The Sword Falls

by A. J. Smith

  Rys straightened and any show of fear disappeared from his face, to be replaced by a confident smile. “The First Fang will soon be dead. I follow Adeline Brand, called the Alpha Wolf. And neither of us will ever fear death, or your Sunken God. Show the power he’s given you… if you dare.”

  I gasped at this, but was amazed by the reaction of others in the parliament. Most averted their eyes, bowed their heads, and tried their best to ignore something they already knew. A Sunken God. What new madness was this? Trego spoke as if he’d directed the chaos spirits to destroy the Severed Hand.

  No one flinched or turned away, as Trego Cyclone pulled in a huge nimbus of green wyrd, and threw it at Rys. The Sea Wolf was quick, and rolled away, letting the energy annihilate two black robes behind him. The next attack was the same, a crackling ball of rotten energy, flung with incredible speed, though this time it merely took a chunk out of the First Stone. The Brethren was using more power than I’d ever seen. Far more than I could conjure, and enough to consume the average Eastron. Throwing your wyrd in this manner was unheard of, outside of legendary Winterlord spirit-masters.

  “He’s a fucking god,” taunted Rys. “Is throwing balls of light the limit of his power? If that’s all he can do, Adeline will shove her fist up his arse.”

  For the first time, Trego appeared agitated, perhaps even angry. I was reminded of a man, trying to swat a stubborn fly. He threw another ball of wyrd, as if in irritation, and Rys ducked underneath, with precise movements and an elated smirk on his face. The thrown wyrd smashed into a gallery to my left, reducing the stone to rubble, but killing no people. Then another projectile, avoided like the last. Then another, with each globe getting progressively smaller, showing that there were limits to even Trego Cyclone’s wyrd. He’d been goaded into foolishness by a wily old duellist, and he began to realize it. The envoy pulled everything into a tight globe around his body and stood still, conserving what he had left.

  Rys was breathing heavily, but still smirking, and strode across the First Stone, coming to a stop less than ten feet from his opponent. “As a friend of mine is fond of saying,” began the Wolf’s Bastard, “no gods, spirits, or men hold dominion over me.”

  He attacked with his fists and feet, using small points of wyrd to shock Trego whenever they struck his globe of light. The Brethren held a sword, but didn’t know how to use it, and struggled to meet the oncoming attacks.

  “Hubris has killed better men than you, Cyclone,” growled Rys, as his blows began to land.

  Trego was almost spent. He’d thrown away immense power, certain of his superiority, without considering the possibility that a Sea Wolf of the Severed Hand could be cleverer than him. But he didn’t get long to consider his failure. The Sea Wolf expended his wyrd in a dizzying combination of punches, breaking Trego’s jaw, crushing his nose, and closing both of his eyes into bloody lumps. He then grasped the broken Dark Brethren by the throat and addressed the auditorium.

  “I am Rys Coldfire, called the Wolf’s Bastard, and I am now an envoy of the Silver Parliament.” He punctuated his statement by taking Trego’s straight sword and driving it downwards into the man’s neck, producing a sudden gush of blood, and executing one of the three Cyclone brothers. “I propose a motion. That every Winterlord, every Dark Brethren, every Eastron from across the sea, pledges to the Alpha Wolf, in defiance of the Sunken God, his Sunken Men, his depth barges, and his agents… There is a threat to this world, and we will meet it head-on. What will you do?”

  Eastron Lords are chosen in many different ways:

  The Sea Wolves have a day of challenge to decide on the First Fang.

  Though heredity is respected.

  The Kneeling Wolves vote on the most suitable Friend.

  Allowing every citizen a voice.

  The Dark Brethren conspire amongst the great families.

  Until the most powerful nominates the Bloodied Harp.

  But the Always King of the Winterlords will be crowned from father to son.

  Continuing the line of Sebastian Dawn Claw.

  From “The House of Dawn Claw” by Jessika Pale Wind of First Port.

  PART TWO

  Adeline Brand at the Severed Hand

  4

  The man was larger than me. He was also stronger, older and far more experienced. He had two arms to my one, and in each of his hands was a blade. He wore a waistcoat of leather armour, fastened at the side with steel buttons, and moulded to his huge torso. His long, muddy blonde hair fell in matted tangles past his shoulders, and his pale, streaked face was dominated by a ragged, unkempt beard. Deep within his bloodshot eyes I saw churning rage, and barely concealed obsession, like his mind was focused on a single point, and would not be moved. He strode towards me, across the stone of Duellist’s Yard, with thousands of eager spectators encircling us.

  The man was Lord Ulric Blood, First Fang of the Sea Wolves and elder of the Severed Hand, and I had to kill him. I didn’t want to. I wanted to see him as I had always seen him – as every Sea Wolf at the Severed Hand saw him – as a leader, a champion, a man of honour and respect, and the symbol of our might. But he had fallen far in a short time, and we no longer needed a symbol. And I would no longer follow a leader. No gods, spirits or men held dominion over me. I was Adeline Brand, called the Alpha Wolf, and I spoke for the Old Bitch of the Sea.

  People hung out of windows, clambered up shop fronts, sat on roofs, and squeezed into every conceivable space, just to watch us fight. It felt like a theatre, or some kind of Winterlord coliseum, with everyone fixated on a single, circular piece of stone ground. For the first time in the Severed Hand’s history, a railing had been erected in Duellist’s Yard, keeping spectators away from the fight. But the space was wide, with more than enough room to kill a broken old fool.

  The only other Sea Wolf within the barrier was Tomas Red Fang, the elderly spirit-master, who had stubbornly refused to accept that one of us needed to die. He stood in the middle of the circle, between Ulric and I, giving no indication that he intended to move.

  I advanced with the First Fang, and we came together either side of the spirit-master. My cutlass was still in its scabbard, though I held the basket-hilt, and could draw it faster that Ulric could strike. The stump of my left arm glowed a subtle blue, and I could extend a limb of wyrd when needed, but I faced the challenge as a one-armed woman, refusing to show fear of the enormous man I had to kill.

  “This doesn’t need to happen,” said Tomas Red Fang.

  Neither of us were looking at the old man, and his words would have fallen on deaf ears a week ago. Now, they were almost funny, as if the punchline of a morbid joke.

  “We should remember who we all are,” continued the spirit-master. “And what we share. We share a broken hold and a broken people.”

  He looked upwards, away from the stone of Duellist’s Yard, focusing our attention on the one thing that mattered more than our duel. I gulped, following his gaze, as did Lord Ulric. Around us, thousands of eyes looked up, and beheld a jagged tear in the sky. The glass had broken and no amount of spirit-craft could fix it. It was a gaping wound in the realm of form, its edges flapping in the wind, like a piece of torn cloth. Each afternoon the hold entered a sudden twilight as the sun passed behind the tear, emerging as a muddy silhouette on the other side. The darkness didn’t last long, but the entire hold showed collective relief when the light returned.

  “Look at it,” snapped Tomas. “Both of you, look at it. That’s the void. It’s a daily fight to keep the spirits back. The Severed Hand is broken, and you two killing each other won’t repair it. Nothing will repair it.” He turned his eyes to Lord Ulric. “Taking a thousand warriors to retake Nowhere won’t repair it.” Then he glared at me. “Neither will sacking the Bay of Bliss. You each have your reasons, but your people need you… They need you both.”

  I faced Tomas. I had affection for the old man, but his summary was flawed, perhaps deliberately so, in an effort not to reignite unpleasant or madde
ning memories. For Ulric and I were both burdened with them. For an instant, a memory overtook me and my thoughts left the Severed Hand. I returned to a waterlogged stone chamber at the Bay of Bliss, where I’d been a helpless prisoner of the Sunken God. I’d been robbed of my wyrd, and cast before a grotesque creature, with greasy black eyes, a bulbous, frog-like body, and the vilest of intentions. A Sunken Man… a creature of legends and nightmares, four times my size, but merely one of many, skulking in the fetid waters of the Bay of Bliss, waiting for their god to rise and lead them against the Eastron. They’d already sent their chaos spawn to break the glass and annihilate the Sea Wolves.

  Ulric’s torments were more temporal, though no less important in his mind. He could not see past the death of his son on the island of Nowhere, and would throw steel at the island until there was nothing left to throw. The actions of Marius Cyclone, and the void legionnaires who held the island, had infected the mind of the First Fang until he couldn’t see beyond his own vengeance. Someone had killed Vikon Blood, and someone needed to pay. That was all his mind would allow.

  “Ulric Blood!” I roared, sick of delaying the inevitable. “I name you broken, short-sighted old fool. Answer me!”

  “Adeline Brand,” he replied, in a barely-audible whisper. “I name you traitorous bitch. Answer me.”

  Tomas retreated, and Duellist’s Yard held its collective breath. There was a respectful pause, with Ulric and I locking eyes. I’d known him as long as I’d known anyone, and I’d looked to him as my First Fang since I took the rite and became a Sea Wolf. In the depths of his deep, blue eyes I saw the man I’d once known, and I saw a willingness to die. Lord Ulric Blood, First Fang of the Severed Hand, would never submit, never retreat, and never accept the death of his son. Was it possible for a man to know he was going mad and invite an honourable death? I hoped so.

  He attacked first, summoning a restrained amount of wyrd into each arm, and striking with both blades. I gave ground, deflecting one strike while sidestepping the other. With a remnant of the Old Bitch of the Sea infusing my wyrd, I was far quicker than him, but still not immune to blades. With his strength advantage, a single cut could be fatal. But I didn’t receive a single cut. I danced around his brutal strikes, using minimal wyrd to slap away his blades with my own. My spectral arm acted as a second cutlass, able to repel steel with a crack of pale-blue light. I was more powerful than him, and that became more and more obvious with every swing of his twin blades.

  “Enough of this,” I shouted, breaking Ulric’s guard with my spectral limb, and delivering a fatal thrust to his heart. My blade sliced smoothly through his breastplate and into his chest. I’d killed the First Fang of the Severed Hand. I felt his bones, his flesh, and his blood. I stood over him, with time slowing to a crawl, and was amazed by how simple it was to kill so mighty a man. His weathered face slowly fell into a blank stare, and though I wished for some last words, there were none. All he left me with was the smallest of smiles. Or perhaps the slight curl of his lip was something else. “I’m sorry, Ulric,” I whispered, cradling his huge body to the stone of Duellist’s Yard. “But your time has passed.”

  *

  In my dreams, I stood from my lover, naked and covered in a film of sweat, and poured two mugs of brown beer from an earthenware jug. My breathing was slowly returning to normal, and as my blood cooled, the shallow bite marks on my neck were starting to sting. The wooden floor creaked under my weight, and a chill wind crept through holes in the poorly constructed building. The room only had a functional bed and a door in its door frame because I had insisted. The structure was a two-storey shack, newly rebuilt, like many other wooden buildings in the Severed Hand.

  The man, still sprawled on the bed, grunted and rolled over to face me. “Sex, beer, sex, beer… How long are we going to maintain this cycle?” He turned his beautiful green eyes out of the small window and took note of the dawn sky. “It’s already morning. I don’t think we’ve ever been together this long.”

  I took a long drink of beer, followed by several deep, calming breaths, before handing him a mug and returning to bed. Our legs quickly intertwined, as we sat up against the wooden wall. The room had an intoxicating smell of sex, sweat and alcohol, with each scent melting into the next.

  “People will be looking for you, Adeline,” said Young Green Eyes, firmly grasping my thigh. “Do I still get to call you that? Or are you now the First Fang?”

  I put my hand on top of his and interlocked our fingers. “Call me whatever the fuck you want. In here I’m just a woman.” I nodded out of the window. “Out there I’m now the elder of the Severed Hand. They have to worry about what to call me. Not you.”

  He kissed me. It was slow and lingering, with salty saliva passing between our lips. His hands stroked smoothly down my back, and we didn’t talk for a little while. It was the quietest my mind had been for weeks. Not just quiet, but peaceful. I was half an hour from the Wolf House and those who would expect answers from me, but it felt far more distant, as if I’d discovered a second life that I could lead. A life that nevertheless must be lived in my dreams.

  “Adeline,” he breathed between kisses. “I am but a mortal man, unable to satisfy your needs.” We shared a smile, looking at each other’s sweat-covered bodies. “I think it would be… five times. I may need to wash and rest before we try six.”

  We parted, falling backwards onto the unkempt bed. Our time would soon be over, no matter how hard we tried to push our bodies.

  “Did you come straight here?” he asked. “After you won the duel?”

  I coughed and took a deep swig of beer. “I wanted to make a triumphant speech, but no words would come out. I just killed him, stood around looking like an idiot, then left. It’s not really sunk in.”

  “The Sea Wolves are yours,” he replied. “As much as the Sea Wolves are anybody’s. So, what will you do?”

  “I’ve already done much of it,” I murmured. “Challenging Ulric was near the end of my list. After I sent Rys and Lagertha to the Silver Dawn, I couldn’t delay killing him any longer. His mind had gone, but I think he knew it. I think he smiled at me when I killed him.”

  “You think?” he queried.

  “I barely remember; it’s all a blur. I thrust my cutlass through his chest and woke up here, with your cock inside me.”

  He laughed, rolling over and wrapping an arm around me. “Go and be a Sea Wolf again. I’ll be here for when you just want to be a woman.”

  “You and Sky should leave the hold,” I said, reluctantly. “Most Pure Ones have already gone to Nissa. That hole in the glass isn’t getting any smaller and the days of the Severed Hand are getting… shorter. We’ve had our last First Fang. And I killed him.”

  “So, what will you do?” he repeated, reminding me that this wasn’t real.

  I pushed back against him, wanting to feel as much warm flesh as I could before I was forced to leave. “I suppose I’ll do war. I’ll lead the Sea Wolves against that fucking village in the Bay of Bliss, then we assemble a fleet and sail to Last Port and the Sea of Stars… We fight. I fight. Maybe we’ll win, maybe we’ll all die, but the Sunken God and his… creatures… will at least feel our strength.”

  “No gods, spirits or men will hold dominion over you,” said Young Green Eyes, leaning away from me. “You’re not an idiot, so don’t be a fucking idiot.”

  I pushed him away and snarled. “Watch your mouth, Mirralite.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Sea Wolf. I can’t fight you, but I won’t just tell you what you want to hear.”

  My wyrd flared, reminding us both of my superiority. I used to enjoy it, but it now just made me mournful, as if the might of the Eastron was more noise than substance. I’d seen some of the dark places in the world, and I’d seen what dwelt within those dark places. I knew that strong wyrd and fine steel would only get us so far.

  “Adeline, listen to me. You’re wiser than most Eastron, but you’d be declaring war on the sea. If you can’t repair the S
evered Hand, move your people to Yish, and grow Moon Rock.”

  “For how long?” I replied. “How long will we get until the Sunken God visits us for a second time? Marius Cyclone and I agree on very little, but we both accept that our Kingdom of the Four Claws is in its last days.”

  He sighed, returning to wrap his arms around me. “So flee with him. I’ve heard stories of Nissalite travelling to Nowhere and being accepted. The Stranger appears to allow anyone to walk through his gate in peace.”

  News from Nowhere had flowed freely since Marius left the Severed Hand. Spirits were sent daily with messages and news. The island was becoming a haven for those who wished to flee the realm of form, before the Sunken God awoke. Dozens of Brethren ships from the Dark Harbour had been seen in the Straits of Helion, ferrying families and void legionnaires to the void gate. Since the Maelstrom calmed, there had been no engagements of any kind. And now, with the death of Lord Ulric, the peace was secure. I would never trust Marius Cyclone, but we had come to an understanding. He’d flee into the void, I’d fight for the realm of form. But his path was clear, whereas mine was murky in the extreme.

  I wriggled out of my lover’s arms and stood, draining my mug of beer. I extended my spectral left arm and began to get dressed. While fucking, I barely noticed that I was a one-armed woman, but reality intruded when I had to lace up a tight, leather tunic.

  “Leather over sweat,” observed Young Green Eyes. “I’m sure you’ll smell lovely in an hour or so.”

  I glared at him. “I’m not bathing in this shitty hovel. One of your two hundred cousins would walk in on me.”

  “Well, be sure to bathe before you give any rousing speeches. You do not currently appear very heroic.”

  My glare turned to a smile. “I have to walk back to the Wolf House. Looking like a drunken pirate and smelling like a whore will probably aid anonymity.”