Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1)

by Frances Smith

  Michael was passing the cells of the other gladiators by now, on his way to the armoury. Thomas was dead, killed while locked in his cell like a bear chained to a wall and set on by the hounds. So were most of the other fellows he knew, but a few of the doors were open, the cells empty. Michael prayed that they had gotten out all right, and were doing what they could to help the defence.

  Michael reached the armoury, leaping over the body of another fallen guard and bursting through the door to find it empty, save for the slain rebel and gladiator locked together in their death throes on the floor. Some of the equipment was gone, but whether it had been gladiators or by rebels whoever had been here had left Michael his blades and his armour. Michael cast aside the borrowed spear and buckled on his old friends, their familiar weight and feel a comfort to him on this night of misrule. He did not have time to put the manicae on, to buckle on each plate of iron to his arms, he had tarried too long already.

  There was no way out of the arena from the underground warren, or at least none that Michael knew of, so he ran upwards; up towards the sandy circle, up from the hollow depths, up from the netherworld towards the world of men. He ran through the tunnel where, only that morning, he had waited to slay a condemned criminal in honourable combat. How much had the world changed since then, yet less than a day had passed?

  The metal door was open, and Michael burst once more into the arena. This time there were no crowds to cheer him, no packed rows of the commons come to watch. This time the enemy was more numerous and those he hoped to save might already be lost.

  Smoke rose above the arena walls, blocking out the stars.

  Michael ran to the nearest edge of the arena sands and leapt up, his fingers clawing for purchase on the edge of the stands. Michael's arms strained, his feet scraping on the stone as he tried to pull himself up. He had to get out. Grunting and panting, his palms and fingers grazed against the stone, Michael hauled himself over the edge and into the stands.

  In other times, he might have appreciated the unusual view, looking down on the world from the sky, but there was no time for that now. But there was one view he could not avoid looking at. Michael climbed onto the outer wall and beheld the funeral pyre of his home.

  Lover's Rock had been founded by Prince Simon, greatest of Corona's rulers, at the place where he met, loved and wooed Turo's daughter Miranda. Looking out Michael could see the rock itself emerging from the water, the rock where Miranda had been sitting when Simon and his brother Gabriel first beheld her. Michael had been born in this town, he had lived his whole life in this town, his sister was named for the naiad princess herself. Michael, Miranda and Felix had all been baptised in that stretch of seafront. He and Felix had first met Amy down on the beach not far from the boat sheds. When he was nine he had nearly drowned competing with her in holding his breath underwater. And it was all burning: the house he had been born in, the fishmongers he had cleaned fish at when he was a boy, the house where Amy had lived before she disappeared, the sheds where the fishing boats were stored, the homes of all the people he knew or had known. All of it burning.

  And beyond the flames Michael could see the Crimson Rose. Some of them wore armour: bronze or mail or leather. Others were dressed so that they would have seemed perfectly ordinary but for the Crimson Rose armbands which they wore proudly as though membership of this murderous gang was a thing of which to boast. Some of them bore spears or swords and shields, others had knives and clubs and boathooks. They massed about the temple, where Michael could see survivors on the roof hurling down slates upon the rebel forces, and he could see them bringing up a battering ram to smash down the bronze doors to the holy sanctuary. Other rebels ran wildly all about the sacred place, waving torches and howling abuse at all those trapped inside.

  Gazing on the burning ruins, at the triumph of chaos and disorder, Michael would not have been surprised to see the Eldest One freed from his prison and directing the attack.

  All Michael could do was pray that Miranda, if she had not left ere the slaughter began, was one of those God-fearing folk who had made it into the temple in time.

  Michael left by the patron's entrance, his anger growing with each dead body he came across: Simon the fisherman who had given Michael his first job mending fishing nets, Jason the baker who had caught him stealing when he was a boy, Mater Ruth who had always so polite to his mother. All of them gone, and no one left to give them the funeral rites that where their due. They would wander the shadowlands for all eternity, seeking a passage to Turo's halls that was forever denied to them. Mater Sarah Doraeus, Amy's mother, he found her dead too. She had been killed by a spear thrust through her back, and lay sprawled face down upon the sand. She had always been so kind to Michael and Felix, kinder to them than anybody after mother died. Since her daughter vanished seven years ago her mind had begun to wander; Michael hoped she had died unaware of what was happening.

  Beside each dead body a white rose had been placed, a rose now turning red as it was soaked with the blood of innocent Coronim. For every death, a flower, that was the way of the Crimson Rose. There were many roses in Lover's Rock tonight.

  The limitanei, the provincial soldiery who policed the town, looked to have been gutted in one blow, probably at the start of the battle. None of the uniformed corpses lay far from the others, their spears and shields lying strewn around them. Michael picked up as many of the javelins as he could and ran with them through the burning ruins towards the temple.

  The temple was built upon a broad but low stone dais, with steps leading up towards the doors of beaten bronze. The stone of the temple was finer looking than that which built the rest of Lover's Rock, and it seemed to glow in the light of the fires set by the rebels. Companies of the Crimson Rose surrounded the holy building, hurling fire and missiles up towards the roof where some brave souls ripped off the tiles and threw them at the enemy. Others threw themselves off the roof as Michael watched, choosing a swift end to their bloodier fate if the Crimson Rose took them. But it was at the doors that the rebels pressed their assault most heavily, where their ram battered at the entrance and a column of the rebels best armed soldiers garbed in the armour of Tyronian hoplites waited to storm the sanctuary.

  Michael cast his first javelin, it flew through the night and impaled a fighter in the rear rank of the rebel column from behind, piercing his cuirass and driving him to the ground. Michael ran forward, throwing his spears like a Firstborn of old, pitching his ashen shafts before him as he charged to break the battle line. Every spear cast a long shadow, and every spear ended the life of one of his enemies. His last spear gone Michael drew forth his swords and let a loud war cry tear from his throat, a cry of fury promising swift vengeance.

  The ram battered on the temple doors with a constant booming noise. The bronze doors squealed as they were bent, and crashed as they were broken. But by that time Michael was among the Rose like a sea lion amongst mackerel and their column scattered before his wrath. His blades broke helms, shattered shields, cut down his enemies and they leaped from the steps and fled in all directions to escape him.

  Michael paid the enemy dead no heed as he stood in the ruin doorway of the temple, looking around all those huddled within: the men, the women, the children, the wounded. Master Dolabella's son, Luke, sat under the shadow of Turo's altar, a bandage tied around his arm. A beggar huddled in a grey cloak beside the door, a pair of bulky rods or sticks deformed his cape while he gazed up at Michael with intense green eyes. A mother tried to feed her crying babe, while a clutch of other children clutched at her skirt for protection. Everywhere Michael looked he saw frightened humanity, but nowhere did he see his sister.

  "Miranda?" Michael called. "Miranda? Has anybody seen Miranda Callistus."

  There was no answer but a baby's frightened squalling.

  Michael bowed his head, letting his long black hair fall down to hide his face, and prayed for his sister's soul.

  First mother, then Felix, now Miranda. Almighty T
uro, what has our family done to offend you so? Why wouldn't you let me save any of them?

  A fire drake - for such alone could the slender, almost ungainly lizard be, with an arched back and clawed hands and two black swords worn at those jutting hips - moved through the huddled, fearful masses to stand before Michael, bowing his head.

  "You are Michael Callistus are you not?" he asked, his voice high pitched but harsh.

  "I am," Michael said.

  "I am Wyrrin of Arko," Wyrrin said, bobbing his head again. "A gladiator, until tonight."

  "As was I," Michael said softly.

  "It would have been an honour to have fought against you," Wyrrin said, drawing his black swords. "It will be a greater honour to fight beside you. May Arus set our hearts ablaze and stand with us through the flickering of the flames."

  Michael nodded. "May Turo watch over us through the rippling of the water and command us through the crashing of the waves."

  "Michael Sebastian ban David!" a deep booming voice called out to him, the echo of it bouncing around the temple.

  Michael did not know anyone by the name ban David; he was of the tribe of Ezekiel, and besides the tribe of David had been wiped out in the Danai-Shardayan invasion as any layman in Coronim history knew full well. But he knew no one else in Lover's Rock who answered to the name of Michael Sebastian and so he scowled and turned to face the summons. The Crimson Rose had rallied, and now they massed at the base of the temple steps. At their head stood a man draped from shoulders down to toes in a long black cloak, and his head and face were concealed from view by a hoplite helm with a red and white crest. While the other rebels growled and shuffled impatiently like dogs before the hunt, this man was perfect stillness. While they were dirty and unkempt to the man, his cloak was pristine and his helmet shone. For a moment, he was silent.

  "Michael Sebastian ban David," when the man spoke, his voice boomed out. "It is good to meet you face to face at last."

  Michael's lip curled into a sneer. "Yet you are not even aware that I am ban Ezekiel, not David? Who are you, pray, that I should welcome your acquaintance?"

  "I am the Voice of Corona," the Voice declared. "The tongue of our dormant nation, the soul of our fair but slumbering state. Have you not ever striven to be loyal to Old Corona's spirit? I am that spirit made flesh."

  "True Coronim of old would never have made war on women or children, nor fought with stealth and trickery," Michael said.

  "Only a fool confronts a greater power head on," the Voice replied. "We must use what weapons Turo has left us: misdirection, deceit, anonymity; or else why do I hide my face behind this helm and my name behind this title? A man may be betrayed by false friends, slain in battle or hung by the Empire, but the Voice of Corona will never be silenced though this war be another five hundred years in the waging. Michael Sebastian, will you come with me and fight at my side for the freedom of Corona and an end to the Empire's tyranny?"

  "What? You ask me that?" Michael demanded. "After all that you have done, after all that you have taken from me, now you hold out the hand of friendship? There are no words in Coronim, nor Turmeian, nor any tongue of men not even Deucalian to describe such audacity. I would not join you though the whole world burned and only you could save me from the flames, not even if almighty God himself were to anoint you as his champion." He would never have been able to think of his mother again without shame, never have been able to speak the name of Felix, never have been able to face Amy had she returned from parts unknown. He would have lived his whole life in conflict with his soul, had he accepted rebel friendship.

  "We are not the monsters the Empire would paint us," the Voice said, his cloak flapping as he gestured imperiously with one arm. "This is our land, given to us by God himself as a sign of his covenant with the chosen people. Why should we not strive with might and main to reclaim what is rightfully ours."

  "And what did Sarah Doraeus take from you, that she stood under a fate of death?" Michael roared. "Did one of you kill her? Do you know who did? Was this not her home too? Was she not Coronim enough to deserve a share in the world you hope to make?"

  "Anyone who is not a friend of the Crimson Rose is a friend of the Empire by their apathy," the Voice of Corona replied. "When the status quo is tyranny, there can be no neutral ground. Those who support the Empire must be taught that there is no place for treachery in this land."

  "As my mother was taught?"

  "Your mother slighted patriots and spat in the face of our noble cause," the Voice said. "Her transgression could not go unpunished. I mourn the death of every son and daughter of Corona. I mourn your mother and Mater Doraeus and all who have died this day and before, but this nation must be washed clean in blood ere it can be renewed. When Corona is reborn history will record the Crimson Rose did what it must."

  "Only those who have no honour say that they do what they must, using harsh circumstance to disguise their lack of principle," Michael said. "What of these people here? If I join you, will they be spared? Or will they be used to wash this country clean?"

  "I do not think you would believe me if I guaranteed their safety," the Voice said. "And if you caught me in the lie you would turn on me, would you not?"

  "Without hesitation."

  "Do you think these feeble folk care for the life of a slave?" the Voice asked. "You are but an object in their eyes."

  "Then I am an object, as all slaves are; and what right do objects have to set the value of themselves?" Michael said. "As well expect the broom to say it is too good to sweep the floor. And as I am an object, then I think I am an object sharp enough to do you injury if you come closer." He drew himself up proudly, setting himself square in the broken doorway. "Here is my station, lodge me from it if you can."

  "You leave me no choice," the Voice of Corona boomed, pointing at Michael with a grand gesture. "Take him! Kill the rest!"

  The Crimson Rose surged up the steps with a great roar, weapons held before them. Their column of hoplites had been shattered in Michael's charge, and so it was the great mass of unwashed rebels who met him now with short swords, knives and clubs; with fishing spears, tridents and boathooks.

  "If any pass me," Michael murmured to Wyrrin, who stood at his back. "It will be your charge to see they go no further."

  "They shall die once they meet me," Wyrrin replied.

  The rebels charged for the temple doors, screaming and shouting like barbarians, and inside the temple the women wept and the children cried to hear the screaming. Michael did not fear the onrushing horde. He feared nothing now, for everything that he could lose he had already lost save only his life, and he cared nothing for that. He would not let them pass. He would spare other families the pain of grief, the tears of bereavement, the anger of mothers, brothers, sisters slain. He would protect them all. That was a man's duty, a warrior's duty; and if he had but played at being those before he would live as such now, in the moments before life fled.

  The rabble of the enemy reached him, and in the first moment of the battle Michael cut down two men. More followed. Michael did not move as their blades reached for him; bound to guard the doors as he was he could not dance with blades in hand as he had trained to do, but in truth he might not have done so anyway. He made no attempt to defend himself against such multitudes as assailed him but merely hacked at them in his fury, seeking to slay so many that the rest would flee.

  Come cowards, come dogs, come murderers and rebels all, and I will pay back all my hurts upon you. Michael's battle madness was upon him, and he felt like screaming in delirium as the Crimson Rose fell before his blades. Their blades wounded him, their weapons scarring his arms and body and leaving him bleeding in a half dozen places or more, but Michael only laughed in their faces and added yet more libations to Miranda's funeral offerings. He was a lion on the high plains, and the lion did not fear the jackals no matter how numerous, even if they pulled him down they would not smell his fear or pain.

  A spear pierced his shoul
der, but Michael cut down the man who bore it. A sword blow cut him at the hip but Michael stayed standing and slew that foe as well. He was Turoth's wrath incarnate, and though the people in the temple wailed in terror no rebel passed Michael's guard to trouble them.

  Like the tide, the press of fighters of the Crimson Rose began to ebb backwards, first in a trickle and then in a flow that left the dais around Michael choked with their dead. And yet there were still so many of them remaining.

  "Your persistence is admirable, your skill with the sword less so in present circumstances," the Voice of Corona said.

  Michael breathed deeply, weariness that could be ignored in battle demanded attention during the respite. "You could never welcome as an ally one so stained in the blood of your followers, could you?"

  "You underestimate me," the Voice said. "I would ally with the worst monster in Corona's history to free Corona from the Empire's chains."

  "Then I would feel sorry for your men, did I not despise them so," Michael said.

  The Voice chuckled. "You will learn better. Rachael, the time has come!"

  The supporters of the Crimson Rose parted for Rachael of Simonheyr, she who had slain Magdalene in their arena bout. Her leather cuirass was black as the night, black as the sins of the Crimson Rose, and in her hands she bore a bow, with an arrow upon the string. As Michael watched, she drew back the bow and aimed at him.

  Michael scowled. "Are you so lost to honour that you will shoot me down like a hare in the hunt?"

  "Will you surrender?" the Voice asked.

  "Never."

  Rachael loosed her shaft. The arrow struck Michael in the leg, just above the knee, and he cried out as his leg buckled beneath him. He had been shot before, but while he had been accustomed to the cuts of swords, every arrow wound was as fresh and painful as the first: the pain of the puncture, the pain of the bone, the pain of the hooks dug into his flesh, worse than any sword or spear could achieve. Michael's hands shook as he fought to keep hold of his blades.