"It doesn't matter," Miranda said. "Thank you, captain."
Lucifer bowed, then followed his lord back down the stairs.
Ascanius cleaned the blood of his sword and his knife, and off Catulla's knife as well, which he thrust into his own belt.
"Are you just going to keep that?" Miranda asked.
Ascanius shrugged. "It's a nice knife, and she won't need it any more."
"I suppose not," Miranda said. "So, who do you think wants me dead?"
"I think its the army," Julian said. "Your golems did what they couldn't, and stopped Lysimachus. People don't think its so ridiculous that golems could replace soldiers. But there aren't any golems without you."
"I can see your point," Miranda said. "But who in the army? There are a lot of people in it."
Ascanius shrugged. "And there are a lot of people who want you dead. I don't see how we can narrow it down."
"Maybe, maybe not," Miranda said. "Thank you for responding so promptly."
"Nothing to it, love," Ascanius said. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Miranda said. When they had both left, their footsteps echoing on the stairs, she turned to Abigail. "I think Catulla asked a very good question: what are you? You aren't even hurt. And don't tell me she missed."
"No, she struck me," Abigail conceded. "Quite precisely, too."
"Then how are you still alive?" Miranda demanded. "How are you unhurt? Why did you look so much younger during the struggle? Who are you?"
Abigail chuckled. "I'm sorry dear, but I'm afraid that's private."
Metella followed behind Danaus and Cebriones as they dragged Catulla into the dining room.
Lord Father turned around and regarded the assassin for a moment, his brown eyes cold and merciless.
"Metella," he said. "Dispose of this. Discreetly."
Metella's brow furrowed minutely. "Lord Father...you told Filia Miranda-"
"What she wanted to hear," Lord Father said. "I will not torture her, but I have no interest in letting this gutter rat live through the inefficiences of Imperial law. Get rid of her."
Metella hesitated.
"I gave you a command, Metella."
I will give you a home, I will give you a family. I will be as a father to you and I will teach you how to be so strong that nothing like this will ever happen again. And all I ask in return is your unwavering obedience. That is a bargain more than fair, is it not? Metella bowed. "As you command, my Lord Father."
Metella turned towards the assassin, Catulla, and advanced upon her. Cebriones and Danaus released her from their grasp, and she tried to take a swing at Metella, who caught the blow with one hand and twisted Catulla's wrist until she heard a snap. Catulla winced in pain. Metella applied a touch of spirit magic to her fingertips and jabbed Catulla in the stomach, sending a shock through her insides. Catulla collapsed onto her knees, coughing up blood.
"What in the-"
Metella grabbed her by the scruff of the neck like a dog grabbing a rat, and hauled to her feet. With her free hand, she reached out and the touched the ever-present veil that separated the worlds of the living and the dead. It felt like a sheet to her, like a layer of silk draped over a doorway, rippling in the wind, allowing echoes and whispers to pass between the rooms.
With a twist of her wrist, Metella tore the veil.
Catulla cried out in shock as a portal opened to the spirit world, the sight of the shadow world of death and dreams finally breaking the assassin's stoic demeanour. Ignoring her feeble protests, Metella dragged her bodily into the shadow plane, running across the grey, mist-shrouded land until she was far from Quirian's house and from Eternal Pantheia. If she were to leave the spirit realm here then she would, by her best guess, end up somewhere in Cispontine Tyronia. That seemed far enough, so she dumped Catulla on the grey, ashen ground, bleeding from her mouth, gasping for breath, staring up at Metella in uncomprehending astonishment.
"Where am I?" she asked, her voice quiet, soft, afraid.
"The realm of spirits, the dominion of the dead," Metella said. "Since Lord Father has ordered you dead, this will save disposing of the body."
"The domain of the dead?" Catulla repeated dumbly.
There was a growling sound from somewhere out of the mist. Metella recognised it at once as one of the damned souls who could not enter a true afterlife. They had not been given proper burial rights, and so their spirits wandered the shadow world until they lost all memory of who they had been in life and became monsters, preying upon more fortunate souls who still retained their humanity...and on the living who found their way into the land of the dead. They made hoarse sounds, coarse sounds, sounds like the speech of someone whose throat is dry as dust. It was far from the most horrifying cry to be found in this place, but it was enough to discomfort Catulla as she looked wildly around her, dragging herself away from the source of the noise.
"If you're going to kill me then have the nerve to do it with your own hands!" she yelled. "Don't leave me here to be eaten by monsters."
"Give me a name and I will kill you," Metella said. "Who hired you to attack Miranda Callistus?"
Catulla looked terrified, but she closed her mouth and said nothing.
There were more growls coming out of the mist now, more damned souls being drawn to the scent of life. Metella was not afraid, her spirit magic made her more than a match for them, it was only Catulla who needed to be afraid.
"A name," Metella said.
Catulla said nothing.
"Are they really worth your loyalty?" Metella asked.
"Loyalty?" Catulla laughed. "This isn't about loyalty. Do you think any of these damned patricians who send people like me to do their dirty work deserve loyalty? But if I give up their name they'll hurt my family. The kind of people who would hire me wouldn't hesitate to kill a little girl in an insulae. So you can kill me, or torture me, or watch me get devoured by whatever those things are out there, but I won't put anyone else in danger just to get an easier death."
"I see," Metella said. She turned around and began to walk away. "Goodbye."
Catulla, to her credit, did not beg. Nor did she scream. But Metella could feel her eyes upon her as she strode into the mists, and she was grateful when the fog of the spirit realm shrouded her from Catulla's sight.
"Do you think, by doing that, that you are somehow escaping any guilt for her fate?" Tyria asked as she stepped out of the mists to bar Metella's way. The skulls in her hair waved up and down of their own volition, moaning feebly for the wrongs done to them to be avenged. There seemed to be more of them than there had been when they had last met. There always seemed to be more.
"I think I have succeeded in that aim," Metella said. "Or you would be killing me instead of asking me that question."
Tyria chuckled, resting her axe upon her shoulder. "Perhaps I just like to play with my food."
"I always beleived that that was more Ellyria's weakness," Metella said.
"Yes, it is," Tyria said with a sigh. "Though if Ellyria were in my place you would be dead already. She hates you, and she wouldn't miss an opportunity to get you for something."
"Catulla is a victim of injustice?" Metella asked. "From me?"
"You have just left her to be eaten by forgotten souls," Tyria pointed out.
"She is a killer," Metella replied. "How many innocents has she put to death?"
"Eighty seven," Tyria said. "Mostly slaves who got in her way. She's not particularly discriminate. But you could argue that she is just as much a victim of injustice as they are." Tyria cracked her whip idly. "There are times when I wish I represented something simpler, like my sisters: wrath, envy, those are simple, those can be understood. But justice? Justice is complicated."
"The world is complicated," Metella said.
"That doesn't mean I have to like it," Tyria hissed. "How can I punish sinners when I can't decide who is a sinned against and who is sinning? Perhaps I should do as Ellyria does and punish everyone who is remotely guilty."
&nbs
p; "I for one am very glad that you do not," Metella said. "So what will you do about Catulla?"
"The same thing as you," Tyria said. "I'm going to let the spirits devour her." She walked past Metella, her taloned feet carrying her in the direction of the hired knife.
"Then why are you going that way?" Metella asked.
"To make sure she dies," Tyria said. She stopped, looking back at Metella. "By the way, it looks like a little girl has fallen through one of the holes in the world to the south-east of here in the land you call Stilichia. I cannot help her, but if you hurry you should get there before anything unpleasant finds her."
"I will attend to it before I return home," Metella said. "Thank you."
"If you want to thank me," the least objectionable of the three Furies said. "Try living a better life."
XII
Ambush
In place of the pool or misty plain on which he usually encountered Lady Silwa, Michael found himself standing amidst a field of swords.
They were everywhere, buried in the ground point first, or else just lying flat as if discarded by those who had wielded them. Michael recognised many of the designs: Imperial spathas, short gladii, curved falcatas that could be used to hack or thrust, curved sabres and scimitars, unwieldy barbarian broadswords. A few spears leavened the blades for variety. No, when Michael looked closer he saw that they were not spears but banners: tattered banners, their shafts jammed into the soil and the ragged, ghostly remnants of their flags hanging listless in this airless void.
"What is this place?" Michael muttered.
"Not what you were expecting, boy?" asked a voice whose familiarity tugged at the back of Michael's mind.
Michael spun around, one hand going to the hilt of Duty. "You," he growled. He recognised the man before him, recognised the bright red eye alongside the subdued blue orb, recognised that face like a bird of prey, recognised that soldier's stance. Lysimachus Castra, the man who had taken Miranda away.
"Don't scowl at me," Lysimachus said, his voice a harsh, guttural drawl. "If I hadn't done what I did your sister would be dead at the hands of the Crimson Rose."
Michael smirked. "Now is that any way to talk about your own allies?"
"They're Lord Quirian's allies, not mine," Lysimachus spat. "I hate murderers."
"But you serve Lord Quirian," Michael pointed out.
"Because Lord Quirian will bring about peace," Lysimachus said. "An end to all wars. Does that not seem a thing worth fighting for?"
"Speaking selfishly I fear that I must answer no," Michael replied. "What would a man like me do in a world devoid of conflict?"
"There is no place in paradise for the likes of you or me," Lysimachus said. "But is that not a sacrifice worth making?"
"'Tis not worth shedding blood for," Michael said. He licked his lips. "What am I doing here?"
"I brought you here," Lysimachus said. "So that I could give you a chance to see sense."
"And kill me if I don't, I'll wager," Michael said, drawing Duty forth from its scabbard. "If it's all the same to you, if we are to fight I would sooner fight now than later."
Lysimachus chuckled. "A field of swords all around you and you reach for your own blade."
"I don't know these swords," Michael said. "There might not be a single blade to suit me."
Lysimachus smiled. "Smart boy. That's what the highborn don't understand: Emperors, lords, officers, they think all blades are alike. Different names, same purpose, all tools to kill their enemies. What you and me know, what warriors know, is that every weapon is unique. Each one weighs different, feels different, has a different soul inside from when it was forged. We respect our swords because we understand that uniqueness. You have to respect your blades, and that's what the nobly born won't ever understand. And so they ruin their swords through misuse, or else cut their hands upon them."
"Is there a purpose to this prating?" Michael asked, his lip curling into a sneer.
"The point is that you're nothing but a weapon to Gideon Commenae, and you're a fool if you think otherwise," Lysimachus snapped. "He'll use you up until you break or cut him."
Michael shook his head. "You are the fool if you think I will trust you over my good lord."
Lysimachus laughed derisively. "I was where you are once, you know. Gideon Commenae plucked me out of the ranks, and I was flattered by his attention. I was the first, then Leonatus Dorieus after me, then you, now. You think he cares about you? I thought he cared about me, but there's no room in that black heart of his for aught but duty and ambition."
Michael raised Duty, pointing at Lysimachus's throat, his teeth bared in a snarl. "Defame my lord again and I will carve the greatness of his name into your flesh though this be but a dream, you have my word."
"I'm trying to help you, boy," Lysimachus said, calmly. "Has he ordered you to kill for him yet?"
"Of course, in battle."
"I'm not talking about battle, I'm talking about murder," Lysimachus said. "Has he ordered you to slit a throat in the dead of night, for no other reason than his convenience?"
"No," Michael replied coldly. "He has not."
"He will," Lysimachus said confidently. "He ordered me to do so, and Leo too." He waved his arms around the field of swords on which they stood. "This is what he made of my soul: every blade that lies here is a life I took, every tattered flag is a principle I held which he shredded into rags through his cursed orders. He will destroy your soul and never care, so long as his will is done and his goals accomplished."
Michael smirked. "You do not know me. You may have sat at my lord's feet once but you do not know, cannot know, the effect he has had upon me. My soul was black as filth long ere he entered my life, it is due solely to Gideon's efforts that I am, as you now see me, man rather than beast. Do you imagine that I am some innocent, that I have never taken a life before? I have killed in the dead of night, I have taken pleasure from other men's pain and from my own. Yet you would save me from him? What arrogance. Do not presume that experience is a substitute for wisdom, and do not presume to know the hearts of other men based solely on a study of your own."
Lysimachus regarded Michael coolly for a moment. "Words. How many of them do you really mean, I wonder? If he were to order you to kill a woman who had given you hospitality, or a babe in the cradle, would you find it so easy."
"I would not," Michael said. "But I know that my lord will never give such an order."
Lysimachus chuckled. "Forgive me for not sharing your confidence. But now, I think it's time for me to go."
There were sounds in the mist all around them: growling, snarling, humming. Two people humming in unison, a sound that chilled Michael's blood.
"Furies," he whispered. "How did they find me."
"I think they're here for me," Lysimachus said quietly. "You see, boy, you've been talking to a dead man this entire time."
Michael's eyes widened as two of the three Furies emerged from the mist: Ellyria in the lead and Tyria following.
"Lysimachus," Tyria hissed. "The time has come for you to answer for your offences."
Lysimachus glanced at Michael as he whispered, "Think on what I have said to you: if you survive." He turned to face the Furies, arms spread wide, palms open. His voice rang loud and clear. "I am willing to be suffer for my sins, taking comfort in the knowledge that, as I will now be punished for the suffering of others, so those who caused my suffering will soon be punished in their turn. Do with me as you will."
Ellryia purred as Tyria advanced, the Fury of Justice coming to claim one who had by his own admission sinned against such a thing. She had neither her axe nor her whip, her scaly hands were as empty as Lysimachus's.
"You are willing to suffer for the villages in Oretar?" she asked, stroking Lysimachus's face with her long claws. "For the innocents you slew, for those you left to starve. For those you could have saved, but chose not to? For the three hundred and eighteen lives that lie on your conscience, who died at your hands, cr
ying out for justice?"
Lysimachus closed his eyes. "For every last one of them."
Tyria made a sound that was half growl, half purr. Then she plunged one hand into Lysimachus' chest and he screamed as he began to burn up before Michael's eyes.
"Then await me in the den of our sisterhood, where you shall be tormented for a tale of years as long as I judge fitting," Tyria snapped. "Blood shall be answered, the dead shall be avenged. Those who could not harm you in life will take solace knowing that you were not so well protected in the next world."
Lysimachus' soul was consumed in fire, and the echo of his screams did not end until Lysimachus had disappeared completely.
"As you sin," Tyria murmured. "So shall you suffer."
"A fine catch, sister," Ellyria declared. "The question is: will you go so quietly, Michael?"
Michael settled into a guard. "I have no intention of going anywhere with you while so many yet have need of me."
A flaming sword sprang into Ellyria's hand. "Can you deny I have the right to claim you? You killed the Lursus brothers in a fit of rage, do you deny it? You tortured Judas while in my embrace. So much wrath, so many times you have come to me. Why will you not come to me now? Do I not please you as I once did? Have you not often prayed to Turo for the gift of death?"
"That was before," Michael said.
Ellyria tilted her head to one side. "Before? Before what?"
"Before I had something to live for."
Ellryia snarled. "And what of your victims, had they not something to live for? You are mine, Michael, and I will have you."
There was a blue flash as Metella appeared between Michael and the Furies.
"Not today," Metella said, as her palms glowed with light. The Furies howled with frustration as she banished them from sight.
Michael exhaled deeply. "It appears I am in your debt again, ma'am, though I am curious to know the reason for it."
"They would have killed you," Metella said simply. "You are not strong enough to face them."
"Yet you are, ma'am?"
"No mortal is," Metella said. "But I know a few tricks, and I, unlike you, have not transgressed their code, they cannot harm me. What did you do to anger them?"
Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) Page 42