Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Newsletter Signup

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Stop by and say hello!

  Newsletter Signup

  About the Author

  Note from the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Swordsman: The Everwar Book 1

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Copyright © 2024 Jacob Nathaniel Peppers. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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  To my daughter, Norah.

  The world is tough, sometimes. Hard.

  But should I ever doubt that there is goodness in it,

  I need only look at your smile, listen to your laugh.

  I thank God every day for the joy of being your father,

  And I will continue to thank him as long as there is breath in my lungs to do it.

  I love you, baby girl.

  To the moon and back.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  The blade whistled toward him, cutting through the air with deadly purpose. A purpose at which it was destined to fail. Declan stepped to the side, and the oncoming strike missed his chest by inches. His opponent growled and lunged forward with a sloppy maneuver, extending his knee too far. Declan parried and danced away, performing a spinning flourish.

  The crowd roared in approval, as well they should have, for it had been a close one. So very close—though, it had to be said, no closer than Declan had wanted it to be. After all, the hundreds of men, women, and children filling the stands around the arena had paid good coin to come here. The least he could do was give them a show.

  And so he did, lashing out with his own blade, a precise cut that slid along his opponent’s cheek. They were dulled blades, of course—in such duels they always were—but a dulled blade was still a blade, and it still cut, if a man wanted it to.

  And he wanted it to.

  A small gash across his opponent’s cheek, no more than an inch long, and that, too, was how he wanted it. His opponent growled again—he really was a one-trick horse in that way—and charged, wielding his sword in a two-handed grip, like some no-neck lumberjack chopping down a tree. Declan, though, was no tree but the finest duelist of the age, perhaps of any age. As the blade cut through the air, he did not sit and wait as the tree would have.

  He moved.

  No more than necessary, just enough that the blade missed him, just enough that the crowd roared with approval—better than any drink or any woman he’d ever had, that cheer. They roared louder still when his blade flashed out with casual ease, leaving a second shallow cut along the man’s cheek, one that crisscrossed the first.

  “X marks the spot,” Declan said, flashing his opponent a smile. He’d been told he had a good smile, but the man didn’t seem to think so. Anyway, while the remark wasn’t the finest taunt he’d ever produced, it was enough to do the trick. A moment later the man was barreling toward him. He didn’t barrel far, though, coming up short as the tip of Declan’s blade came to rest no more than an inch in front of his throat.

  “Easy,” Declan said, favoring him with a second smile. “You’ve already lost and that decidedly. It would really be a shame to add joining the ranks of the recently dead to your list of accomplishments.” He grinned wider. “Or, I suppose one might say failures.”

  The man wanted to attack him—Declan could see that. He was growling and hissing, his teeth bared like some wild animal who would have liked nothing more than to pounce. The crowd waited, silent for the moment, and Declan waited with them to see what his opponent would do. In the end, the man decided to swallow his pride instead of a sword tip. His brow unfurrowed, his lips unpeeled, and he abruptly dropped to one knee as if he’d been struck in the back of the head with a blacksmith’s hammer.

  His opponent stared sullenly at the ground, on his face an expression of abject misery and frustration, one which gave Declan no small amount of pleasure. The man was beat, and he knew it. He had faced a better man and the result was the only result it could have ever been. It felt good to see that knowledge, that understanding writ plain across his opponent’s face, but that pleasant feeling was nothing compared to that which swept over Declan when the arena filled with the shouts and cries of the crowd as they celebrated his victory.

  Declan smiled then, all thoughts of the man kneeling before him in defeat forgotten as he raised his head, favoring those gathered with the most dazzling smile in his repertoire—a smile that had escorted him and more than a few blushing maidens to the nearest bed or bale of hay, whichever was closest. He slid his dueling steel back into its sheath and raised his arms wide to either side. He slowly turned in a full circle, regarding those gathered as they cheered, allowing them the opportunity to regard him.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, only knew that it was not long enough. He could have remained there for the rest of eternity as those cries of approval washed over him. But as men so often said, nothing good lasted forever. Still, he waited as long as he could, enjoyed those cheers for as long as he could. After all, they were no more than his due. They cheered him because he had won, because he was the best, a truth that was undeniable.

  He waited until the cheers began to wane the slightest bit, until he knew that they had reached their crescendo and gone past it, then he let his hands drop back to his sides. He sketched one of his finest bows—a very fine bow, indeed—eliciting another burst of applause. That done, Declan turned, regarding, once more, the man knelt before him, feeling a mixture of contentment for his victory and disgust for the man’s poor, flailing attempts at fighting which had kept the show from being as great as it might have been. Then he turned and walked away, leaving the crowd before they could have the opportunity to leave him.

  He made his way to the tent at one end of the arena, the dwindling cheers accompanying him. He ran a hand through his hair as he approached the tent’s entrance and found that he had barely broken a sweat. That pleased him and annoyed him at the same time. He had defeated the man, sure, and done it handily…but then of course he had. How was he supposed to put on a good show for the people when he was matched against such trash?

  He sighed, stepping into the tent. Immediately, two servants who’d been waiting within stepped forward, and Declan held his hands up and out to his sides while they set about the task of removing the padded dueling armor covering his torso and legs.

  Declan stood there as they did, the feeling of contentment, of exhilaration that had come over him at the crowd’s cheers, cheers that had filled him up to bursting, beginning to drain out of him like water through a sieve, leaving him empty once more. “Did you see the fight, Bertram?” he asked the older of the two servants, but when an answer came it did not come from that quarter.

  “Of course he saw it,” a man’s voice said. “Everyone saw it—more’s the pity.”

  Declan sighed heavily. He knew that disapproving voice well—how could he not? It seemed sometimes as if he’d been hearing it every day of his life, so much that, on more than one occasion, it had even followed him into his dreams. Or, perhaps, nightmares would have been closer to the truth.

  As the servants continued to remove his padded dueling armor, Declan cut his eyes to the side of the tent to
see Balen, his father’s master-at-arms, regarding him. The man stood with his arms folded across his chest, his bushy eyebrows drawn down in obvious judgmental disappointment. Looking at him, Declan wondered idly if he’d ever seen the man without his arms folded, without his eyebrows frowning at him like gray caterpillars crawling across his face. “You are displeased it seems,” Declan said tiredly. “Imagine my surprise, though I cannot guess what might cause such displeasure.”

  “I believe you can guess it easily enough, Your Majesty,” the older man said, one of the caterpillars crawling up higher on his forehead than the other.

  “Very well, I always enjoy a good riddle—if you’re unclear about what ‘enjoy’ means, Balen, feel free to make use of one of my tutors. They would, I do not doubt, be pleased to lecture you on the subject at length. They do love a good lecture.” He grunted. “Now then, back to your riddle…perhaps you are upset that your student won a victory in the dueling circle? Perhaps you would have preferred I got wholly trounced and made mockery of?” Even the thought of that last sent a shiver of anxiety running down his spine, one he did his best to repress.

  Balen sighed wearily, assuming his other favorite expression—one of long-suffering impatience. “It is not the victory that bothered me, Prince, but the gloating that followed. Warriors, as I have told you before, do not gloat.”

  “Perhaps not,” Declan said, “but winners do. If they want. I suppose that winners can really do just about whatever they like. And the crowd didn’t seem all that upset, if you ask me. In fact, I would even hazard a guess that quite a few of them enjoyed the performance.”

  “War, battle, is not a performance, Prince.”

  Declan ran a hand through his hair again, whatever small amount of pleasure that had remained wiped thoroughly away by the wearying master-at-arms. “You know some might be forgiven for thinking that you would be pleased,” he said sourly. “Many teachers are, I hear, when they see their students succeed in their lessons. But it seems, Balen, that you are unable to see past your own jealousy to appreciate my talent.”

  The man shook his head, not seeming angry at all but only sad. That was yet another frustrating aspect of the man—Declan had made a list over the years. No matter what he said, the man refused to respond to his taunts and mockery with anger. “I do not feel jealous, Prince. I feel disappointed.”

  “Disappointed, is it?” Declan asked. “Oh, but I do not know how I might get by, knowing that I have not pleased you with my duel.”

  “It was not the duel that bothered me, Your Grace, as I said. But then, you know that. You did well, though there were a few areas in which your footwork might be improved.”

  “Somehow I doubt my opponent would see it the same way,” Declan said, not bothering to keep the annoyance from his voice.

  “Perhaps not,” the master-at-arms said. “But that isn’t really the point. Anyway, as I said it is not the fight that bothered me—you fought well. It is the gloating, Highness. The posturing. It ill becomes you.”

  “I would say it becomes me quite well. Anyway, the crowd expects it,” Declan said. “If you wish for a better bout then you should not send me farmers to fight.”

  “He was no farmer, Your Majesty, as you know. And as for the crowd, I think it might behoove you to know this. While a person might be wise, might be kind, people are, more often than not, fools. And so there are few things of less value than the approval of a crowd and many things far worse than being embarrassed.”

  Declan felt his annoyance giving way to anger. “Enough,” he snapped. “I am the crown prince of Aldheim, not some peasant to be scolded and ordered about. And what would you know of grand duels? You are a glorified tutor, nothing more. You know nothing of glory. Did you ever even fight on the tourney grounds?”

  “You know that I did not, Your Majesty. In my youth, there was little time for such…spectacles.”

  Declan rolled his eyes. “I tire of your lectures. I am of a mind to release you from service.” It was a threat he’d made before, so many times he’d lost count and, as he might have expected, the master-at-arms gave his usual answer.

  “Begging your pardon, Majesty,” Balen said, “but I am not in your service but the service of your father.”

  “Fine,” Declan growled, jerking away from the servants and angrily waving them off. “Leave me,” he snapped.

  “Of course, Majesty,” one said, “but—”

  “Now,” Declan said.

  The two men bowed, hurrying out of the tent. Declan turned back to the master-at-arms. “Then I will talk to my father and see about your immediate dismissal.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty,” Balen said, not sounding frightened in the least, assuming, it seemed, that it was an idle threat. The problem, of course, was that the bastard was right. His father counted it as a feather in his cap to have the famed Hero of Luther’s Pass training his son and would not listen to any suggestions to be rid of him. Assuming, of course, that Declan managed to get into a room with his father alone and get his attention long enough to present his case, something that was a longshot at best.

  Declan let out another frustrated growl. “Fine. You’re disappointed. Well, I will try not to lose much sleep over it.”

  “As you say, Your Majesty,” the man said, his expression not changing, and Declan gritted his teeth at the man’s unflappable demeanor.

  “Leave me,” he said. “Now.”

  “I will go, Your Majesty. But please, think on what I said—a man’s greatness is not decided by crowds roaring their approval or their disgust. A man’s greatness exists outside of such things, exists even outside of himself. Greatness, you see, is not a man’s mastery of another—it is his mastery of himself.”

  “I think you missed your calling, Balen. You would have made a fine bard.” He rolled his eyes. “The Ancestors know you’re pretentious enough.”

  The man’s expression did not change as he bowed his head. “Good day, Your Highness,” he said.

  “It’ll be better once you’re gone.”

  The master-at-arms nodded again then turned and started toward the tent flap.

  “And Balen?”

  The man turned back, a spark of might what have been hope in his eyes. “Yes, Majesty?”

  “I don’t give a shit what you think.”

  The man’s expression didn’t change, and yet there was something that looked like hurt in his eyes. “As you say, Majesty,” the master-at-arms said, then he bowed again and left.

  Declan stared after him, frowning. He ought to have been pleased—he’d gotten the last word, after all. But he wasn’t. Now, like so many other times, his exchange with Balen had somehow left him feeling guilty and never mind the fact that the master-at-arms had been the one giving the lecture, not him. But even that wasn’t what bothered him the most. Instead, it was the fact that he had lied.

  He had told the man that he didn’t care what he thought, that his opinion meant nothing to him, but that simply wasn’t true. It did matter. He didn’t know why—it wasn’t as if Balen was his father. The man wasn’t anyone’s father, wasn’t even married, and good luck finding some woman foolish or blind enough to marry him now as old as he was, skin like cracked leather.

  And more than that, the man was a commoner, without so much as a drop of royal blood in him. His was a house not of ill repute but of no repute at all, or at least hadn’t been until his antics at Luther’s Pass, the one interesting thing about the man so far as Declan could see. He’d asked Balen for his personal account a thousand times over the years, but—perhaps unsurprisingly as the man seemed to make a career out of being infuriating—he had always refused to tell Declan the specifics.

  No, Declan didn’t know why the old bastard’s opinion should matter to him, only that it did. “Damnit,” he told the empty tent. Whatever joy the bout had aroused in him was well and truly dead now, as dead as if he’d impaled it on one of his dueling steels.

  He guessed the day was just about as shitty as it could get, a feeling that lasted until he looked down and realized—quite quickly and unequivocally—that he was naked and in that same moment he realized what the servant who he refused to let speak and who he had sent away most…irrevocably had been trying to tell him. He was naked. And the clothes he’d been meant to change into had been in the hands of the hastily-departed servant. Quite likely still were.