Short Swords: Tales from the Divine Empire (The First Sword Chronicles Book 3)

by Frances Smith

  Mark restrained the urge to scowl at the sneer involved in the use of his title. It was annoying, certainly, but Lannius Martius was paying the bills on this trip, which gave him a degree of leeway to sneer and condescend.

  So he kept his expression neutral, and nodded. “Certainly sir, Filia Minerva, if you’ll please follow me.”

  Mark’s career had taken him from one end of the Empire to the other: breaking into the tombs of ancient kings in Ne’Arin, crawling down the Ibex river looking for the ruins of lost civilisations, creeping through the Mavenorian forests in search of elder races ceptical for which rich collectors would pay handsomely. But this commission from the Martius father and daughter had kept him close to home in the Shield Mountains south of Nikephoria. The party’s main camp was about halfway up Mount Uiscus, in a place where the ground flattened out into a piece of open, easily defensible ground. Mark led the father and daughter up a narrow trail, covered in dirt and half overgrown with bushes and trees. Mark’s long brown coat flapped behind him in the chill winds, his sword banged against his leg as he walked briskly onwards, pushing aside the branches of the pine trees where they got in his way.

  He turned back to see how his employers where getting on. Pater Lannius seemed unaffected by the cold, and as he strode nonchalantly up the trail it was as though the foliage was making way for him.

  Filia Minerva was not so lucky. Her face was turning blue and she was shivering in a dress the frumpiness of which did not appear to have made it any warmer. Mark could hear her teeth chattering over the howl of the wind. Her skirt kept on snagging on the branches, as though they were outstretched fingers reaching out for her, and more grasping fingers had got caught in her severe bun of dark brown hair. Mark suspected that it would look better worn down, but acknowledged that it must be awkward to be restyled by trees. And so he descended down the trail, brushing past Pater Lannius, and took off his heavy brown coat and draped it over her shoulders.

  “Here, take this.”

  Minerva looked up at him gratefully as pulled the coat a little tighter around her with one white-gloved hand. “Thank you, captain. But you will be alright?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Mark lied gallantly. “I’ve seen worse than this in my time.” That was another lie, since he had been lucky to leave the army before Oretar, but it would make him sound tough and heroic.

  “Really?” Lannius asked. “When, captain?”

  Mark could cheerfully have throttled him. “Um...lots of places. The details would bore you.” He drew his sword as he took the lead again, clearing away the undergrowth so that Minerva could have an easier time of it following in his footsteps.

  “Should I be asking you about your intentions towards my daughter, captain?” Lannius asked quietly as he stole up on Mark from behind.

  Mark glanced back and took note of the less enthused expression on his employer’s face.

  “I wouldn’t say so, sir,” he said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “I would appreciate it if it stayed that way,” Lannius said. “Minerva could do far better than the likes of you.”

  Mark permitted himself a small smile. “Then you’d better hope she feels the same way, hadn’t you?”

  He led the to the head of the trail, between two thirds and three quarters of the way up the mountainside, with the snow-capped peak looming large up above. The rest of Mark’s team were all clustered around the site of Cimon’s discovery: Cimon, Brodir and Mathos were clearing the dirt and rock away to get at the apparent metal beneath, while Stesichus worked to pile up their debris out of the way. Galba squatted down beyond the excavation work, running his fingers along the dirt and casting darting glances up and down the mountainside.

  Julia was keeping a blazing fire going, holding her hands outward to project he fire magic, while young Set warmed himself by the scarlet blaze.

  Mark made haste to settle down by the fire himself. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this right now,” he said as he held his hands out to the warmth.

  Julia looked at him strangely. “What happened to your-“ her words dried up as Minerva emerged into view draped in Mark’s coat. Julia’s face assumed a knowingly mischievous expression. “Ah, I see. Well, at least you’ve proved you can take it off. I thought it might be fused to you or something.”

  “There’s nothing to see,” Mark said. “She was cold, so I gave her my coat. Because I’m a gentleman.”

  “Of course you are, boss,” Julia murmured. Mark’s group spent enough time in enough cold, dark places for fire magic to come in very useful, and what Julia lacked in raw power she made up for with incredible stamina. She brushed a rogue curl of dark hair behind her ear. “And I’m sure, being a gentleman, you would give me your coat if I was cold.”

  Mark frowned. “I wasn’t aware you could get cold.”

  Julia rolled her eyes.

  “Is Captain Mark sweet on Filia Minerva then?” Set asked with all the unnecessary noise of a small boy. The lad was an orphan they had found working a job in Ne’Arin, and had proven very good at crawling through small tunnels and openings to reach places where other members of the team couldn’t follow.

  “Keep your voice down,” Mark hissed. “Or I’ll drop you down a hole.”

  Set grinned. “You drop me down a lot of holes, Captain Mark, but I always come back.”

  Mark grinned, and he reached out to Set’s hair. “That’s right, you do. So don’t stop now, right?”

  Mark stood up and, after a moment to steel himself to the necessity of moving away from the fire, walked over to where Cimon, Mathos and Brodir were hard at work. Lannius and Minerva already watched them keenly, and Mark could no longer tell if Minerva’s quivering was due to cold or excitement.

  “How’s it going?”

  “My back hurts like you wouldn’t believe but otherwise I’m fine,” Stesichus said in between gasping for breath. “But otherwise I’m fine, thank you for asking, boss, I appreciate it.”

  Mark chuckled. Stesichus was more or less the group dogsbody, someone to fetch and carry and pile rocks. “We love you really Stesichus. Cimon, what have you got?”

  “Definitely metal,” Cimon replied. The earth mage was squat and squarely built, with a neat brown beard concealing his chin. “And close, too, now. The dirt and rock is nearly cleared away.”

  “I can hardly believe it,” Minerva said. “We’re about to see inside the Tomb of Iriali.”

  “If that is what it is,” Mathos said. “The tomb you seek may not be the only secret these mountains hide.” Closer to seven feet tall than six, more than two feet in width and imbued with an appropriate degree of muscle, Mathos looked like a bit of a thug, the sort you might seek to avoid on a city street. But his worth lay in the fact that he could read in seven languages, including orc, minotaur, fire drake and Ne’Ariin, and knew some of the lore associated with most of the kinds of people who left ruins and treasures around waiting to be found. Technically treasure hunters might not need a scholar, but it was amazing the number of times that absent minded clients forgot to tell Mark about: deadly traps, deadly curses or ancient orders of guardians sworn to protect some relic or other. Mathos’ timely warnings had saved everyone’s lives more than once.

  “It is the tomb,” Lannius said. “I can feel it calling to me. Make haste!”

  “If it’s calling, perhaps we should not answer,” Brodir muttered. “That rarely ends well.”

  If Mathos looked like he was there for his muscle but was actually around for his brain, Brodir looked like he was around for his muscle and was. Even when the employer was scrupulously honest there was no real telling when you were going to run into degenerate ape-men, halfbreed fish-men, demon spawn or monsters sprung from the deep places of the world. But when you did, it was useful to have an eight foot tall orc who carried a battle axe in each hand watching your back.

  “This is the Empire, Brodir, not the wilds,” Mark said. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

  “That’s w
hat you always say,” Brodir grunted. “But I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “You always say you’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Mark replied. “That’s your stomach, try eating less.” Minerva laughed, which pleased Mark more than it probably should have.

  “Brodir is not the only one with stomach ache, my friend,” Mathos said. “I also think that Galba is feeling less than content.”

  Mark looked down the trail. Galba still hadn’t moved.

  “Carry on,” Mark said. “I’ll have a word with him.” He walked down the trail to stand looming over Galba, casting a shadow over the hunter’s back. If the others had skills that helped the group survive and thrive while hunting treasure, Galba kept them alive long enough to reach the treasure.

  “What is it?” Mark asked. “Bears?”

  Galba shook his head. He brushed his fingers along the ground. “What do you see, captain?”

  Mark looked at the ground. “Nothing.”

  “Exactly,” Galba said. “Down the slope is teeming with life, there’s more to be found up the slope, but none around here. Now why should that be?” He raised his head, and furrowed his greying brow. “Do you think they know something we don’t?”

  “Captain, looks like we’ve found it!” Cimon yelled.

  Mark turned, and as he turned the last of the earth and rock that Cimon and the others had been working to clear fell away to reveal an enormous door of beaten bronze, or that’s what it looked like to him anyway, judging by the colour. There was no visible means of opening it, suggesting a portal that had been intended to remain tightly shut. That made sense, if this was a tomb.

  And if that was the case then it was the tomb of someone who had been very rich and in life, because the doors to their tomb were huge, at least a dozen feet high. Mark had seen colossi that were smaller than that.

  One of the pair of doors was decorated with a bas-relief – Mark had picked up a few things from spending enough time around Mathos – of a woman. Or at least Mark would have said she was a woman without a doubt if it weren’t for the enormous pointed ear that was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Strange ear aside, she must have been a sight to see if the relief was accurate: tall, with long, muscular limbs and sharp features, and hair hanging down below her waist. She gripped a spear tightly in one hand and bore a hexagonal shield in the other.

  The other door depicted a dragon plummeting head-first towards the ground, pierced in the breast by a spear.

  “This is the place,” Lannius cried triumphantly. “This is the place!”

  “So sure?” asked Mathos.

  “It’s obvious if you know what you’re looking for,” Minerva said. “The dragon was the symbol of the Pact, the army for which Iriali fought. The fact the dragon is dying represents Iriali’s defeat in battle. Meanwhile the figure looks similar to surviving descriptions we have of Iriali.”

  Mark nodded. That made sense, as far as it went. He gestured to the runes etched into the bronze around the four edges of the doors. “Anyone have any idea what those mean?”

  “Does it really matter to a man like you, captain?” Lannius asked.

  “Yes, it matters,” Mark said, letting his irritation show in his voice. “It matters because it might say ‘Anyone who enters this tomb will be cursed to suffer a terrible death’ And I’d like to know that in advance.”

  Minerva giggled. She had rather a nice laugh. “You can rest easy, captain, that isn’t what it says. It says: Here lies Iriali, accursed oathbreaker and ungrateful servant, for all the ages of the world until its ending. Let none disturb her, for she deserves no pity.”

  “What does that mean?” Stesichus asked.

  “It means someone didn’t like her very much,” Julia muttered. “But where does that leave us in terms of getting in?”

  “The same place we usually end up,” Mark said “Breaking into another tomb.” He paused. “But not today.”

  “What?” Lannius roared. Mark took a degree of perverse pleasure from the look on his face. “You can’t possibly mean to-“

  “It’ll be getting dark soon, so we might as well start fresh in the morning,” Mark said. “It isn’t like we’re in a race or anything.”

  “It’ll be alright, Papa,” Minerva added quickly. “You’ll be in the tomb before you know it.” She smiled charmingly. “Just try and be a little patient.”

  Lannius’ expression softened. “You are so wise, my daughter. Very well, for you I will have patience. Tomorrow, then.”

  Mark nodded. “If we can crack it. Okay everyone, good work. Let’s head back to camp and get some rest. We’ve got a lot of work to do come morning.”

  They all ate heartily that night. Galba had caught a deer the day before, and there was still plenty of meat left.

  It was after supper, as they all leaned back with satisfyingly full stomachs, that Julia asked, “So, who was this Iriali anyway? Why do you want to get into her tomb so badly?”

  Lannius, who had become almost genial over the course of supper, waved for his daughter to do the talking. Minerva looked a little nervous to be put on the spot like that, but she rallied visibly and cleared her throat to speak.

  “It is said that Iriali was the daughter of Beltor and an elvish woman,” she said.

  “Hold on,” Mark said. “Elvish? Elves are a myth?”

  “We’re talking about a demigod and that’s the part you focus on?” Julia said dryly.

  “Don’t be so sure that elves are only a myth,” Mathos said. “There are many legends of precursor races common across many nations. They are called titans by some, but elves by others.”

  “Precursor to who?” Brodir asked. “I may not have your learning, but orcs tell that elves are no older than we are.”

  “Then where are they now?” came the response from Mathos.

  “No one can say,” Minerva said. “But whatever happened to them they existed at one time, and Iriali was the daughter of an elf, fathered by the war god. But when some elves, called the Pact rebelled against the gods, Iriali sided with them against her own father. Some say it was ambition that drove her to it, others that she did it out of love, but whatever her motives, she became the greatest warrior in their whole army. The war dragged on through many years and many bloody battles but, in the end, Iriali and the Pact alike were both defeated.

  “Iriali perished in the last battle, but even after all that she had done her father still loved her. And so he raised a magnificent tomb for her, on the field where she had fallen.”

  “Field?” Mark said. “This isn’t exactly a field, Minerva.”

  “It was a field when the tomb was raised,” Lannius said. “The mountains came later, and rose up around the mausoleum.”

  “That’s not possible,” Cimon said.

  “With the gods, all things are possible,” Lannius replied confidently.

  “So what do you hope to find in the tomb?” Stesichus said. “Is there gold in there? Jewels?”

  “Both, probably,” Lannius said. “But, I confess, my interest is in a much rarer treasure.”

  “What?”

  Lannius chuckled. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t possibly believe me if I didn’t show you first.” He yawned, conveniently forestalling all further questions. “Good night, all of you. Tomorrow, as they say, we conquer. Or, at least, tomorrow we take the first steps on the road to our ultimate conquest.”

  “Captain Constantine? Are you asleep?”

  “Yes,” Mark muttered as he rolled onto his back. Squatting in the mouth of his tent, illuminated by the soft glow of a burning taper at her side, knelt Minerva Martius, looking wildly unsure of herself.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she whispered.

  Mark sat up quickly, exposing his bare and well muscled chest to her gaze. “No, not at all, I was just...” he ran one hand through his floppy blond hair. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” she said. Minerva glanced at his chest and smiled. “I came to give you
your coat back.” She held out the borrowed brown coat.

  “Right, thank you,” Mark murmured, taking the offered garment with only a hint of reluctance. She would leave now, as like as not. “Are you sure that you won’t need it again?”

  “It’s a little chilly, but I’ll manage.”

  “Perhaps I could show you another way to keep warm?” Mark suggested.

  Minerva snorted. “You’re an incorrigible rogue, captain.”

  “But loveable?” Mark asked with a charming smile.

  “Perhaps.” Minerva said. “But if you think that I am the sort of girl who will fall into your arms at the sight of your chest hair them let me assure you that you are quite mistaken.”

  Mark threw off his blanket and crawled across the tent towards her. “Then what are you still doing here?”

  Minerva hesitated. “Because sometimes even a girl like me gets tired of books and old dead women for company. Sometimes, even girls like me want someone to keep us warm at night.”

  He kissed her, taking her soft chin in one hand and holding her still while he wrapped the other around her slender neck and kissed her and she was like fire and fine wine and sweet grapes all at same time and he had never had a kiss quite like it.

  They were still kissing when he began to take her clothes off.

  All in the name of keeping warm.

  “Stesichus! Psst, Stesichus, wake up.”

  Stesichus yawned. “Huh? What?” He looked up into the face of Lnnius Martius looming over him and shuddered; because that really wasn’t a sight you wanted to wake up to.

  “Pater Lannius? Is it morning already?”

  “It is barely past midnight.”

  “Then what-“

  “I need you to come with me, up to the tomb,” Lannius said. “We aren’t waiting until morning.”

  Stesichus rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “We...why not?”

  “Because I lied to the good captain, jewels are exactly what I’m interested in,” Lannius said. “Rubies, to be precise.”

  Stesichus sat up. “Rubies?”