Ойкумена / Oikumena: Пролог

Prologue

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 08:49

"A Grande Arte"

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:38

"The mastery of arms comforts pain, sorrows, and afflictions, gives perfect prudence, banishes melancholy and evil vanity, gives a man perfect breath, health and long life. In addition, it is the friendliest and most convenient companion, and when a person is alone, having only his weapon relieves all fears."

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:42

George Silver, "The Paradoxes of Defense," 1599

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:43

"I am the noble weapon called the dagger, and I conduct my game at close quarters. One who understands my danger and my art can reach the understanding of any other weapon. Know that I end combat brutally and swiftly, and none can stand against my skills. Anyone who has beheld my deeds knows how deftly I defend and slash, moving to fight, and knows how I take victory by twisting and breaking arms so that no weapon or armor can stand against me."

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:51

Fiore de Liberi, "The Flower of Battle," 1408.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:51

Prologue

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:51

The sand of the arena always stinks. Brether had seen many arenas in his life, not a long one, but a long one for his profession. Large and small, round, rectangular, good stone buildings, hastily made wooden structures and roped-off arenas. All of them - except the newly erected ones - stink.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:52

It is no wonder. When month after month, year after year, blood and guts are spilled on the sand. According to ancient customs, the sand should be changed, but it is expensive, so the servants limit themselves to pouring new sand from the nearest river. A month passes, then another, and another - the new arena is impregnated with a special odor. It is almost insensible to the public, except on the hottest days of summer when the sun fries the earth to the deepest roots. But the fighters know it well.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:54

This odor, elusive, indescribable, unlike anything else, is the first thing that greets a fighter when he steps behind the invisible veil that separates the world of the living from the arena where steel and death reign. It is also often the last thing a fighter feels in life. Brethers don't die in arenas too often. Usually, their lives end in city alleys, where the sand is replaced by the worn stone of the sidewalk. But things happen.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:55

Duelist [1] didn't want his life to end today, right here, but it required a lot of effort. You could say, turn inside out and still need Pantocrator's help. The fighter automatically inscribed himself with the sacred sign and whispered a short prayer with only his lips, addressing the Attribute of War. He quickly went through the saints in his mind, choosing whom he could ask for intercession before the divine face in such a situation. He didn't find any and thought the deity would know how to help a negligent fighter.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:56

Without the familiar weight of the chain mail, or at least the leather vest, his body felt naked. It was uncomfortable and unnerving. A small shiver ran up his spine, traveled to his shoulders, and made the hairs on his arms rise. Brether ran his left hand along the leathery hilt of his saber. Following his instincts, he clamped the blade under his arm and quickly pulled off the tight gloves with his teeth. A little lost in defense, a little gained in weapon control. The latter was more necessary now. Brether shoved the gloves behind his belt, then simply threw them on the stone-strewn ground. If all ended well, he could pick them up afterward. If not ... then he wouldn't need the gloves, even if they were the newest, finest leather.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 09:59

A glance at the opposite end of the octagonal arena, where his opponent was strolling about, occasionally spectacularly waving his blade. Despite the long tradition of leaving the combatants alone with each other and the arena, the young bonom was surrounded by at least a dozen servants. Encouraging, enthusiastic, and promising a quick and easy victory. Promising honor, respect, and glory after the battle. Ready to pass a romantic note and bring a reply (or vice versa) because women love a winner, and there are a lot of maidens from good families on the three-tiered beds nowadays. They (maidens, not families) would be happy to socialize with the triumphant winner. Not now, but later in the evening, when torches and candles cast romantic shadows on the gloomy castle walls, hiding what should better be hidden from outside eyes.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 10:02

Murder and death are intoxicating, warming the blood better than any wine, better than the most exotic drugs from the Island and the Wastelands.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 10:03

Brether, of course, was surrounded by no one. And if anyone wished him victory, it was in the depths of his soul. Not to say that it was a hindrance in any way. The fighter was used to fighting without convention and approval for the sake of victory and results. And still ... now he would not refuse to see at least one encouraging look.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 10:04

It was quiet, unnaturally quiet. There was only a low murmur rising above the loges, almost imperceptible, like the rustling of waddles in the morning breeze. The audience is too staid, too high-born. Everyone here had been brought up from childhood in the realization that real humanity implied icy restraint, the ability to keep in check any feeling, at least outwardly. Open, public display of passions is the lot of the lower classes, who will never rise above their half-animal nature. Cold faces, like wax masks, flat inexpressive eyes, elegant poses, and sparing movements, each of which is designed for an outside viewer and the most biased critic. And servants to match their masters. Isn't it funny why servants usually have even more haughty faces than their masters?

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 10:07

Puppet Theater.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 10:07

Brether smirked, thinking that the aristocratic scum who'd gathered to watch him kill him had three or four centuries of nobility under their belts. After all, almost all of the real aristocracy hadn't survived the Cataclysm. As flesh from flesh of the Old Empire, it was buried by the shards of the lost world. As far as the Master of the Blade could tell, there was not a single full-blooded member of the twenty-two Primarch families, the true rulers of the world, in the ornate lodges.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 10:28

And there she must also be, sitting, watching. Watching like everyone else, keeping a look of mild boredom on her face, chatting softly with her companions about the weather, society news, and gossip that was harmless enough to discuss in front of witnesses. Hiding deep in her heart her true feelings and intentions. He wonders if she wishes him victory. Or is she hoping a relative will send the insolent upstart to hell, to Erdeg?

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 10:30

Brether grinned even wider and shoved the crooked grin off his face. He must not lose his concentration, not for a moment. He knew a lot. He had fought against one and many, alone and shoulder to shoulder, fought armorless warriors and real armored men. Brether had a private cemetery behind him, where every grave could tell a sorrowful tale of its untimely death at the hands of a fighter who some already called the best warrior of his generation, second only to the great Vensan Mongayar, the Moon Reaper. But this fight promised to be special and a first. If only because the Brether could not kill his opponent.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 10:33

There were no flutes, no trumpets, no drumming, and no announcements by heralds and stewards. The yellow and blue banner with the House emblem - two pikes biting each other by the tail - was raised and lowered. From this moment, the opponents could start killing each other.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 10:34

Brether walked from the lattice gate to the center of the octagon without hurry, mostly to leave enough room for maneuvering behind him. He thought the duelists must look rather funny from the outside - a brunet and a blond, a grayish shirt with traces of neat darning and a snow-white cape of purest spider silk, a simple leather belt, and a gold-embroidered sash. Hair down to the shoulders, tied in a ponytail with an ordinary ribbon, and against - an exquisite hairstyle, deliberately seized with varnish. And the weapons are different.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 17:27

In Brether's hands was a classic two-handed saber of the Brotherhood of Fencers, only with a blade shortened against the canon by a palm and a half and a symmetrical grip, also short. A simple weapon without any ornamentation and even lacking the welded branding on the base of the blade. A faceless tool of the assassin who lives by the principle "at night on the street carry your sword without a scabbard, or at least so that they can be quickly discarded, make sure not to leave a cloak, hat or scabbard so no one can identify you by them" [2]. And the enemy has a weakly curved one-handed blade, with a closed guard and a leather loop for the index finger, for the sake of better handling. A new-fangled thing, a weapon not for war but for one-on-one duels.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 17:40

Well, now we'll see who's worth what...

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 17:40

The blond man didn't wait and sprang forward, raising his blade with a quick jerk. Strange, too fast, he felt deeply hurt, hiding a storm of anger beneath a mask of restraint. Brether gripped the hilt of the two-handed saber with his left hand, not the usual three-fingered grip on the headband, but with his whole palm, as hard as if he were parrying the blows of a heavy sword.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 17:46

The steel jingled, that clear, piercing sound that comes from the finest forged metal, the kind that allows you to parry blade to blade. The combatants began with a classic quartet, two blows each, not so much for the sake of a quick kill as to test each other's capabilities and defenses. And right after, the dandy in the snow-white shirt swung his saber, trying to blow off the brether's head. The latter evaded the blow with a step backward, without crossing his blades, a clean maneuver.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 17:53

The two slid in an invisible circle, glaring at each other. Blades glinting in the morning sun shook like silver serpents, catching every movement of their opponents, ready to strike and deflect blows. The stands fell silent. Men involuntarily leaned forward, pretending to be subtle experts in combat, and women, without conspiring, opened their fans, hiding their gazes behind the painted cloth.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 17:55

Blood and death are exciting. Definitely.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 18:07

The blond aristocrat pressed his lips together and attacked again. The saber in his hand was much lighter than Brether's. And in skill, the blond could not be denied. He was trained by very good teachers. But ... Two deep slashing blows the mercenary fencer reflected with hard blocks, finally assured that his first impression was correct. The blond preferred to work at speed and "from the wrist," taking advantage of the lightness of his blade. This meant that he would inevitably lose in technique and tire quickly. The main thing was to endure the first attacks. Then it would be easier.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 18:35

Or not.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 18:35

Brether crushed the sprout of hope, trampling it with the heavy boots of concentration. He made a test combination, not one of the most complex or sophisticated, more a test of his opponent's reaction and ability to read combinations beyond the typical parry-counterattack twos. The blond fought back sharply but again unsophisticated and attacked again, now with a sharp downward strike, in an arc, with the blade going to the victim's right ear. Brether parried hard again and took a step back, breaking the distance.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 18:58

He could have killed the dude with his saber right now. He made the classic mistake of swinging too far left to right in a chopping blow. This opened up his right shoulder and left the fighter with no room to maneuver to get away from an anticipatory counterattack by playing with his legs. On a dark street or in a fake fight, Brether would have used an upward jab from the bottom to cut the triceps or puncture the elbow. But that was exactly what he couldn't do, no way.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 19:03

The dude must leave the arena unharmed. Otherwise, the brether will not even reach the castle gates despite all his art. When an aristocrat, by a challenge to a fight, raises a low-born upstart to his level, allowing him to cross swords, it is always an action with interesting restrictions and reservations. And fights of real, genuine honor are long gone, along with the Old Empire.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 19:05

Don't kill the enemy, don't get yourself killed. And to finish the fight in such a way that the bastard with the smoothly shaved face and artfully curled hair could then declare his unconditional victory. For anyone else, the task is impossible. But for a fencing teacher who had fought on the streets of the City for years.....

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 19:06

We'll see.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 19:06

Another "quartet". The dude had a good, indeed, very good technique of the "oblique cross" and the correct scramble behind the line. The light saber allowed him to twist mind-boggling bundles with triple series. Very beautiful, very spectacular, and - let's be honest - deadly for the average opponent who trained for war, not dueling. However, the blond was a bit rushed and overly reliant on the swiftness of his blade. Brether put up a stiff block time after time, without much finesse, clenching his left fist tighter on the headband. He was still testing to see if there was anything special to look forward to. And with each stroke of the blade, he was more and more convinced that the chances of leaving the castle alive were not too high, but they were.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 19:17

As long as the opponent did not think of grabbing the blade with his free hand, then you'll have to either break his knee with a counter leg kick or leave him without fingers...

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 19:18

Brether intercepted the initiative. He attacked very high, opening his belly dangerously at first glance. The blades clinked and sparks scattered around, sinking into the sand dug by the duelists' boots. Yeah, the asshole had trouble with distance, too, relying too much on his forward point. Now the dude died a second time, not even realizing that he'd missed the "slicing of meat" - a sliding hit two-thirds of the blade across the neck, a typical close combat technique when a proper fight turns into a struggle with dagger snatches, slashes, spit in the face, and bites.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 19:55

Brether bounced back, moved in a circle again, and intercepted the hilt the right way, not for hard parrying but quick, subtle work with complex blade maneuvers. The lodges seemed filled with the huge multicolored eyes of exotic creatures because of the abundance of fans that fluttered, mimicking the movements of the eyelids. There was more noise as men were already discussing the actions of the duelists. Some were so excited that they were openly betting on victory, and the gambling boon was readily answered. Judging by the scraps of phrases coming from the stands, no one doubted the victory of the dude. They were betting on whether the low-born peasant would be killed on the spot or would only get off with a severe wound.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:18

The blond was no longer in a hurry to attack, seeming to realize that he was facing an opponent at least equal to him. It was no good, and Brether waited for another bid - "before sundown, he'll bleed to death before sundown, I'll bet five dobles!" and then ran in frequent short steps, chopping crosswise, fast, and hard.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:19

The aristocrat's hands were not youthfully strong, albeit groomed and oiled with the finest lotions, like a courtly fashionista's. And good composure. It was worth recognizing. Faced with the frenzied pressure, the blond put his left arm in his belt, stood like a rock - not a step back - and concentrated on the swift work of the blade, ducking a series of attacks from the fencing master, counterattacking in return. Sparks now rained down in a rain of fire, the steel rattling with voices ranging from a deafening clang to a shrill screech. Though the sun was just rising and the morning chill was pleasant, the shirts of the fighters were soaked with sweat. The blond man's fine hair was in disarray, and Brether's saber sliced through one of the curls, which were well-varnished and gave the blade excellent support.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:23

A lady with a loud groan lost her senses defiantly and tragically. The servants scrambled to take care of their mistress while the other spectators kept their eyes on the arena. The contrived indifference of the audience blew away like fallen leaves in the wind. It did not come to shouting and chanting "kill!" like the common people, but the victory of the young bonom was wished in a voice, without shyness. And, of course, they continued to bet on death and injury.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:25

The chopping was fierce. The aristocrat twirled his saber parallel to the ground, stretching his arm almost to its full length, trying to reach the Brether over and under the heavier two-handed blade. Without success, he abruptly, without transition, changed his manner of fighting and attacked his legs, so much so that he nearly severed his tendons. He deflected a deep lunge aimed at the bridge of his nose, moved his blade to the left again, and struck from the bottom upwards at an oblique angle. Blood spurted profusely, playing in the sun with the beautiful carmine hues of the round drops.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:27

Brether stepped back with heavy steps, his feet dragging, his blade so low that his saber raked up grains of sand. The shirt on his belly had split open in a spectacular cut, as if he'd been razored, blood dripping down his leather belt. The blond stepped back, too, and jerked his hand, shaking the blood off his blade.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:28

The master of fencing looked him straight in the eyes and saw fear in the depths of the blue pupils. Real, genuine fear. So, the aristocrat understood everything. He felt the moment when the Brether raised his saber in a seemingly hopeless, unsuccessful attempt to parry, and the cold point slid easily, like a fluff - unnoticed by the audience! - slid down the blond man's neck, where the main vein of the man's neck beat beneath the thin skin. It slid, leaving not a scratch, not even a trace of the powder that keeps the skin free of the plebeian sweat sheen.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:29

The enemy had been killed for the third time, but now, unlike the previous two, he realized it. It remains to be seen what conclusions the powdered bonom will draw. And whether the young man has any notions of nobility in his soul. It was said that he did, and now it was to be tested.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:32

"Honorable Sir..." the Brether bowed, holding his saber as awkwardly as possible and keeping an oblique gaze on his opponent. "I trust you have received satisfaction?"

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:33

He clamped the wound with his left hand, feeling the warm liquid still oozing between his fingers. He thought he'd done the right thing by taking off his gloves, or else one of them would be irreparably damaged. And another thought ran after her - here, there was a masterpiece of swordsmanship, which no one will know about and no one will appreciate. To strike deadly blows is a high art, but to receive a strictly measured wound, which will look very impressive and not dangerous to life... this is the evidence of true skill. Brether wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, leaving a bloody smear across half his face, and staggered back, partly because of his growing weakness - the blood loss was still there - and partly because he realized how close he was now to death. Closer than he'd ever been.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:35

And no one noticed anything.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:35

The tribunes were raging, and the duelists looked at each other duskily, carrying on a silent dialog. Bonom got his blood, which was enough to wash away the "insult" and honestly tell the enthusiastic ladies about his victory over the master fencer with a true diploma of an honorable, respected fraternity. And he also received a discreet and impressive demonstration that his life was in his opponent's hands.

Camrad_RIP 02.08.23 в 20:36