"Aye, my lord," Michael did not, could not agree with that assessment, that would confine so many of Corona's heroes to irrelevance; but he had no wish to antagonise Gideon.
"Good, then carry on," Gideon came for him again.
"May I ask you a question my lord," Michael said as he swatted away Gideon's counterattack. "Why is it that you haven't used Spirit Magic to defeat Quirian?"
Gideon stopped fighting so swiftly that Michael nearly impaled him.
"I tried," Gideon said softly. "I failed."
"You mean he defeated you, my lord?" Michael could scarce believe it.
"As I told you Michael, spirit magic is more than anything a test of character: I failed the test and the magic damn near killed me in consequence."
"But-"
"You will forgive me, Michael, if I do not wish to dwell upon my shame," Gideon said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "May we return to your training?"
"Of course, my lord. I am sorry," Michael said.
"Now," Gideon said. "Your enhanced speed and strength should not make you careless in your form and actions; it is very easy to be lulled into a false sense of security while using spirit magic, and forget to take care of your physical wellbeing. All pain is numbed while in the spirit state: as the bonds between soul and body are weakened, so the physical sensations of the body are felt less keenly. Yet the effects are there nonetheless, and will assert themselves as soon as the magic fades. I could cut off your head and you would keep fighting so long as you remained in the spirit state, for the only way to kill a foe who is in the spirit state is to destroy their heart. Yet as soon as you left that state you would die, so don't do anything too rash on the basis the magic will protect you. On top of which, the enhanced abilities the magic grants you will take their toll on a body unused to them, so don't be surprised if our little session wears you out more than you might expect. The first time I used spirit magic I spent the next three days in the surgeon's tent unable to move."
"Are you sure this was such a good idea my lord?"
"Certainly," Gideon said. "Now-"
A horn sounded. Then another, then another and soon the air was alive with the sound of horns, horns blowing beyond the walls.
"The Crimson Rose," Michael muttered.
Both men started to run towards the walls. They burst out of the yard to find the people crying out in confusion, looking this way and that.
"Is it the attack? Are they coming for us?"
"Any man who is prepared to fight to defend his home and his kin, with me!" Michael bellowed. "The rest of you, stay here and pray to God. He will not forsake us, I swear it."
Amy, Jason and Tullia joined Michael and Gideon as they ran to the ramparts, men and boys following in their wake. They found the walls already manned by all the surviving provincial comitatus, the limitanei and the urbani who had survived the ambush at Ameliorahem, and by the revenue men whom Amy had led to the walls. But they were few in number for what they had to defend, and there was more than enough space for Michael and company and all of those who followed in their wake to line up on the earthen parapet, though they had but knives and sticks for their defence. Judah was there, clutching his blade so tight his knuckles had turned white.
"Sergeant, what's going on?" Amy demanded.
"They've formed for battle, ser," Levi said. "But they're not advancing."
Michael found he could see in the dark more easily than usual. He could see the host of the Crimson Rose, formed beneath the tribal standards and the banners of the Rose, facing the walls of Davidheyr in a menacing crescent-shaped mass. The moonlight glinted off the armour of those that had it, the night breeze wafted through their flags. Apart from the incessant sounding of their war-horns, they were completely silent.
He could not see any sign of ladders or siege equipment.
"No way to scale the walls, no way to breach them," Amy muttered, shaking her head. "Are they going to stand on one another's shoulders and then climb over the defences?"
"Perhaps they expect us to surrender?" Gideon said. "Someone appears to be coming to parley with us."
The Voice of Corona had advanced out from amidst his troops, walking slowly and alone towards the gates of Davidheyr. His hands and arms were hidden within his long cape, which fluttered softly as he walked. The crest of his helmet was red and burned like fire. His bronze helmet glinted under the light of the moon and stars.
"He's got a nerve, hasn't he?" Amy growled. "Jason, do you think you can use your sorcery to shoot him?"
"I would rather not use the gift the gods have given to mankind to take life," Jason said.
"Is that a 'no', or is it 'I don't want to'?" Amy demanded.
"We cannot shoot a man approaching to parley," Michael said. "It would dishonour us and our cause."
"Would he be as restrained?"
"Probably not," Michael conceded. "But all the more reason to show the difference in our spirit. What have we to fear from any words that he might say?"
"You'd be surprised," Amy muttered.
The Voice advanced to within a spear's throw of the wall and then he called out, his deep bass voice rumbling through the night air. "Michael Sebastian ban David. The third time which I foretold has come. For the last time, I would have speech with you."
Michael cried, "If you wish to parley for the fate of this city then it is to my lord that you will speak, for he commands in absence of any captain or magistrate."
"I have no need to bargain with the wolves," the Voice said. "The city is mine whenever I wish to make it so. My words are for you, Michael, and you alone."
"Then it is a pity you drew such a large audience with your horns," Michael replied.
"Will you not come down from there and follow me somewhere private, that we may discourse as gentlemen without their uncouth interruption?"
"I think not," Michael said. "Forgive me, but I have some difficulty placing any stock in the honour of a man who has behaved as you have done."
The Voice laughed. "I suppose that I can hardly blame you: were our positions reversed I would not freely enter the camp of the Empire. Yet it is a pity that we must bellow at one another like this like rival bulls in different meadows."
"What is it that you want?" Michael demanded. "Say your piece and be gone."
"Very well, your highness, it is nothing less than this: Michael Sebastian, I would offer you the crown of Corona."
"Offer you the what?" Amy said.
Michael's eyes widened, of all the things he had expected the Voice of Corona to come out with, he had certainly not expected that. "If you came here but to mock me, then you are wasting your time."
"It is no mockery," Corona said. "You are the descendant of Gabriel, the last of the blood of David. The line of Simon is extinct, and the house of Rheoboam which succeeded to the throne has died out also. You are the last scion of the ancient dynasty, the blood of Old Corona flows within you. Join me, and all the power of the Crimson Rose will stand ready to raise you to your rightful place and there defend you against the power of the Empire and Quirian alike. Once Corona's ancient liberties are restored we will even go to war to rescue your sister, if that is the Prince's command.
"Think of it, Your Highness, in place of a soldier and a naiad, a bastard and a mage, you would have all the strength of the Crimson Rose at your disposal. And once the people hear that their prince has come home to them, every honest man in Corona will take up arms and cry out 'Freedom! Liberty! Death to the Empire!' I offer you not only the power and position that are your due, but the means to protect all those who are dear to you. And all you need do is step aside, and let us deal with those who seek to bend you to evil purposes.
"You have a generous spirit, fitting in a prince, but you must know that those who claim to be your friends are but wicked councillors manipulating you for their own purposes. We are your family, Michael, you belong with us. Accept it now, and take command as we strike a blow for liberty, god and country."
Michael had his eyes tight shut, trying not to imagine the reactions of his friends to what he had just heard. He wanted to be sick, he wanted to scream and shout, to damn Corona and the Crimson Rose straight to the maelstrom. He thought of his mother, dying in her son's arms, and of Felix's hand left upon his doorstep. He thought of himself standing shoulder to shoulder with those responsible and his heart was filled with revulsion at the notion.
And yet.
And yet they had offered him the power to save Miranda. An army at his command, to direct to whatever purpose he saw fit. And the Crimson Rose would have information gleaned from its alliance with Quirian. With their help, a rescue might well be possible much quicker, much easier, than by following Gideon. And if the price for that was personal discomfort, shame, loneliness, was that not a price worth paying? If he had to abandon and betray Gideon, Amy, everyone, was that not his duty as a brother? Did he have the right to abandon Miranda to her fate upon a point of honour, because he did not feel like doing what was necessary to rescue her? A man takes care of his family, whatever that entails; Michael's mother had taught him that long ago, and it seemed like he had certainly reached whatever now. It might stick in his craw, it might fill him with self-loathing, but it was all for Miranda and did that not make it all worthwhile? In the end, Turo would understand, mother would understand, Felix would understand. It was all for Miranda, as it had always been. And if he accepted this crown the Rose had offered him, he might even be able to command them to spare his comrades. Amy was a naiad, the rebels would revere her, she might even join him if he asked it of her. And as for the rest, he would command them to be taken alive, and never need to see them die. He would have to live with the looks of betrayal upon their faces, but it was his family at stake, and he had a duty to them. Lord Gideon would understand duty, surely. He could save Miranda, and it might not even cost any lives.
No, all it would cost would be his ability to look at himself afterwards. All it would cost would be every ideal he had ever clung to in the long dark nights, everything he had ever tried to become. All it would cost would be anything about him that Miranda might still have respected, any hope he had ever had of redeeming himself, becoming a better man than the one he was.
All it would cost would be his soul. And Michael found that was not a coin he had it in himself to spend.
"You certainly how to tempt a man, I will grant you that," Michael said. "Unfortunately, though I would give my life to save Miranda, what you ask of me is much more than that, and it is a price too high. Therefore, my answer must be this." He grabbed a pilum from one of the soldiers and cast it at the Voice of Corona. The javelin flew straight and true, and buried itself in his chest.
He did not fall. He did not even move. The leader of the rebellion stood in the middle of the field like a grisly scarecrow, a spear sticking out of him, and for longest moment did not move. Yet he was unquestionably alive.
"Gabriel's wounds," Michael murmured.
"Was there ever a man there at all?" Jason said.
"There must have been, or who did I parley with?" Michael said. "But how can he yet live?"
"For the same reason, I would guess, that you could hit him in the dark," Gideon said.
"Spirit magic?" Michael hissed. "But he's a murderer! He is responsible for all the suffering of this province!"
"Selfless motives and pure intent, Michael, I said nothing about being right from an outside perspective," Gideon said. "In fact, I'm sure I said the opposite."
The Voice of Corona laughed, a deep throaty laugh, as one hand slowly emerged from the all concealing cloak to draw the spear out of his chest, "You have a strong arm, Michael, worthy of the heroes of old. Or should I say you have a mighty soul? Are you that surprised that I can wield this power? I am a Coronim patriot: of the two of us, I alone am willing to die for the sake of this country."
He dropped the spear and ran forward, his hand beginning to glow with an eerie blue light. Arrows fired from the ramparts, but the Voice of Corona dodged all of them as he reached the gate and slammed his hand into the wooden gates.
The Voice's hand glowed even brighter than before and then the gates were rent asunder in a giant explosion, splinters of wood blasting backwards into the street.
"Maelstrom's Fury!" Amy cursed. "No wonder they didn't bring any sodding ladders!"
The warriors of the Crimson Rose let out a great howl and stormed forwards, their banners advancing as their soldiers beat spears on shields as they came on.
Michael stepped up onto the very lip of the rampart. "Amy, hold the gate!"
"Wait, what are you-"
Then Michael leapt, landing like a cat on his feet upon the ground below.
Slowly, with studied ease, the Voice of Corona turned to face him. "So, it seems that we could not talk as gentlemen, but we may fight as spirit warriors. Tell me, traitor, what cause do you hold so dear that is as powerful as my love of country?"
Michael drew his swords. "Your Corona would be a land bereft of honour or chivalry, stripped of all that made it great. I may not care for the forms of Corona's independence, but I embody the spirit of this nation better than you ever will! I am Michael Sebastian Callistus Dolabella ban Ezekiel, the last Firstborn of old Corona, and I will defend the Coronim to my last breath!"
"Then let us match our souls in combat that ennobles men, and we shall see whose cause enjoys the favour of Turo," the Voice of Corona cast Michael's spear right back at him, then leapt to the attack.
The spear moved sluggishly, or perhaps it was just that Michael's perception had improved because he was able to cut the spear in half with a single swing of his sword. The shattered pieces clattered to the ground in front of him as Michael charged to meet the Voice.
The Voice drew a sword in one hand and an axe in the other, the same weapons that Gabriel had used once he had thrown the spear that casts a long shadow. "So you still cling to the slave title that the Empire gave you? The mocking name of the Last Firstborn? So be it, then your fate will be the same as theirs!"
They came at one another like two bulls in the mating time who, flushed with the pride of their youth and strength, crash together in a locking of horns and a pushing of muscles. Just so did Michael clash with the Voice of Corona amidst the ringing of sword on sword and their appeals to God to judge them worthy.
Michael's spirit magic was making him faster than Lord Gideon, and stronger than Michael had ever been before. But the Voice of Corona had spirit magic too, and it made him swifter than a hyrcanian beast and stronger than a river in spate. Both men were aware that a single blow could shatter limbs or sever them, that though they might fight with the power of their souls until time ended and the world cracked, once they let go of this miraculous gifts the injuries that they had sneered at would lay them low. So they fought like eagles duelling in the air, circling one another, darting forwards then retreating back, flowing here and there like water, pirouetting around each other like a pair of dancers. Their blades would clash, Corona's axe would strike at Michael's spatha with fierce force, but neither would stay close enough to the other for an exchange of blows such as would break the battle line, nor would they stand toe to toe and strike at one another like boxers with their hands clad in ox-hide strips. Instead they were like two armies, marching and counter-marching upon the plain, who skirmish with one another but are each too fearful of the other's strength to bring on the clash of arms that decides the destiny of nations.
"You are skilled with your swords," the Voice of Corona murmured as he retreated a few paces. "You would have been a great warrior for your people, had you chosen a different path."
"And you are a Jonathan reborn," Michael replied. "Complete with all the vices that make him so inferior to Gabriel as a hero and a man."
The Voice laughed. "Like Jonathan, I do what I must to free those I love from cruel enslavement. Anything. You may be able to stand against me, but can you hope to oppose all the strength of a free Corona?"
>
Michael looked west, to where the army of the Rose was nearly on them. In all their duel neither he nor the Voice had strayed far from the gate.
Michael smiled thinly. "Call me not fallen till all life's blood has fled. If God wills it, I will resist you all."
And as the host of the Crimson Rose came close, Michael dived in amongst them like a seagull diving into the water to catch a tasty fish. He tore into them, cutting down gladiators and slaves, fanatics and opportunists alike. They turned their spears towards him, but he laughed as he sliced through their spear shafts and slew all those who wielded them. He split helms with his blows, sliced through shields, pierced cuirasses of bronze and iron. He cut down the standard bearer for the banner of the ban David, and trampled it into the dust - praying for forgiveness as he did so - and roared out his victory as the Crimson Rose fell before him.
The Voice of Corona howled as he threw himself on Michael, axe and sword glinting under the moonlight, and the two warriors resumed their duel. This time the arena was a little more crowded, and they darted here and there as warriors dashed around them, the ranks of the rebels disintegrating as each man raced to be the first man to the gates of Davidheyr. Saving only the Voice, every man seemed slow to Michael, and with one blade he fended off the Voice and with the other he cut down the common rebel herd as they tried to evade his fury.
"With me, Coronim!" the Voice yelled. "With me, and bring this traitor down! Slay him and the city is ours!"
A group of hoplites, veterans of the rebellion of the Rose, charged forward, shields locked, spears levelled. Lesser warriors followed, brandishing swords and clubs and staves. There was a flash of lightning and the hoplite in the centre fell with a crash upon the sandy ground. Then Gideon was amongst the heavy foot, Duty and Piety weaving their deadly arcs as the rebel formation collapsed.
Tullia leapt from the wall to land at Michael's back. She had a knife in one hand, lightning blazed in the other, and she cut one foeman's throat at the same time as slamming her lightning palm into the chest of another. He convulsed and jerked like a puppet before he fell.
Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) Page 30