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

by Frances Smith

  "Ready for what?"

  Gideon smiled wearily. "To save the day, obviously. Trust in the Empress, Michael, and we will prevail."

  Michael nodded. "As you say, Gideon."

  He began to stride off towards the camp, spatha held loosely in his hand, his boots trampling down the grass as he walked towards the light of the fire.

  Michael advanced, out of the darkness and into the circle of light which spread from the camp fire. Amy, Jason, Wyrrin and Tullia were all on the ground, as were eight dozen dead warriors of the Crimson Rose. Five of them had died from grievous sword wounds, two from what looked like lightning, and one from a spell that had robbed the life from him. But, as good an account of themselves as his friends had given, it had not been enough. Amy was being held between five Rose warriors, one of whom had torn off her helmet and put a blade to her throat. One man, another broadlander, had driven his swords through Tullia's hands, pinning them to the ground while he stood astride her body like a colossus bestriding the world. Jason lay on his back, a gladiator with a trident standing over him to stop him from moving. Two rebels sat on Wyrrin's slender body, and one of them had a blade ready to strike off his head. Other rebels were standing more idly, and all of them tensed as they saw Michael approach.

  And in the midst of all, the Voice of Corona stood, his back to Michael, his long cloak covering everything beneath his helmet. His head was bowed, as though he were staring into the yellow flames and seeking enlightenment from them.

  "I knew you would come," he said, not looking round. "Men of honour are so predictable."

  "I am unsure how you would know that, having no honour of your own," Michael growled. "Nor in any of your wretched army."

  "Hardly an army, now," the Voice whispered, turning to face him. "Your interference cost us dearly. The wolves routed our brethren before the walls of Davidheyr, then hounded us day and night until all the petals of the Crimson Rose had withered away! All but one. My last band of faithful followers devoured the hearts of their weaker comrades to increase their strength, then we made our way into Deucalia to wait until the Empire's watch slumbers once more."

  Michael shook his head. "You are all monsters, beasts in human skin. For no true men would venture such savagery."

  "I would have made you a prince," the Voice declared, his volume rising as his tone became angrier. "I offered you Corona, I offered you my hand in friendship, and instead you sold your people to the mercy of the Empire. You have no right to lecture any true Coronim upon morality! You will die here, by my hand."

  The Voice paused for a moment. "It is considered folly to waste one's time pontificating before an enemy who is soon to die, and in so doing allow him the opportunity to escape his fate. Certainly I would not want you to live out the night. However, I do confess that I enjoy the sound of my own voice-"

  "I never would have guessed," Amy muttered.

  "But I believe I have found a happy medium between the two." The Voice gestured with one hand, and Michael saw someone approaching out the corner of his eye a moment before he felt the pain of a knife piercing his side. He gasped, clutching his wound as the blood flowed out of it and his body burned with white-hot flame. His hand was covered not only in blood but in black ichor.

  "The knife was poisoned with Traitor's End," the Voice said. "Your sister could heal you but, of course, she is not here. So, I may now talk to my heart's content smug in the knowledge that you cannot survive. You will die, and I will take your head to Quirian and he will make me strong again."

  Michael laughed aloud, throwing back his head. After all the lengths he had gone to seeking death, now that he sought it no longer he was being granted the mercy he had sought after for so long. It was too much, the irony too rich, he had no choice but laughter. "I was under the impression that Quirian was open to sparing my life."

  "Is he? Truth to tell I do not care," the Voice said. "The cause of Corona is greater than he is, even if his arrogance blinds him to that fact. He has been a good friend to the Crimson Rose, but I will defeat the Empire without his help, even in the teeth of his antagonism."

  "And when I am dead, what then?" Michael growled. "Will you kill my friends regardless?"

  "Of course," the Voice said. "But if you wish them to die quickly, and without too much pain, then you will tell me where Gideon Commenae is."

  Michael grinned in spite of the pain. "He is taking advantage of the distraction to prepare your death."

  "What?"

  And then, howling like a wolf, Gideon leapt out of the darkness with Duty and Piety gleaming in his hands. He was so swift, swifter than the wind itself, and he cut down six rebels before they could even raise their weapons. He was so swift that Michael could only see him by the devastation that trailed in his wake, as he scythed down the Crimson Rose left and right.

  An arrow flew out of the night to bury itself in the eye of the rebel holding Tullia down and he screamed in pain as he fell backwards. Tullia sat up, her face contorted with the pain of her injuries, and she grimaced as lightning erupted from her hands to lash the fisherman holding down His Highness.

  As more rebels died from Gideon's blade, more arrows flew out of the dark, piercing and slaying two the men holding Amy before the rest fell back in confusion.

  Amy leapt to her feet, picking up the bloody blade of Magnus Alba. "Right then, you little buggers, who's up for another go?"

  "Fall back!" the Voice yelled as his handful of followers died around him. "Fall back, all of you!"

  One man chose to ignore his orders and ran at Michael, the same man who had stabbed him earlier come to finish the job. He was as swift as the rest of them, but Michael could tell from the way he was holding the knife which way he intended to come: up through the belly, to slice Michael open. Michael waited until the swing began, then when the rebel's momentum was sure to carry him on he threw his hand into the path of the stroke. His hand roared out in anguish as the poisoned blade pierced it, but his fingers closed over the foeman's hand while with his other fist Michael shattered his arm with a single blow. Then he slew the rebel with his own knife.

  More arrows were erupting out of the night to speed up the rout of the Crimson Rose. Only the Voice of Corona stood firm, sword drawn, to buy time for his few remaining warriors. But then Gideon was on him, all other enemies fallen before his might, letting out the wolf-call of the legions as he hurled himself upon the false champion of Corona. Gideon's face was bleeding, Michael saw when he slowed down a little, the cuts forming out of nowhere as though some animal was raking his face with invisible claws, yet at the same time he moved like a god among men, unstoppable, implacable. The Voice of Corona gave ground rapidly before him. Gideon's blades struck through his cuirass, cleaving his hoplite helm in two to reveal the bloody ruin of the man beneath. His skin was rotting away and flies and maggots crawled across the surface of a face now dead and kept alive by will alone.

  The Voice's mouth moved in a grotesque parody of life. "Quirian told me you feared to use spirit magic."

  "Quirian spoke true," Gideon replied. "But fear is not the same as inability. For sufficient reason I will suffer the perils." He drove the Voice hard, dealing a dozen wounds any one of which would have been the finish of a lesser man. "For the Empire, for Michael, I will end your wretched half-life!" He thrust Piety straight for the Voice's heart.

  The Voice caught the black blade in his right hand, the sword driving through the palm and out the other side.

  "Though I cannot defeat you," the Voice said. "The time has not yet come for this rose to wither." He thrust his skeletal hand towards the ground and was concealed by a vast explosion of spirit magic. When the magic faded, the Voice was gone.

  Gideon stood still, wobbling a little upon his feet, his swords lowered to point down at the ground. When he spoke, he sounded unutterably weary. "Damn, I couldn't get him. Ten years ago he would not have escaped. Either I am old or else my powers are fading. Or perhaps it is both." His eyes, which Michael saw
had turned rich purple, returned to their natural green before they closed. Gideon began to topple forwards.

  Michael caught him in his arms. "Gideon? Gideon, what's wrong?"

  Gideon opened his eyes minutely to give Michael a half-smile. "I will be all right. I am simply very weary. I am afraid that I must rest awhile." His eyes closed again, his breathing becoming tranquil.

  Michael's brow furrowed. "It's all right, Gideon. I've got you." Pain lanced through him, and he nearly fell himself. "Although perhaps someone had better get me as well." Poison. Curse the Crimson Rose.

  It seemed he was about to die, just when he had found a reason to live. Death, I hope that, now we have reached the end of our chase, you do not expect me to greet you as warmly now as I might have done when the hunt was begun. Lord God almighty, I pray you will permit a sinner some small measure of regret, undeserved though it is, at a passing too early from a life too full of joy.

  Lady Ellyria, I pray you will forgive a poor man the inconstancy that has always been the way of a mortal heart. I could not be true to you in the end.

  He felt as though he ought to say something: some grand speech, a touching goodbye, a heroic farewell. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to go.

  He knelt, still bearing Gideon in his arms, grimacing against the pain. It had moved past his side and was now throbbing in his head now, like blows with a dull axe, or a knife piercing his eyeballs.

  He would not flinch. He would not cry out. Gladiators knew how to die: steadfast and without complaint, showing all the common people what it was to die with courage.

  "Save Miranda, our Amy," Michael whispered.

  "Michael!" Amy was shouting, but her voice was growing faint in Michael's ears as she ran to him. "Michael, can you hear me?"

  A young woman ran into the firelight. Michael thought his vision must be worse than he thought, because through the blur and the gathering dark around the edges of his eyes he could have sworn she had green skin and golden hair. She had a bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows slung across her back.

  That would explain that...if I were not seeing things, Michael thought.

  "Come with me, all of you, and bring them," the woman said. "We don't have much time."

  XIII

  Love and Politics

  As the litter swayed down the road towards the palace, Miranda tried to work out just why Princess Romana had invited her to lunch. They had spoken courteously to one another, but it hardly made them friends.

  Probably she wants to manipulate me somehow. Certainly she was brazen enough about trying to poach me for her party the last two times we met. And everyone in this city seems to be trying either to use me, manipulate me or just kill me.

  The last one in particular rankled a fair amount, although not as much as the fact that she had no idea who her real enemy was in this city.

  The fact that she had a lot of people to choose from - anyone who held high rank in the Imperial army - didn't do a lot for Miranda's temper either.

  Still, although it had occurred to Miranda that it might have been Princess Romana who had hired Catulla to kill her - she was certainly strident enough in her beliefs that Miranda could beleive she would kill for them - she was unlikely to try again while Miranda was her guest for lunch. Eternal Pantheia, Miranda was quickly learning, was the sort of city where what mattered was not the morality of what you did but whether you lost any face for doing it. That was why people killed their enemies in the dark, through hired knives, while smiling to their faces in public.

  It was not right, but it did mean that she would get a good meal and a couple of hours off work which she rather felt she needed. Lord Quirian had departed for Corona the day before, with Metella and Lucifer and fifty other members of the Lost, and Miranda had been departed not to use his absence as an excuse to slack in the production of golems - there were nearly two hundred of them by now - but she could deny she was looking forward to a rest. Matching wits with the princess would be much less arduous than standing all day vomiting magic into enormous statues to make them come alive.

  The litter stopped.

  "We're here, love," Ascanius said from outside.

  "Thank you," Miranda said, refusing Julian's offer of help as she climbed out of the palanquin. The Imperial Palace was surrounded by a large garden, rock-beds and flowerbeds, shrubs and trees, ornamental statues and ponds full of rare and exotic fish from all over Pelarius. Song birds sat in cages suspended from iron poles stuck here and there, filling the afternoon air with their melodies. Mosaics of peaceful, pastoral life made up the weaving paths throughout the grounds. Miranda's eyes widened as she saw a unicorn, its whole body shining with ethereal light, walked through some trees and looked right at her before disappearing around a corner.

  "Did I..." Miranda murmured. "Did I really see that?"

  "You did," Ascanius said. "And it wanted to see you, as well."

  "What do you mean?" Miranda asked.

  "He means they wouldn't show themselves for the likes of us," Julian said. "My grandfather told me that they used to have wings. And then they lost them."

  Ascanius nodded. "They only exist on the flag now, same as the wolves."

  A section of a dozen guards marched out to greet her in two files. Their shields bore the same design as Antiochus' men, the silver wolf on purple, but their cloaks were white, marking them as Princess Romana's men. They were led by a young lieutenant, with a goatee and a moustache that was so thin it was obviously quite new.

  "Filia Miranda Callistus?"

  "I am," Miranda said.

  The lieutenant bowed. "Lieutenant Acilius Glaborus, ma'am, Third Company, First Cohort, Household Foot. Her Highness is waiting for you in the gardens. If you will leave your attendants here and follow me."

  He led her around the side of the palace, past the purple walls, between statues of ancient emperors and generals, down the paved paths of the palace gardens, until they must have been on the far side of the giant structure, so much did Miranda's leg ache. The soldiers set a pace, she hardly had any time to admire the colours of the flowers, the singing of the birds, or any of it at all really.

  Miranda was led to a clear space, a circle covered with gravel, where she found Princess Romana training in arms. Her highness was armoured in a legionaries' mail shirt, her purple hair tied up in a messy bun atop her head, her slender legs bare beneath a leather skirt peppered with iron studs. Silver greaves protected her legs, and silver bracers her wrists. In her hands she held a spatha, such as Michael had used to use in the arena, but a little longer and more finely worked by the look of it.

  The Princess was facing off against one of her guards, a sergeant, who held a tower shield before him and a short sword warily poised to strike.

  A captain, Miranda assumed he was the captain of the Princess' guard, watched over them keenly. He had a heavyset build and a surprisingly thuggish face, and did not look especially happy. Still, he nodded and said, "Begin!"

  The Princess leapt to the attack, swinging her sword wildly. It did not take Miranda long to realise that Princess Romana was not actually very good. For all her disdain for those who practiced violence, years of anxiously watching the matches in the arena had given her some insight into the swordsman's art, and she could instantly tell that the princess had neither the strength nor the speed to make a first rate fighter. She had obviously been taught well, and she knew the technical points of using her weapon, but she did not have the physicallity she needed to go toe to toe with her larger, stronger and more experienced guardsman, who very swiftly got past her guard and put his sword to her neck.

  Princess Romana exhaled heavily as she let her sword fall to her side. "Blast. Well done, Sergeant Mallius. You are a credit to the company."

  "You improve every session, Highness," the sergeant said loyally.

  "I do not require sycophancy, thank you Gaius," the princess said sternly. "Your task is to protect my person, not my ego."

  Sergeant Mall
ius bowed his head. "My apologies, highness."

  "Oh, never apologies for trying to do a lady a kindness, sergeant." Romana chuckled, accepting a damp towel from a waiting attendant and dabbing her face with it. It was only then that she caught sight of Miranda. "Ah, Filia Miranda, how nice of you to come. I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long."

  "Not at all," Miranda said. "Watching you fight was very...unexpected."

  Romana laughed. "Did my little display entertain you?"

  "Honestly, I was more surprised by the grace with which you accepted your defeat," Miranda said. "You don't give the impression of liking to lose."

  "Filia Miranda," Romana said in a tone of mock indignation. "Are you accusing me of being a sore loser. I confess that it might flatter my vanity to be a second Aegea in all things, but I hope I am mature enough to accept that I will never be a great or even middling warrior. Nor do I need to be, for there are hundreds of thousands of brave men who can fight on my behalf, but only I can lead them to great triumphs and to greater glories.

  "After all, though Aegea was a great warrior she was an even greater general, and won the best part of her acclaim as a commander and a leader. So I shall let my soldiers do the fighting, and I shall content myself with giving them their orders and then watching from a safe distance."

  "You would like to command armies in the field?" Miranda asked.

  "Of course. I am Aegea's daughter after all. Just because I have no winged unicorn to ride nor wolf to walk besides me does not mean I am immune to the call of martial glory." Princess Romana walked briskly over to where Miranda stood. "I sometimes think that some noble ladies might make better officers than their husbands or fathers."

  "Really? Would you have them lead women legionaries, too?" Miranda asked.

  "That far I would not go," Princess Romana said. "Loathe though I am to deny any citizen who wishes with all their heart to serve the Empire the opportunity, if all our brave and dutiful women march off to the frontier to fight then where shall the next generation of legionaries come from? We must maintain our strength lest we should fall behind in the race."