The Sword Falls

by A. J. Smith

  Also by A.J. Smith

  The Long War Chronicles

  The Black Guard

  The Dark Blood

  The Red Prince

  The World Raven

  Form and Void

  The Glass Breaks

  The Sword Falls

  THE SWORD FALLS

  A.J Smith

  AN AD ASTRA BOOK

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published by Head of Zeus in 2021 An Ad Astra book

  Copyright © A.J. Smith, 2021

  The moral right of A.J. Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781786696922

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781786696939

  ISBN (E): 9781786696915

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  For Liz

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Part One: Prince Oliver Dawn Claw at the Silver Dawn

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part Two: Adeline Brand at the Severed Hand

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Three: Oliver Dawn Claw at the Silver Dawn

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Four: Adeline Brand aboard Halfdan’s Revenge

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Five: Oliver Dawn Claw on the Great Serpent

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part Six: Adeline Brand aboard Halfdan’s Revenge

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part Seven: Oliver Dawn Claw at Snake Guard

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Eight: Adeline Brand at the Starry Sky

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part Nine: Oliver Dawn Claw in the Void

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part Ten: Adeline Brand aboard Halfdan’s Revenge

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Appendix

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Map

  PROLOGUE

  The Harp watched, as the brother attacked first, thrusting his heavy straight sword at the sister’s midriff. It was restrained, almost playful, but still met with a solid parry, and a powerful riposte. The sister was taking the duel, and the argument that had caused it, far more seriously than the brother. Only one of them smiled, as they danced back and forth, clashing blades in a well-trained flow of attack and defence.

  Lucio and Alexis Wind Claw had been arguing for days, and the Harp had refused to break the deadlock. If he spoke out, in favour of one side or the other, he would be committing too much. The Harp preferred to wait, watching events unfold, before he chose a side. He felt no loyalty to the siblings, but knew they were powerful allies, devoted to the rising sea, and the Waking God.

  “You are getting slow, brother,” taunted Alexis Wind Claw, displaying her swordsmanship with an elaborate flourish of her blade.

  “But I’m still stronger,” replied Lucio, launching a series of overhead strikes, designed to overpower his sister.

  They were spiteful creatures, but the Harp sensed little real aggression between them, as if they fought simply because that was what siblings did. They knew how to use their straight swords, and they knew how to use their skill, while still pulling their blows. They’d had an argument, and neither of them had won, so they fought to determine who was right. The siblings didn’t wear armour, and it was clear that neither would seriously hurt the other. Their black, satin clothes were tight-fitting, and made by the finest tailors, with glinting jewels sown into the fabric.

  “Why will you not see reason, brother?” snarled Alexis, launching a combination of overhead attacks. “Prince Oliver must be killed. As we all agreed.”

  Lucio laughed, countering the combination with one of his own. “Such might should not be dismissed. The Eagle Prince could be turned. Just think of it, sister...”

  She didn’t reply. The Harp had heard each of them deliver their point of view a dozen times over. They’d argued back and forth about the best way to proceed, with the only point of agreement being how delicious the sight of Winterlord royalty leading the armies of the Waking God was.

  Lucio began to take the duel more seriously, as Alexis drove him backwards across the grass of the Harp’s garden. It was a cloistered square at the bottom of the Owl House, and a place for the most private of duels. Dark Brethren rarely fought with an audience, unlike the less civilized Eastron at other holds. This was the Open Hand, raised in the thirteenth year of the dark age, by Lord Medina Wind Claw. Here, in the sight of the Night Wing, the Dark Brethren lived a more elegant life.

  “You will not defeat me,” said Lucio, skilfully countering his sister’s attacks. “And we will not kill Oliver Dawn Claw. The Waking God wants more from him. I see it in my dreams.”

  Alexis surged forwards, as if angry at her brother’s words. She pushed a glimmer of wyrd into her arms, and attacked ferociously. Her spiritual power was significant, appearing as ripples of fetid green light, framing every strike. “Your dreams and mine are in conflict, dear brother. I see an end to the old royalty. We have no need of them any more. Beautiful chaos will reign in their stead.”

  The Harp was becoming weary of their games, and increasingly disinterested in the fate of the Eagle Prince. Initially, all three of them had agreed that Oliver of the Winterlords was their enemy and needed to die, but their assassin had missed. Much had happened since then, not least the treachery of Marius, the Harp’s youngest brother, and the partial destruction of the Severed Hand. These things had slowly convinced Lucio that the prince was more valuable as an ally than a corpse, though he’d yet to detail how such a thing would be accomplished, short of breaking his mind.

  The duel became a tedious dance, as neither sibling was prepared to truly hurt the other. Spiteful banter swung between them as readily as their straight swords, with insults taking the place of blood and severed limbs. They even began to laugh at each other’s petty barbs, and renew old grievances that made sense only to them. The point of the duel was getting lost, and the Bloodied Harp was getting impatient.

  He coughed loudly, just as Lucio and Alexis backed away from their latest half-hearted exchange. “Apologies,” he said, as they both looked at him, frowning at the sudden interruption. “But I believe I can break your deadlock, if only to end this vulgar display. Any longer and I fear the sea will rise before we have prepared the world for Him.”

  The siblings shared a look, before sheathing their swords.
Lucio adjusted his satin tunic, and thrust out his chin. Alexis re-tied her long, dark hair, and pouted.

  “Lord Santago,” said Lucio. “You have words?”

  “Indeed,” replied the Harp. “Please, come, sit.” He swept his black coat backwards and reclined on a wooden bench, at the edge of his garden.

  They hesitated, unused to the presence of a man whom they feared. Santago Cyclone, the Bloodied Harp of the Open Hand, was perhaps the only Eastron closer to the Waking God than the siblings. When a high priest was chosen, all three of them knew it would be him, and in the meantime, he was custodian of the rotten wyrd they possessed. It had bubbled forth from the void and been given to him alone, and they harnessed it only at his wish.

  “I care little for the Eagle Prince,” said the Harp, once Lucio and Alexis had sat down on an adjoining bench. “It was the Sea Wolves who haunted His dreams, and they are now a broken people. The others will not fight, they will run. It is my youngest brother we should be concerned with. Marius is far more dangerous. He certainly must be killed.”

  “So I can kill the prince?” asked the sister, clearly only hearing what she wanted to.

  “That’s not fair,” snapped the brother, as myopic as his sibling.

  “If Santago doesn’t care,” countered Alexis, “there’s no reason not to kill him.”

  The Harp sneered at their moronic immaturity. In that moment, he imagined killing them both, and turning their corpses into elaborate art. Perhaps their skin could be stretched into a frame, upon which a great work could be painted. Or maybe their blood and flesh could be frozen into pearls and worn around his neck. It would please him to do it, but he would have to find other willing servants, of equal influence. They were descendants of Medina Wind Claw himself, and their lineage amongst the Dark Brethren was second to none. Alexis was an envoy of the Silver Parliament, and Lucio commanded void legions.

  But still they bickered. The sister was fixated on killing Prince Oliver, the brother on breaking his mind and turning him to worship of the Waking God. Both arguments had merit, but the Harp was now thinking about ripping out their throats with his teeth, and decided to end the conflict before he was forced to lunge at them.

  “Stop talking,” he snarled, glaring from one sibling to the other. “We will be witness to the end of this world… and the start of another.”

  They shut up. Lucio licked his lips, and there was deranged wonder in his eyes. Alexis started breathing heavily, and looking at the Harp like she wanted to fuck. They were vacuous and immature, but both had embraced the beautiful chaos of insanity, given freely by the Waking God and the rising sea. His dreams were now shallow, and he turned in his sleep, gathering strength before the stars were aligned and the time was right.

  “Marius will deny Him his rightful slaves,” said the Bloodied Harp. “What can this Winterlord prince do?”

  “He is the strongest of Eastron,” replied Lucio Wind Claw. “And he is everything I hate. An ignorant man of the Dawn Claw, born to duty and honour, as if his very existence were proof of his worth. He should be shown true power.”

  Alexis shook her head, and playfully shoved her brother. “We agree,” she exclaimed. “So why not see him die in agony?”

  The Harp bowed his head, and dismissed the impulse to drown each of them in the other’s blood. “Stop talking!” he repeated, louder this time. “I will tell you what to do. Alexis, return to the Silver Parliament, and await the prince. Do nothing until the king is dead. Then you may indulge yourself as your twisted wyrd dictates.”

  Lucio was about to speak, but locked eyes with the Harp and thought better of complaining. As mad as he was, he still knew his place, and could still be cowed.

  “If the prince can somehow survive,” continued the Harp, “he’ll have proven to me that he is worthy of turning. At which point I will take charge and visit him. Perhaps we’ll even become friends. If he survives.”

  The siblings were both bursting with the desire to speak, but neither dared, until given permission. The Harp let them wait, enjoying the brief moment of silence. “You may speak,” he said, after a moment.

  Alexis, the happier of the two, let her brother speak. “And what will I be doing, while my sister kills Winterlords?” asked Lucio.

  “You will assemble two void legions,” said the Harp. “The tenth will go to the Silver Dawn with your sister, and you will muster the eleventh at Ghost Fort, awaiting Marius. My brother will remain our priority. I have now finished talking, and you will both leave.”

  They left quickly, with just a hint of grumbling from the brother. They would argue and complain amongst themselves, musing upon Santago’s decision and his worth, but they remained craven, and neither would dare question him. The Bloodied Harp had seen the world yet to come, and his service to the Waking God went beyond simple devotion.

  The gods of old were our freedoms woe and we were freedoms fool.

  The Bright Lands they gave us, but our thrones of wyrd we stole.

  Their power was their doom, and so the Bright Lands darkened.

  Upon their graves the Eastron were born.

  And the Eastron sailed across the sea.

  Engraved in the Strange Manse. Attributed to Sovon No Moon.

  PART ONE

  Prince Oliver Dawn Claw at the Silver Dawn

  1

  The void sky was a shimmering black, with pinpoints of light, playing across my vision. In the realm of form, the landscape was filled with stone and wood, packed together as buildings, streets, and walls. Beyond the glass, in the realm of void, the world was more elegant. The hold of the Silver Dawn was visible only as a faint net, forming boundaries and structures. But only the most significant buildings had actual form in the spirit world. Everything else I could see was pale blue, flowing like sand dunes or rolling waves. Spirits flew through the air, as sparkling birds; or scuttled across the ground, as small, woodland animals, each with a distinct energy, unknowable to the mortal men and women of the Eastron from across the sea. There was a profound sense of peace, as if the troubles of the world could not reach me.

  “Highness, let us not stay here too long,” said the man at my side.

  I looked down at him. “Does the peace of the void disagree with you?”

  “It disturbs me,” he replied, “because I know it isn’t real. I prefer the realm of form.”

  His name was James Silver Born, called Silver Jack, and he’d come with me only because he refused to leave my side. He didn’t like the void, and distrusted spirits. We were both Winterlords of First Port and our people claimed kingship over the Eastron from across the sea. Our power radiated in the void, shining as globes of wyrd across our limbs and framing our heads. Jack’s wyrd was strongest in his arms and over his heart. Mine was a vibrant nimbus across my whole body, flaring at the head and torso.

  “We will speak to the Lord of the Quarter,” I stated.

  He hung his head. Silver Jack was short for a Winterlord, barely reaching six feet in height, and far shorter than me. But he was a cunning little bastard, and had been my closest adviser since I left First Port. I’d survived an assassin’s blade at the Severed Hand, and my father, the Always King, had insisted I be accompanied at all times. I’d disregarded the multitudes of hulking duellists who’d volunteered, and the knights of Falcon’s Watch, and chosen a middle-aged man named Jack. He hadn’t even volunteered. He’d been drunk in the Eagle House, waiting for one of his many reprimands. When I found him, he’d muttered that he was a terrible duellist and would rather drink his own piss than follow a prince around. It was broadly the answer I was looking for.

  “We’ll be missed,” said Silver Jack. “People will worry.”

  “David will worry,” I replied. “And you. And you worry about everything.”

  “What about the seven Dark Brethren who are following you, highness?”

  I sighed, my calm significantly eroded. It was easy to forget who I was in the void. It was the only time I wasn’t constant
ly required to be Prince Oliver Dawn Claw, Protector of First Port. One day I would be the Always King. I would be the seventh since Sebastian Dawn Claw arrived from across the sea and founded the Kingdom of the Four Claws. It was the kind of burden that was impossible to walk away from.

  “Why aren’t you wearing your armour?” asked Silver Jack.

  I looked down at my blue tunic and laced black trousers, tucked into heavy, leather riding boots. I had a short sword at my side, but was otherwise not equipped for combat. My broadsword and armour were in the Golden Keep, casually discarded on a coach. I didn’t like wearing them. Partially because they signalled my station, but mostly because they made my large frame even larger. People were always afraid of me, but with my armour and a sword I rarely saw a pair of eyes that was not pointed at the ground.

  “The Lord of the Quarter,” I repeated, ignoring his question.

  He screwed up his face, but resisted further nagging. He followed me across the soft grass of the void, towards a tall tree, with tangled branches stretching out like gnarled hands. Small spirits scuttled away from us, as if repelled by our powerful wyrd. But larger ones – mostly birds of prey – remained imperiously on their perches. On the highest branch, flaring its wings at my approach, was a huge eagle, with gold and silver feathers and ageless eyes of deep bronze. It was the Dawn Claw, totem spirit of the Winterlords.

  Ninety years ago, when my great grandfather, King Hector, abandoned the Silver Dawn for First Port, he left the totem behind. The bureaucracy that remained became the Silver Parliament, and vowed to always protect and revere the mighty eagle. Opinion was divided on how faithfully they had kept their vow. Many Winterlords, my father included, believed that the parliament was unnecessary, and the Kingdom of the Four Claws should once again be under the absolute rule of the Always King. He used to muse that, one day, a man of the Dawn Claw would again be the Forever King.