I was protecting Villanese territory from a Baskan invasion force
, so our perspective on it is somewhat different.”

  The young man tilted his head to one side, a speculative expression on his face. “I thought you’d be taller.”

  Byrta couldn’t hold back a burst of laughter at that, while Denna and Ailvin tried to keep their faces straight.

  A faint smile touched Belasko’s face. “I get that a lot. You are?”

  His erstwhile opponent drew himself up to his full height, which was, in fact, taller than Belasko, hand now resting on the pommel of his sword. “I am Olbarin, son of Albarin, come to challenge you and avenge his death at your hands.”

  Belasko eyed him warily. “Are you now? Well, Olbarin, you aren’t the first, and you certainly won’t be the last, to cross my threshold and issue such a challenge.” He turned to Denna. “Young Olbarin here is, what, our third challenger this autumn?”

  “Fourth, actually.” Denna replied.

  “Fourth.” Belasko turned back to his challenger. “I am sorry for your father’s death. Many good people were lost during the Last War. On both sides. Are you so eager to join him? Would you heap more grief upon your family? What does your mother think of you coming here?”

  A look of uncertainty clouded Olbarin’s face.

  “Ah. She doesn’t know, does she?” Belasko shook his head. “Well then, are you determined to proceed along this path?” Olbarin nodded. “Then say the words.”

  The Baskan eased his sword in its scabbard. “I, Olbarin, challenge you, Belasko, to a duel.”

  Belasko walked to where his rapier waited and put on his sword belt, leaving the blade undrawn. “I accept. To first blood, defeat, or death?”

  Olbarin paled a little. “To death,” he whispered.

  Belasko frowned, then shook his head. “No. I have no desire to send you back to your family in pieces. Try to kill me as you will, but I will fight to your defeat. Not death.”

  “Very well,” said Olbarin, voice tight with anger and the colour returning to his cheeks at the slight. “To your death, then.”

  “Many have tried, young man. So far, none have succeeded.” Belasko gestured to the centre of the hall, where a duelling circle was marked out with white paint. “After you. Ailvin here will be your second; Byrta will serve the same role for me. Denna is our witness.”

  Olbarin took up his place at one side of the circle, drawing his sword as he did so. Unbuckling his sword belt, he let it fall to the ground before kicking it aside. Belasko took his place across from the younger man. Still, he did not draw his sword.

  Olbarin looked up, saw Belasko standing across from him, hands hanging easily at his sides, and his face coloured further.

  “You insult me so, to enter the circle without a blade drawn? You think I will be so easily defeated?”

  “I have no desire to send you back to your family in pieces. Your story is familiar enough to me. Would I add to their grief? Now come, show me what the Baskan military are teaching these days.”

  Olbarin roared in anger and leaped forwards, sword whistling round in a vicious blow to Belasko’s neck. Except Belasko wasn’t there. He had spun out of the way and used his momentum to bring his leg round in a sweeping kick to the back of Olbarin’s knees. The young man staggered. Belasko backed away, waiting to see what his opponent would do next.

  Olbarin pressed forwards, always on the attack, but Belasko was not there to meet him. He seemed to dance around his challenger, spinning, whirling, landing a series of glancing blows with his hands and feet. If he had drawn his blade, the boy would already have been cut to ribbons.

  Olbarin fought on, undeterred, although he was tiring now. Belasko changed tack, barely moving at all—just enough to avoid Olbarin’s attacks. When he did move, it was with an odd stuttering gait that was impossible to predict. The young Baskan became increasingly desperate in his own movements as he tried to counter this.

  He launched another attack, a desperate thrust. Belasko leaned away from Olbarin’s blade, then stepped into the young man’s body. As he did so, Belasko finally gripped the handle of his own sword with his left hand and drew it backhanded in a short sharp movement that crashed the pommel of Belasko’s rapier into the young man’s chin without fully drawing the sword. Olbarin dropped to the floor, stunned, as Belasko slid his blade back home.

  Belasko stood over Olbarin, tipping back his chin with the toe of his boot. “Do you accept defeat?”

  Olbarin’s face crumpled in sadness. “I accept defeat.”

  Belasko leaned over, offering him a hand up. Olbarin reached up and took it, and as Belasko pulled him up to standing, he shifted his grip on the young man’s hand, so they were holding each other by the wrist. The warrior’s grip.

  Belasko leaned in close to the young man. “A word of advice: watch your weight on your front foot. You overextended, and it allowed me an opening.”

  Releasing the Baskan, Belasko beckoned Ailvin over. “Can you take him to the infirmary? That blow to the jaw will start to swell soon. We’d best get something on it.”

  The redheaded instructor took Olbarin by the elbow and started to lead him away. “Come on, this way. We’ll get you checked over.”

  Confusion was writ large across Olbarin’s face as they led him out the door. “He’s not what I expected…” he was heard saying to Ailvin as he walked out.

  “I’ll say.” Byrta slapped Belasko on the back of his head. “Going into the duelling circle without drawing your weapon. What fresh idiocy is this?”

  “I have to agree, that was spectacularly stupid, even for you. What has got into you lately? Are you not taking these challenges seriously at all?” Denna frowned at him, hands on her hips.

  “I didn’t need to draw my blade to defeat that young man.” Belasko pursed his lips. “Although he has promise, with the right training…”

  “Oh no.” Byrta threw her hands in the air. “No. We’re not adding Baskans to the waifs and strays you collect, no matter what promise they show!”

  “I have to agree,” said Denna. “I don’t think the Queen would be terribly pleased. Do you?”

  “No. No, she wouldn’t be pleased.” Belasko sighed. “Not that I know what would please her these days.”

  “If you spent a bit more time at court instead of moping here, maybe you’d know.” Denna shook her head. “You have friends, Belasko. The Queen used to be one of them, didn’t she?”

  “That was before the high and mighty Royal Champion here decided to cut himself off from court life and half of those who love and care about him, wasn’t it?” Byrta snorted. “Listen to Denna, you fool. You have friends, me included. Whether you like it or not.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Now I’m off to do the job you pay me for: putting those students through their paces.” She sauntered out of the room, calling back over her shoulder, “Don’t forget your friends, idiot. Maybe we can train together sometime. Like the old days.”

  Denna went to follow her out. “I have work to do as well. But, Belasko, you need to take these challenges seriously.”

  “Denna, I…” She stopped in the doorway, turning back to him. “I need pen and paper. Can you have some sent to me? When that boy leaves our infirmary, it will be with a letter of introduction to Ambassador Aveyard in his pocket.” She said nothing, but a questioning look crossed her face. Belasko frowned. “I said the boy had potential; I would see it fulfilled.” Denna arched an eyebrow. Belasko looked away. “Damn it, I killed his father. It’s the least I can do.”

  She turned around and walked away, boot heels clicking on the floor, leaving Belasko alone in the hall.

  2

  THAT NIGHT, BELASKO worked late in his study. A neat room, with a place for everything and everything in its place. The walls were lined with bookshelves that held tomes on combat techniques and military history from a variety of nations and traditions in multiple languages. There were translations as well, but Belasko struggled on in the original tongues when he could, knowing that, otherwise, there might be a missed nuance in meaning. S
omething a warrior would see that a scribe might miss.

  Many of the books and scrolls had been gifts from Queen Lilliana and her father, King Mallor. Belasko had felt uncomfortable with keeping the late King’s gifts at first, after his true nature had been revealed when he poisoned his own son, Prince Kellan. The tumultuous days that had followed, when he had set loyal Belasko up to take the blame, added to the sting. Thoughts of the old King could sour Belasko’s mood for days, and the gifts Mallor bestowed on him had seemed tainted.

  It was Queen Lilliana herself who had pointed out that the gifts, no matter who they came from, had value in themselves. It wasn’t the books’ fault that the one who had given them had turned out to be a treacherous, murderous, villain.

  “Although, Belasko, if you ever decide to part with some of your collection…” Queen Lilliana had looked around the room on one of her increasingly rare visits to the Academy, a faint smile playing across her lips. “They would be gratefully received back into the royal library.” She had laughed then. “Forgive me, my friend, you know my fondness for old tomes on any subject.”