Luke nodded. "I know. I learned in time that I was wrong, but still...I didn't like you very much. I didn't see why my father kept you. He told me you had the right stuff in you...and he was right, wasn't he?"
Michael frowned. "I would be prouder to have vindicated his trust if I could hve saved him."
Master Luke shook his head. "There was nothing you could have done. It's all in God's hands, isn't it?" He reached out and picked up a scroll, sealed with wax stamped with Master Dolabella's signet ring. "This is a grant of liberty. It frees you from my service. You're free again, Michael Sebastian Callistus Dolabella ban Ezekiel. Congratulations."
Michael took the proferred grant of freedom, wondering what Miranda would think to see him set free now, in these circumstances. She might find the whole thing grimly amusing, or she might be infuriated by it.
"Thank you, sir," Michael said, because it was the sort of thing he was expected to say.
"I hope you find your sister," Master Luke said.
Michael bowed. "You are a true gentleman, sir, as your father was."
Master Luke smiled. "Not quite as he was, but thank you."
Next Michael went in search of Wyrrin, and people were only too happy to point him to where the Fire Drake lay on his back, bandages inexpertly applied to the wounds on his scaly chest, his tail twitching back and forth, scraping the dirt away.
Michael knelt down beside him. The fire drake was not as tall as a man - not as tall as some men, anyway, he was roughly of a height with Michael himself - though if his tail were measured too he would come out longer. His body was slim and slender, with less than a foot from one shoulder to the other, and his arms looked so thin Michael marvelled that he could lift a sword let alone wield it. His scales were green, for the most part, with a thick stripe of red banded by two stripes of yellow rising from his snout to circle around his eyes like a river surrounding an island, then descending down his flanks to the tip of his tail. His legs were heavy, and his toes where sharp claws; one in particular on each foot was particularly savage looking, and curved like a sickle.
"Pater Wyrrin," Michael murmured. "Are you awake?"
Wyrrin's eyes snapped. "Michael," he said. "I'm sorry, may I call you Michael?"
Michael nodded. "You may. The right is the least that you have earned."
"I sometimes forget the right way to speak your tongue," Wyrrin said. "Your courtesies make ours look simple, and you do not even have a caste system. Well, not as I was born to, anyway. I am glad that you live."
"And I am glad of your survival," Michael said. "You are a hero to this town."
Wyrrin snorted. "I fought for my own people and saved many lives and they beat me and put me back in chains. I fought for your people and they call me a hero, I was even set free. The world is a strange place when men are kinder and more honourable than fire drakes." It was hard to tell what the lizardlike expressions of his face meant, but Michael thought that Wyrrin smiled. "I am glad to be a hero. Michael?"
"Yes?"
"Is it true there is more fighting for you ahead, that you mean to journey to save your sister from an evil man?"
Michael nodded. "So Lord Gideon says, and I will follow him."
"If my strength has returned by then, may I come with you?" Wyrrin asked.
Michael frowned. Is this the aid that Lady Silwa promised? "Why would you wish to do such a thing?"
Wyrrin exhaled heavily. "Because I would like to be a hero some more. It is everything I hoped it would be."
Michael grinned. "It is indeed; there is no sweeter nectar to the soul. If Lord Gideon will allow it then I would be honoured to fight alongside you again, Wyrrin of Arko."
Wyrrin nodded. "And you, Michael of Corona."
Two days passed on the road to Davidheyr and, with Lady Silwa's assistance, Michael's wounds healed rapidly. But they left scars. That had never happened to Michael before. Previously Miranda had left his skin as smooth as a newborn though he had come out of the arena looking like something a lion had chewed on (in one memorable instance his face had in fact been chewed on by a lion, but you would never know it now to look at him). But now...Michael sat at their campsite of that day, feeling the wound left by the Rachael's arrow in his shoulder. It was a crater in his skin, there was no other way to describe it: a red, raw crater that still ached in a low, throbbing way. His other scars were not so bad, a lump here, a tender patch there, but it felt strange to possess them. Strange...but not entirely bad. As he scratched and rubbed at them Michael found he rather liked the feeling, yet at the same time he also found that he did not particularly want to acquire any more of them.
I suppose I shall have to think a little more about how I fight, and remember I am not invulnerable any more.
"You were never invulnerable Michael, so much as you were free from consequence." Gideon sat down opposite him. "Now that you are not free you must learn to take responsibility for your actions, and that means predicting likely consequences."
"I shall endeavour to reform my thinking, my lord," Michael said as he scratched idly at his new scabs and scars; he had always possessed hands that could not bear to be idle, that required something to feel, to brush against, to scratch, to touch. His own body was as good an object of his attentions as any. "If I may my lord, how do you appear to pluck thoughts from my mind?"
"Years of experience," Gideon said glibly, and Michael did not think himself likely to get more from him.
Gideon stared at Michael for a while. "Michael, I watched you fight in the arena and I watched you fight the rebels on the temple steps. At times I could plainly see it was the same man, and at others it appeared that there were two of you with only physical appearance in common. So let me ask you something: what is it that you fight for, really?"
"I...I do not understand, my lord."
Gideon stood up and drew his sabre with a flourish. It was three feet long, with a golden-foiled hilt long enough to be gripped in one hand. The blade curved, just enough to give it a sound slashing edge while still having enough of a point for a good thrust. A ruby red as blood and the size of a duck's egg was set into the pommel of the hilt. The metal of the blade did not seem like metal at all, rather like some smith had managed to forge a blade of glass coated with a light touch of frost, Michael could practically see through it. It looked as delicate as though a breath from Michael might shatter it, yet at the same time strong enough to pierce through any armour. It was a weapon that seemed almost as though it might come alive, and strike down Gideon's enemies independent of an arm to swing it or a hand to wield. This was a sword worthy of a gentleman of high standing. This was the sword of a hero.
Gideon said, “This one is Duty, for without duty a man is no better than a beast, living from moment to moment driven by nothing more than base desires. There is no greater glory than the discharge of one’s duty, and no higher honour than to have a solemn duty bestowed upon your shoulders.” And Michael saw that, indeed, DUTY was the word engraved into the blade.
Gideon planted Duty in the ground, and drew forth his straight spatha in both hands. It was of a similar length to the sabre, but straight from hilt to tip, and the jewel in the pommel was a sapphire. The blade was black as ebony, and had an insubstantial quality like smoke to it. Neither of Lord Gideon's swords looked like any sword Michael had seen, yet at the same time they were also the most beautiful weapons he had ever beheld.
Gideon said, “And this one is Piety, for the essence of duty is to give oneself over to something higher, greater than ourselves. And the essence of piety is to comprehend that there are powers greater than ourselves in the world, and to revere them.
“These swords are more than just my weapons, Michael, they are the pillars of my character, the foundations of my virtue. They are my soul. Without my faith in Aegea the Divine, and in her dream of a single universal nation, I would not serve the Empire with all my heart. And without my duty to the Empire I would not be myself. All I am, I am for the Empire’s sake;
all I do I do for her. I worship the Empire, I love the Empire. I would be nothing without her. That is my creed, if you will. What is your creed, Michael Sebastian Callistus Dolabella, of the tribe of Ezekiel of the Coronim?”
Michael looked down at his feet. "I used to think I was born with a duty, my lord, to my family. But Miranda always laughed at that, and I wonder if she wasn't right."
"A duty that you choose is always better than one thrust upon you," Gideon said. "For it is easier to keep faith with a thing if you have pledged your heart to it of your own free will. I was born a Commenae, and so I was born to serve the Empire as my family has for the past eight hundred years: a Commenae stood at Aegea's right hand, a Commenae broke the Lavissari on the river Arrun, a Commenae was the last First Sword before the office was proscribed, from the moment I was born the pattern of my life was laid out. And I could have been content with that, served in my legion, risen in rank as an officer, or perhaps gone into politics and scrabbled after magistracies. But I did not. I wanted to become the Empire's First Sword, to revive the office after five hundred years, to restore the faith of Aegea and see the Empire's destiny fulfilled. I cannot say I was successful in all of these ambitions, and yet they burn within me as strong as ever even now. I can fight on for the Empire that is in my heart because I cannot imagine anything else. I will never retire, tend an estate, devote myself to philosophy or literature. I am the Empire's faithful servant, and I will remain so till my dying day. Is there anything which moves you in the same way?"
Michael shook his head. Being a gladiator had merely been a stepping stone to death to him, a means to go out honourably and with the love of the people ringing in his ears. The kind of passion Gideon was talking about, the kind of passion that seeped from his words, had been absent from his soul for some years now. "I am afraid not, my lord."
"Then you must find something Michael, and I shall help you. But first, draw your swords."
"Why, my lord?"
“Because I am going to teach you how to use them,” Gideon said.
"I know how to use them," Michael said with a touch of injured pride. "Three times champion of the Sea Covenant games my lord, and thrice champion of the provincial games in Davidheyr besides."
"As I said, Michael, I have observed your fight on two occasions," Gideon replied. "You are not without skill certainly: fate has blessed you with strength and speed both and you seem to know your way around the basics of swordplay. But at the best of times you are sloppy and you only get worse when you lose your temper, which seems to happen distressingly often. Come at me."
"My lord?"
Gideon adopted a guard posture, both his blades ready to strike or to defend, "You heard me. Come at me. Hard mind, if you hold back you'll never break through."
"There is no hope that I can best you, my lord," Michael said.
"Really, and why so sure?" Gideon asked, a twinkle in his eye.
"Because I have heard this tale before, my lord," Michael said. "You will humble me with your skill, and hope defeat will prick the bubble of my vanity. Without thought I can name three stories in which such a fate befalls the hero."
"Think you yourself the hero of this tale?" Gideon said, with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"No, my lord, though I have cause enough would make me one were I of noble birth or gentle temperament," Michael said. "But you are too young and proud to make an aged and unassuming master, and too highborn compared to me besides. No, my lord, you are the Hero, and I your rustic servant fit for jests and japes and such relief will prick the long dark hours that lie ahead."
Gideon's eyebrows rose. "For someone who considers themselves the light relief you are a remarkably dour and stern-faced fellow. No matter, you will be fit for more when I am done with you, much more," Gideon said. "Now, no more arguments: attack."
Michael drew his swords and closed with Lord Gideon. With his spatha he thrust at Gideon's chest. Gideon looked bored as he parried the blow and thumped Michael on the head with the flat of Piety.
"This time, make an effort," Gideon said.
Michael sprang at him, but Gideon cut his legs out from underneath him with a well placed kick to land Michael backside first upon the ground.
"Useless, absolutely pathetic," Gideon said. "How do you ever think to rescue your sister if this is the best you are capable of? Were you fighting blind men or children these last three years?"
Michael's jaw clenched.
"Miranda had best pray some other form of possible salvation presents itself," Gideon continued. "But then, she probably has already: she has learned better than to rely on you."
With a wordless cry Michael threw himself upon Gideon, blades swinging furiously. Sabre and spatha alike glanced off of Gideon's guard as Michael assailed it again and again, his face fixed in a rictus of fury. He would make Gideon eat those words, he would shove them down his throat, he would-
Gideon swept Michael's swords from out his hands with two deft blows before headbutting Michael so hard he fell to the ground.
"Stay down!" Gideon bellowed, his foot on Michael's chest. He continued in a softer tone, "I am truly sorry for those things I said, Michael, I had to rouse you to a temper in order to prove my point."
"I hope you do not take it too amiss if I do not accept your apology, my lord," Michael said as he climbed to his feet. He noticed a number of people watching him and Gideon, and he turned his face away from all of them as he hoped his dignity was less injured than his aching rump. "Your words were somewhat unbecoming of a gentleman."
"I daresay you are right," Gideon said. "But I hope you absorbed the lesson of this day: you are a brute who fights with his rage, and that has served you well against opponents who do not possess your natural gifts, or are bowled over by your ferocity in attack. But once you meet an opponent who can match your strength, your speed even your rage, then you will be as done for as any barbarian warband once their charge has been absorbed by an Imperial battle line.
"There are two ways to fight, Michael, you can either fight with virtue or with fury. Virtue, the quality of civilised men, is always superior to Fury, the quality of barbarians. That is why the Empire always triumphs over the barbarians. Fury will get you killed one day Michael, Virtue will make you invincible."
Michael frowned. "It cannot make me stronger than I am, my lord, nor faster neither."
"So certain of that, are you?" Gideon said, with one raised eyebrow.
Michael hesitated. "Not any more, my lord."
"And quite right too, young man," Gideon said loftily. "I am afraid I cannot teach you to relinquish anger, nor how to find within yourself sufficient store of virtue to accomplish our task. You must discover those answers for yourself. But in the meantime I can at least teach you how to move and fight with a little more finesse than you have been displaying previously. Try and keep calm enough to remember this the next time you find yourself in battle, won't you?"
And he began to take Michael through a series of sword stances, painstakingly showing Michael every detail of his position, even getting down to move Michael’s feet himself so that he was sure that they where properly placed. Gideon wasted no time, but neither did he rush things, making sure that everything was as he liked it before he moved on. At first Michael was confused by his instruction method, since there had been none of this in the gladiatorial school, but Gideon was not closemouthed upon the matter and as he worked he answered any questions that Michael had about his training methods. He explained that, since gladiators fought for entertainment, it was only necessary to teach the basics of how to fight since that was all the viewing public would be familiar with, and be interested in seeing. Moreover, Gideon also explained how all the precise placements of feet, legs, arms and the like made the movement of the body and the swords much easier and more economical for the body, as well as ensuring greater precision. Michael’s sloppiness, Gideon said, reduced his chances of breaking through his opponent’s defence and landing
a killing stroke, as well as leaving him vulnerable to enemy counterattacks.
Gideon took Michael through the various movements and stances for a series of sword drills, showing him how to move fluidly from one position to the next, where the sword was supposed to end up each time, and how at any point to convert his attack into a defence if the enemy reacted by attacking pre-emptively. Unfortunately, when he tried to have Michael repeat the drills at increasing speed Michael ran into problems.
"You are thinking about it too much," Gideon said. "Considering each movement separately; in battle that will get you killed. It should flow, instinctively, one stance to the next. You must be as air, Michael, touching all and yet untouchable."
"I try, my lord."
“I know, but we have so very little time,” Gideon said. “We will continue this tomorrow, but for now it is probably time to get some rest." He sat down, and began to assemble a fire for Michael and himself.
“Every morning and every evening I shall train you in the handling of the sword. And as we travel toward our destination we shall talk, that I may mould your spiritual qualities even as I craft your fighting ones.”
"I fear that may me too great a task for even your powers, my lord," Michael said.
"Nonsense Michael, you shouldn't hold such a low opinion of yourself," Gideon replied. "In time, I think you'll make a splendid hero of the Empire."
"What does the Empire need with a such a man as I, my lord?" Michael asked.
Gideon smiled sadly. “Every need in the world Michael, even if it does not realise it yet. More to the point, I rather think that I may have need of you, rather pressingly.”
Michael's brow furrowed in confusion. “What can I possibly do for you that you cannot do for yourself, my lord?”
Gideon looked back at Michael, a shadow flickering across his face, and for a moment Michael thought that he would speak. But then he looked away, concentrating upon sparking the fire with his flint. “Later, Michael, I will explain everything later.”
Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) Page 16