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

by Frances Smith

  "Physical strength is immaterial," the Voice said. "No body, no matter how strong, can equal up the power of a soul filled to the top with passionate devotion."

  Wyrrin leapt upon his back, his claws scything down into the Voice's shoulders as the fire drake stood upon them, black blades out, edges placed against the Voice's neck.

  In two smooth strokes he clove through the Voice's dead flesh, severing his head completely from his body.

  And then Wyrrin hesitated, clearly waiting for the head to fall off and the headless trunk to collapse to the ground.

  Neither happened.

  The Voice raised his skeletal hand, but Wyrrin jumped from the Voice's back before he could lose his leg, landing gracefully on the ground between Jason and the Voice.

  "I remember you," the Voice said. "The fire drake who slew my Rachael. Die now, alongside the Empire's cringing dogs!" the Voice threw his blade of steel aside and conjured up a blade of blue spiritual fire in his hand.

  Wyrrin bared his teeth as he threw himself into the battle, blades weaving. The Voice held him off without difficulty for a few moments until, languidly, he broke through Wyrrin's guard and sliced open his chest.

  Wyrrin cried out aloud as he fell to the ground, yellow blood ebbing from a wound like a gaping mouth.

  Jason pointed his staff at the Voice as though it were a spear. "Mithrok, Lord of the Earth, Thanates, Mistress of the Air, Stratos, Lightning Lord, combine thy powers in me to form the shield that breaks the battle line!"

  A shield of translucent light, crackling with power, appeared between him and his foe as the runes upon his staff glowed yellow. The shield surged forward, barrelling towards the Voice, trampling grass and undergrowth beneath it like a charge of cavalry.

  "Pathetic," the Voice growled, raising up his bony hand to stop the onward rushing shield dead in its tracks. His hand glowed, and the shield was shattered as a burst of blue fire leapt towards Jason like a river rushing forth in spate.

  Jason spoke desperately, conjuring another shield before himself which shattered before the Voice's attack, but seemed to have absorbed the worst of the damage, so that the fire which reached him only punched him off his feet instead of burning him alive.

  Still, he hit the ground with a solid thump, and did not stir. Most likely he had been knocked out. There would be no more help from him either.

  Have we so offended you, Lord Turo, that we must come to so ignominious a fate? Amy asked.

  "Now then," the Voice murmured to himself. "With so many helpless victims to choose from, who shall die first?"

  "Not so helpless yet," Amy growled as she pushed herself up to her feet, leaning on Magnus Alba to steady her as she faced the Voice, who turned to face her once again. Slowly, he began to advance upon her.

  "Do you really think that armies of Coronim patriots will follow a talking corpse whose head is not even attached to his body?" Amy asked, her breath steadying a little as she waited for him.

  "I think they will follow anyone who promises to liberate them from the Empire's tyranny," the Voice replied. "And the more ties with the physical world I sever, the more power I have to see the Empire fall." He raised his skeletal, flesh-scoured hand and the flame within it blazed.

  Amy raised Magnus Alba to block the blast, the ancient blade forged by fire drakes with spells long forgotten in the earliest age of the elder races catching the magical blast as it sped towards her. It took no hurt, no damage, deflecting the Voice's spirit magic around Amy to massacre the trees of the wood behind. Amy felt heat through her visor, felt the pressure on either side, but was not harmed.

  The fire died, the Voice's attack spent. She knew from Davidheyr that it would take him time before he could use it again. And in that time Amy planted her sword in the ground, prayed he did not attack with his spectral sword, picked up the tree she had shattered and threw it at him.

  "Pointless!" the Voice spat, slicing the trunk in half with his spirit sword and batting both halves away.

  But Amy, who had sprang for him even as the log soared through the air, was on him, Magnus Alba sweeping up, past his guard, to cleave him from crotch to shoulder. Congealing blood, dead blood, sprayed from his body to spatter upon Amy's breastplate. Flies, disturbed from the corpse, buzzed off into the blue sky. Grubs dropped to the ground.

  Amy waited for the two halves of the Crimson Rose's captain and champion to follow suit.

  Then the Voice began to laugh. It was a hollow, eerie sound, that would have been eerie even had it not been coming from a man who had just been sliced into not-quite equal halves.

  "Did you expect me to simply collapse into a heap of dead flesh?" the Voice demanded as his body began to glow with a visible blue aura, binding his severed corpse together. "Do you understand nothing? You could burn my mortal remains to ashes and so long as some true Coronim would pluck my heart from the fire I would pursue you still! At first I thought this was a last resort to stave off death but I was wrong. I have transcended life and death themselves to become the pure embodiment of Corona's desire for liberty!"

  He slashed at her with his spirit blade. Amy parried, the force of his blow forcing her back. He drove his flaming, bony hand towards her stomach. Amy squirmed like an eel. The blow caught her on her side and Amy screamed as she was blown backwards, sections of breast and back plate torn apart, her side burning as she rolled along the ground, clutching her wound in agony.

  She tried to rise, tried to reach for the sword that had been wrenched from her grasp, but the pain in her side was such that she couldn't even sit up, let alone stand.

  The Voice's spectral weapon pointed downwards, towards her heart.

  Gideon, Jason, I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.

  Fia, I'm sorry, but it looks as though I won't be winning any great glory for either of us.

  I'm sorry, mother. It seems I am not strong enough to avenge you.

  The Voice drew back for a killing thrust. His spiritual blade struck forward like a blue serpent-

  And rammed into Michael's open palm, coming to rest an inch from Amy's shoulder.

  Amy gasped. "God under the ocean."

  Michael stood between her and the Voice, his fingers closing around the Voice's hand, his face set in a determined scowl. A light breeze ruffled his long black hair.

  "I swear to God," Michael said. "You shall not harm them."

  Michael opened his eyes and sat up.

  He was... he was not quite sure where he was, save that he was not where he had expected to be.

  He was dead. That was a fact. Felix had stabbed him through the gut and he had died.

  So why was he sitting in the middle of a grassy field, morning dew upon his fingertips, flowers growing around him, light mist and white clouds blocking out the sun? Where were the maelstrom's torments, where were the screams of the guilty and the jubilation of the innocent, where was God glowering down upon him, where was his judgement?

  Admittedly, he probably hadn't been given a Turonim funeral yet, so that might explain why he did not yet stand in the sight of God, but then what was he doing here? Where was he? Should he not wait in the realm of spirits, the domain of death and dreams as Lady Silwa had named it, being hunted by monsters and ghouls until the gates of the ocean should be opened to him, if they ever were? Where was this place, and why was it so peaceful and empty?

  "This place is of the spirit world, but it is not part of it," the soft, cultured voice of a young man said. Michael looked around, standing up at the sight of a brown haired, blue eyed boy in a pristine white toga looking down at him.

  "As the house is of the town, yet separated from it by its walls, so is this place a part of the spiritual plane, but separated and maintained by the will of the Empress Aegea," he said. Michael noticed that he bore a golden herald's staff in his hand.

  "Who are you?" Michael asked.

  "I serve Aegea," the boy replied. "She has brought you here because she would have speech with you. Follow me, if you please,
and I will bring you to her."

  Aegea? Shes wishes to speak with me? Michael had never been quite certain if Lord Gideon's tales of the Divine Empress were true. The thought of standing in her presence filled him with trepidation. He stepped backwards. "What does her Majesty want with me?"

  The boy smiled. "Would it not be easier to listen with your own ears?"

  Michael scowled. "It would be easier for you to tell me."

  "I do not know. It is not my place to ask, but to obey. Come." The boy turned away. "We must make haste, Tanuk may already be hunting for you."

  Michael followed, in absence of anything better to do. The youth led him through fields of long, overgrown grass and wildflowers, across a babbling stream of clear water which ran down from a low hill upon the horizon. A hill on which, Michael saw as they drew closer, a fortified camp had been erected; a palisade of wooden stakes surrounding the tents, and a ditch dug around the hillside to deter intruders.

  He fancied he could see torches from within the palisade.

  "This place is the more strange for being familiar," Michael murmured.

  "This is the field of Eudora, site of my greatest victory," it was a woman who spoke, and as she spoke she galloped out of the mist upon the back of a white winged unicorn.. "Upon this place I met the combined armies of Argonia, the Daric League and the Tarquin Kingdom all arrayed against me. And I shattered them all in a single day, I and my brave and faithful children."

  Michael did not wait for the herald to kneel before dropping to one knee himself. He needed no servant centuries dead to tell him that here stood the Empress herself. Everything about her proclaimed it to the world.

  She was a commanding woman, tall and seeming taller for being mounted. Her eyes were deep purple, her look sharp, her gaze imperious. She had that quality that Gideon possessed, of being able to see right through a man, exposing all pretence, save that she possessed that sense in an abundance that even Gideon lacked. In her eyes Michael felt all his defences shrivelling away, and he stood naked body and soul before her.

  Her helm was tied to her saddle, exposing her long purple hair that looked so beautiful. Her skin was pale, her features sharp. She was armoured as a soldier for battle, in a mail coat and manicae, with a sword at her hip and a shield upon her arm. All that remained was for her to pin up her hair and put on her helmet and she would be fit to face any foe or peril.

  Her winged unicorn mount had a coat the colour of shimmering samite, and it shone bright in this sunless fog. The feathers of its wings looked softer than the finest goose-down, and its mane was long, flowing and purple as the hair of Aegea herself.

  A wolf near as tall as Michael trotted at her heels, with grey fur and dark eyes, baring its large, sharp fangs. They were the same wolf and unicorn, Michael realised, as were depicted on the Imperial standards of the Legions, the same beasts he had seen on the colours of the Thirty Fifth at Davidheyr.

  Of course, not even the unicorn seemed to shine as brightly in this place as did the Empress herself. It was not, Michael realised, that this world was without a sun. In this world Aegea herself was the sun, walking in absence of it and giving day regardless. She radiated majesty, command; Michael wanted to run and flee from her in awe and terror, but since he could not he settled for burying his face in the ground and averting his eyes from her. There was something in her, some quality he would have gladly called Majesty and Mistress had they met in living circumstances; there was another quality he might have called Mother too, had he dared to do so.

  "Raise your eyes, son of the Empire," Aegea commanded him in a tone that brooked no dissent. It was a voice to which orders seemed natural, yet from which coldness would seem strange. A voice for command, yet a voice for passion too. "Herald, you are dismissed. Thank you."

  "I am at Your Majesty's service."

  As Michael looked up, the herald disappeared before his eyes.

  Aegea laughed at Michael's confusion. "Those who have dwelt long in the spirit realm soon learn to use its nature to their best advantage." She dismounted, patting the unicorn on the snout. It snorted appreciatively.

  "I am Aegea the Great, Aegea the Founder, Aegea the Ascended; by the right of victory and the grace of heaven I am the Divine Empress of All Pelarius, Triazica, Liandra and any lands that lie between or may be found beyond. I am Mistress of the Legions, Defender of the City and Mother of the minotaurs." Aegea strode towards him, her boots trampling down the grass which sprung up again as soon as she moved on, "Why do you imagine I have brought you here, Michael Callistus?"

  "In truth, Majesty, I know not."

  "You are here so that I may do this," Aegea said as she struck him hard across the face with an armoured hand.

  Michael had never imagined that something could hurt after you were dead. He was sorely mistaken as that blow which knocked him on his back hurt more than a lot of things had while he was alive.

  "I suppose you have no idea why you deserved that?" Aegea asked.

  "Majesty, I know that I have done many-"

  "Oh spare me the rhetoric of nothing that is your endless round of self-loathing deprecation. I would say that I hoped you realise that it is all but another form of aggrandising yourself by the size of your flaws, but of course you do not realise that and that is precisely the point. You are the most wretched, cowardly, weak-willed, selfish, arrogant, vainglorious creature it has ever been my misfortune to encounter."

  "Selfish?" Michael said. "Selfish? I sold myself into bondage for my sister's sake, since when did such sacrifice become decried as selfishness?"

  "Since you sold yourself for your own pleasure, not for hers," Aegea replied. She gestured with one arm, and phantoms of Michael and Miranda when they had both been younger appeared before the two of them.

  "Don't go Michael, I don't want to be all alone," Miranda pleaded with him on her knees.

  Michael stood with his back to her. "I must go, Miranda. Better to have coin than be a poor maid with a poorer brother at your side. You need money more than you need me."

  "No I don't! I need you, I want my brother! Michael!" Miranda reached for his hand, but Michael stepped forward so she missed, nearly falling on her face instead.

  "One day you will thank me, little sister," Michael said calmly as he walked away.

  "Clearly you were suffering greatly," Aegea remarked flatly.

  "I just wanted her to be happy," Michael replied.

  "Of course you did, that's why she was crying as you went to spend the next seven years of your miserable life indulging your heroic fantasies while she was all alone. You were freed from all cares and responsibilities and were able to play the warrior to your hearts content. Miranda had to learn to raise herself in a world that gave her little thought and cared less for her wellbeing. Who do you really think was worse off of the two of you? Be honest, for the first time in your life."

  Michael shook his head. "I had never thought of it that way."

  "No. That does not surprise me. Have you ever thought of anyone but yourself? Did you consider how she would feel as you courted death in the arena?"

  "She wouldn't have cared, she didn't want me by then," Michael said heatedly.

  "Then why did she offer you freedom more than once?"

  "Because, because..." Michael scowled. "I don't know. So that everyone could see how virtuous she was."

  "Now you're lying to yourself, and very poorly at that," Aegea said. "Why did you not speak to Amy at your brother's funeral?"

  "Because I was afraid."

  "Afraid of what?"

  "Afraid of being blamed for Felix's death," Michael said.

  "So instead you allowed Amy to take the blame, in her own mind at least, because you were afraid?" Aegea waved her hand again, and this time the illusion was of a young Amy, sobbing into her father's arms.

  "I didn't mean for anything to happen," she cried. "I never wanted Felix to...why doesn't Michael believe me? He thinks that it's my fault and I...is he right? Is it my fau
lt that Felix is dead?"

  "A terrifying opponent to be sure."

  "There are times when tears are harder to face than swords," Michael replied.

  "Not for a man as chivalrous as you claim to be," Aegea said with acid on her tongue. "A gentleman of Old Corona indeed. When Gideon told me that he hoped you would succeed him as First Sword I thought he was mad. I pointed out to him how weak you were, how unreliable, how you cared for nothing but your own happiness. But he thought that he could change you, bring out your better qualities. He had faith in you. And you repaid that faith with betrayal."

  "I was loyal to Gideon until my death," Michael said.

  "Yes, your death," Aegea snarled. "You set off from home to save your sister and the Empire itself from Quirian. Heavy burdens possibly, but not too heavy for the Last Firstborn of Old Corona to bear. Along the way, you acquired companions willing to make great sacrifices for the cause in which you were engaged. Tullia Athenaeum and Princess Fiannuala sacrificed their very lives to achieve victory.

  "But the burden had become a little much for your shoulders, you were starting to find the weight wearisome. And so you decided to abdicate your responsibilities once again, this time for good."

  "I had to atone for my mistakes," Michael said.

  "Atonement lies in living with the mistakes we have made and working to correct them, foolish boy," Aegea snapped. "You will correct no errors from this realm. I don't suppose you even bothered to consider the effects of your death. What of Miranda?"

  "Gideon and the others will protect her now."

  "I meant her grief," Aegea said. "What of the tears that will flow, what of the laments she will cry, what of the hole in her heart, what of them? For that matter, what of the others: Gideon, who so believed in you, Jason, Amy, what of them?"

  Amy's tears fell down upon Michael's face, "You said...you said to me, when we were kids, that all I ever had to do was cry and you'd come running. That was what you said to me; just cry, you said, and I'll come help you. Well I'm crying now so where are you?" She pounded her fists upon his chest, then laid her head upon it, letting her tears flow.