The Sword Falls

by A. J. Smith

  As the Brethren melted away, falling dead or fleeing down the street, a man approached through the melee. He wiped blood from his greatsword and stowed it across his back, before removing his silver helm. He was lean, with precise movements, and closely shaved black hair. His name was Leofryc Bright Hand, the commander of Falcon’s Watch, and a man whose fate was tied to my own. He had risen to his station the day I came of age, as had every man of the Bright Hand before him, and he was expected to live no longer than the man of the Dawn Claw he protected. It was one of our more pointless and destructive traditions. But, despite his obligations, his training, and his willingness to die for me, I had always found Leofryc to be a thoughtful and complex man.

  Falcon’s Watch completed their work, giving mercy to dying Brethren and stowing their swords. They made no attempt to pursue the fleeing void legionnaires, and formed into two lines, allowing Leofryc to stride towards us. Their size and slowly retreating wyrd made it appear that a small, metal castle had suddenly been erected in the Low Eclipse.

  “Shit,” exclaimed Silver Jack, dragging Jago Eclipse behind him, and joining us at the corner. “The absence of that prick was one of the few things I liked about the Silver Dawn.”

  “He’s an honourable man,” I replied.

  “He’s a fucking idiot,” quipped Jack. “Probably a result of upbringing – his father was a fucking idiot as well.” He squinted at his own bad language. “Sorry for my tone, my prince.”

  David snorted in an immature display of offence. “Falcon’s Watch are the finest warriors amongst us,” snapped the young duellist. “With the strongest wyrd and noblest of hearts. And his father protected the Always King for fifty years.”

  Jack replied with a pithy insult, and they began to bicker about the relative merits of Winterlord tradition. David thought that anything decreed by a man of the Dawn Claw was written in untouchable stone, whereas Jack thought that tradition was the name given to things that would otherwise appear as foolish. The only thing they agreed on was that Leofryc’s family, the men of Bright Hand, had served my family since the Eastron arrived from across the sea.

  I largely ignored them and took a few steps into the street, walking to meet the commander. “Leofryc,” I said, with a shallow nod.

  “Greetings, Prince Oliver. I heard you had left the Golden Keep. We are here to escort you to the Silver Parliament.” His tone was even and his manner professional. “We have three silver robes for you and your attendants.”

  Jack and David stopped arguing and each looked at the lean commander of Falcon’s Watch. Their eyes betrayed contrasting emotions, but neither said a thing.

  “James Silver Born,” said Leofryc, nodding at Silver Jack with a condescending curl to the edge of his mouth. “I’m sure you are protecting the prince to the best of your ability.” He paused, straightening to his full height and frowning at his own smugness. “I meant no offence, Jack, but we should get Prince Oliver to the parliament. There are many who would take a coin from Trego Cyclone to slit his throat.”

  Jack chewed on his lip, apparently deciding whether or not to be gracious. At First Port I’d seen them argue on several occasions, Leofryc often being the one tasked with reprimanding Jack. But their differences didn’t belong here, and I found it gratifying that they both appeared to recognize that.

  “This isn’t the Eagle House,” said Jack. “The Silver Dawn is hostile territory.” He bowed his head. “We will follow your lead, commander.”

  “Good,” replied Leofryc. “Prince Oliver, we move south, and cross by the Old Tree. Elizabeth Defiant awaits.”

  *

  It took a few minutes to fully realize that I was annoyed. Not angry, but frustrated, and maybe a little disappointed. I’d come to the Silver Dawn with two attendants and a naive hope that my presence, as I sought the two pillars of rule, would not be too overt. I now found myself suddenly enveloped in silver armour and dutiful protectors. It was like I’d never left First Port, where armoured men seemed to appear from nowhere to shadow my every movement. I never complained – not then or now – I just let it happen, as if to argue meant arguing with my father, and a hundred and fifty years of tradition. Falcon’s Watch reminded me this was not an adventure or a holiday. This was my duty. I was Prince Oliver Dawn Claw, and I was to be the Always King.

  Jack stayed at my side, and David followed in our wake, while the knights of Falcon’s Watch formed a protective column around me. For several blocks I was treated to a view of Leofryc’s back, as we made our way from the Low Eclipse to the Old Tree. I felt like I was strolling along in the centre of a moving metal fortress, with layers of steel blocking my view of anything at ground level. I heard a few arguments, and a few more threats, as locals were told to get out of our way, but I was otherwise unmolested by the realities of life… just as a man of the Dawn Claw should be.

  The first landmark of any importance to rear its head above the metal walls was the Silver Parliament itself. Before we reached the river and the bridge, a block of grey stone rose above the walled southern section of the Silver Dawn. It was an ugly structure, with bulbous protrusions at each of its corners, and empty window frames placed at irregular angles. My father had said that the Winterlord craftsmen who built it had done so under sufferance, believing it to be unnecessary, and had intended to mock the Dark Brethren by making it an unsightly spectacle.

  “I’m glad they’re here,” admitted Silver Jack, glaring at Leofryc. “I hate to admit it, but now we have a chance of getting home when the civil war starts. I thought the three of us were going to have to cut our way back to the docks.”

  “I didn’t want this,” I replied, assuming he knew what I meant.

  “Just give me the word,” he said with a wicked grin, “and we can skulk off to a tavern. Best lose the armour though… and try not to be so tall.”

  “What about David?” I asked. “Is he invited?”

  “Nah, he’s better off with Falcon’s Watch. He’s probably even more of a pompous cunt when he’s drunk.” Jack winced and bit his lip. “Sorry for my language, Prince Oliver.”

  “You’re excused,” I replied, pointing ahead to where Falcon’s Watch had formed a narrow column.

  “We’re crossing the river,” said Jack.

  The flagstone cobbles gave way to dark brown wood, arcing away from us, with ornate branches of the same colour snaking into the sky either side of the column. The Old Tree was not a relic to be taken lightly, and even Falcon’s Watch trod carefully across its surface, as if it symbolized the last shred of Pure One pride, and the last thing we feared to take from them. The Eastron had been in these lands for a blink of the eye compared to the natives.

  We crossed the bridge and turned a sharp left, with the grey monolith of the Silver Parliament getting ever-larger above our heads. I heard alarm and respect in equal measure, as Falcon’s Watch marched forwards, insisting that no one stand in their way. Somewhere were five thousand warriors of the tenth void legion, but they remained out of sight. Losing a handful of men to Falcon’s Watch may have chastened them, but I didn’t think so. They guarded the parliament and would be impossible to avoid.

  Then the column suddenly stopped, with a final snap of metal. We were isolated in the centre and I struggled to orient myself. Jack nearly fell over his own feet, and had to clumsily grab my arm. He swore, apologized, then swore again, before coughing and regaining his composure.

  The knights parted, with Leofryc taking several strides backwards to stand next to me. “Prince Oliver, may I present Lady Elizabeth Defiant, envoy of the Silver Parliament.”

  Through the opening wall of metal, a wide courtyard was revealed. We were at the base of the huge, grey building, with three robed figures coming to meet us. Beyond them were citizens of the hold, going to and from the parliament, and trying to ignore the column of Winterlord knights who had so abruptly arrived.

  A man and woman in silver robes escorted a third figure in blue, and they came to a stop in front of
us, their eyes melding into a single expression of confusion and fear at my presence.

  “You wanted to see me, Prince Oliver,” said the minister in blue, a striking woman of fifty years or more, with dark brown hair and a slender face. “I apologize for ignoring your correspondence.” She glanced at the dense column of knights. “I feared you would cause a spectacle, and alert those who wish you harm.”

  “Elizabeth,” I replied, respectfully bowing at my former tutor.

  3

  Ministers of the Silver Parliament wore black robes if they were Dark Brethren, and silver if they were Winterlords. Sometime in the past, red and brown robes were also worn, when the Wolves who sail and the Wolves who kneel attended the parliament. Now they were seldom seen. Blue robes were worn by the five envoys, the senior ministers of the parliament. Elizabeth Defiant, an exiled scholar from the Isle of the Setting Sun, was the only remaining Winterlord envoy.

  “Do you know what will happen when your father dies?” she asked, beckoning me to join her around a low, mahogany table in her ministerial chambers. She’d insisted that the Falcon’s Watch remain in the courtyard beneath, but allowed Silver Jack and David to merely wait outside her rooms.

  “I will claim the throne,” I stated, confidently. “As is my duty and my right. Though popular opinion seems to think we’ll have a civil war.” I didn’t sit, not least because my armour would have made a terrible noise if I’d tried. “What do you think? Perhaps an opinion based on wisdom, rather than paranoia or ignorance?”

  She laughed, took a seat, and poured two cups of tea from a china pot. Her deep blue robe was belted at the waist, and she demurely crossed her legs. “Dear, sweet Oliver. You say it so plainly. You will claim the throne.” She sipped from her teacup. “And yet still you are here, seeking the counsel of a Defiant.”

  I blushed and looked down at the armoured idiot, standing in front of a cup of tea and not knowing what to do. I considered loosening my greaves, so I could sit down, or unbuckling my breastplate and sword, so I looked less like a killer. But I did neither. I just stood there, looking at my old teacher.

  “Christophe fought and won, but listened to no one,” she said, quoting the famous book of poetics, written by her mother. “At least you know when to listen.”

  I grunted, closed my eyes and bowed my head, wanting to defend my father, but unable to speak against Elizabeth. “It’s hard to find that book at First Port,” I replied. “My copy might be the last one. Speaking against the Always King will never find a receptive audience, and Catalina Lark Song spoke against several of them.”

  “And yet you kept the book,” she replied. “If your mother knew I’d given it to you, she’d have exiled me two years earlier. But you never told her. Why not? You were always a dutiful son.”

  I struggled to look at her, managing only a glance upwards. “I remember being cross when I finished it,” I replied. “Because you only gave me the second book. Didn’t your mother write five books of poetics?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Though the third book is lost. It seems your father appreciates comedy less than he appreciates criticism.”

  “Even now,” I said. “As a broken man, holding onto life by his fingernails, he has no sense of humour.”

  She frowned and clumsily put down her cup. It clattered on the table and slopped tea onto the dark wood. “Do you know when he will die?” she asked, swallowing hard. “Weeks? Months? Will King Christophe Dawn Claw, called the Shining Sword, hang onto breath for another year?”

  I’d been asked this question many times, and I’d so far avoided answering. Silver Jack asked me every day of our voyage from First Port. Any Winterlord with enough confidence to approach me had found a way to politely ask when my father was going to die. It was the tipping point, the event that would end one age and begin another. Perhaps the Sea Wolves and Kneeling Wolves were unconcerned, but each and every Winterlord and Dark Brethren held their breath, waiting for the Shining Sword to fall. And I held my breath, waiting to prove my father wrong.

  “Oliver,” prompted Elizabeth. “You don’t need to tell me. Though I would not recommend standing before the parliament and making an announcement about his health. Trego Cyclone would...”

  I narrowed my eyes, unsure if I was simply being dense about Eastron politics. “What would he do? What could he do?”

  She retrieved her teacup and frowned. “Well, he has three-quarters of the ministers, the tenth void legion, many thousands of mercenaries, and… he has unusually potent wyrd.” She paused, as if her last statement had been a euphemism she was uncomfortable with. “Trego allows us the illusion of political equality because he and Santago Cyclone are still afraid of King Christophe.” She thought for a moment. “Well, they’re afraid of the alliance between Christophe and the First Fang. No matter the state of the Severed Hand, the Sea Wolves are still greatly feared.”

  “And without my father?” I asked.

  She smiled at me. “I assume you’ve made no alliance with the Sea Wolves?”

  “I tried, but Ulric Blood didn’t want to hear my words. I went to the Severed Hand with my mother, but the First Fang said it was King Christophe he called friend. Not me, and not the Winterlords. Then a Brethren assassin tried to kill me. If it weren’t for a young Sea Wolf called Duncan Greenfire, he’d have likely succeeded.”

  “A shame,” she replied. “Christophe and Ulric kept the peace. When they became friends, they posed just enough of a joint threat to keep the Brethren in line. The parliament has become little more than a custodian of the power they’ve yet to use.”

  Silver Jack was right. This hold was not friendly. It was only fear, and a dash of tradition, that stopped it being openly hostile. Not just to me, but to every Winterlord. Our lordship had stagnated, though it had happened in whispered breaths across decades. The Cyclone brothers had been patient. They were the three leaders of the Dark Brethren and they’d let us fall on our own, waiting in the background to usurp power when it was easiest. Trego was an envoy of the parliament, Santago was elder of the Open Hand, and Marius, the youngest, known as the Stranger, was elder of the Dark Harbour. Each brother had void legions and ships to spare. Though the Stranger’s overtures of peace added a complication, as did his rumoured evacuation of his hold.

  “I need to attend the parliament,” I said. “My attendant, David, could tell you how many sessions I’ve missed since I arrived, but I can’t remember. Waiting for my father to die was… my initial strategy. His resilience has surprised everyone, so I must proceed as a prince should, and secure my legacy. I will be king. I must be king.”

  She smirked. “Those whom you must fight have hearts of iron, or no hearts at all.”

  I laughed for the first time since meeting Elizabeth Defiant. “Those are my father’s words,” I replied. “Almost the last thing he said to me.”

  “Those are my mother’s words,” snapped Elizabeth, spilling her cup and standing from the dark, wooden table. “If you, a low-born man or woman, should seek to challenge one of the Dawn Claw, you will know this… those whom you must fight have hearts of iron, or no hearts at all.” She was quoting a text I’d not read. “She was primarily talking about your grandfather, but she lived long enough to understand Christophe almost as well.”

  I was momentarily stunned. She had always been outspoken, but never to such an extent. At least not in my presence. The Defiants of the Isle of the Setting Sun had a long tradition, stretching back to Maven Bright, an adviser to Sebastian Dawn Claw, the first Always King. Long ago, she’d changed her name to Defiant, in protest against the Impurity Wars, when the Eastron first invaded and the Pure Ones were first massacred. Her family had since become controversial scholars, dedicated to brutal honesty and criticism of power. It was hard to imagine my father quoting a Defiant.

  When I replied, it was barely a whisper. “I’m going to the parliament. I will need a silver robe.”

  “Leave your armour here,” she stated. “And I must tell you one last
thing.” She frowned and slowly sat back down. “There is a shadow over the parliament. I said Trego Cyclone has potent wyrd, but I didn’t say where it came from. There is talk of a Sunken God and the waking of a primal power. Whatever it is, it smashed the Severed Hand, and I’ve seen its rotten wyrd… every time I look at Trego. You must be careful.”

  *

  Jack, David and I had removed our armour and were clad in thick, hooded, silver robes. By old design, the fabric was cut to make hiding a sword impossible, gathered at the hips, and swept backwards. This was not a measure to prevent the carrying of blades in the parliament, but more a way of exposing those who were armed and those who weren’t. The three of us, along with Leofryc Bright Hand, all carried swords, though the majority around us did not.

  The atrium, and much of the interior stone, was coloured black. Layers of crystalline obsidian had been pressed into the angular surface, giving the building a sinister appearance. The dull, grey exterior had been raised by bitter Winterlord craftsmen, but the cavernous interior was the work of the Outrider Knights – a sect of Dark Brethren who believed that politics should be conducted in the dark. They’d left slivers of grey stone at irregular intervals, but clad the rest in black, with oddly angled sparks of light sneaking out from the crystalline walls and floor. It was rough to the touch, and made a gravelly sound as the numerous ministers walked across its surface.

  Falcon’s Watch were not permitted inside, and I was glad to no longer be the centre of attention. I was still the tallest figure in the atrium, but my silver robe was all anyone cared to notice. We were heavily outnumbered by black-robed Dark Brethren, but not so much as to make me stand out. Elizabeth’s warning had me on edge, so I was glad that no one whispered of the Winterlord prince.

  Then, as we crossed the atrium, heading towards one of the many galleries in the parliament, a single red-robed figure caught my eye. A tall man, with a heavy falchion at his hip, ignored the looks of astonishment and fear that followed him, and strode inexorably towards the parliament.