The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire

by Collings, Michaelbrent

  Armor sighed. Looked like he wanted to continue, but shook his head. Devar took his arm. "It's all right, my friend," he said. The young man stepped forward. "Eva lost her husband two years ago. It was an assassination by another faction; had nothing to do with us," he said in response to the looks they all flashed at him. "But since then she has traveled with a retinue. Not just the guards that go everywhere with her, but…." He opened another scroll. "Her family."

  The scroll was another Eye picture. This one showed six children, who looked like they ranged in age from fifteen Turns to around three.

  Sword didn't understand for a moment, but Garden did. The tender heart of a good person, one who was not raised as a Dog but in some other place, some place where good and evil actually mattered, understood.

  "Gods," she whispered. She looked at Malal. "We're going to have to kill all of them. Even the children."

  "No one can know the details of what you do," said the Emperor. "Which means everyone in her company – man, woman… and child – must die."

  And now Sword understood why he had seemed so weary when she came in, so sad. She also understood why he himself had come in this morning. This was a hard thing he asked – the hardest so far – and he would not do it through an underling. He would be present, and would lend his voice to what was needed. It was, ultimately, his decision. And he would be there to see it planned. He would suffer with them as much as he was able.

  "I don't know – I don't know if I can –" Garden didn't finish. Couldn't.

  "We know this is hard," said Armor. He seemed to shrink into himself, to become less than he had been. He was a man of honor, and was now going to be a part of a thing that no man could possibly view as honorable.

  "I understand the primary ramification of what you request," said Scholar, "but as you know the limitations of my particular Gift prevent me from comprehending the major possibilities of any particular situations. So please forgive this interrogatory, but I must inquire: is there any other alternative? Must the infants and adolescents – offspring of a traitor though they be – necessarily suffer the ultimate punishment?"

  "Also," said Teeth, "is there some other thing we could do? Could we maybe not kill them?"

  For once Scholar didn't berate his friend. Just looked grateful for the word of support.

  Armor managed to look even more uncomfortable. The pit of Sword's stomach felt like a block of molten lead, pouring down into her legs and feet, making the entire bottom half of her body heavy and hot. But her hands and cheeks felt clammy, parched.

  Please, no. Not this. This is too much.

  Armor finally spoke. "The older three must die. It is the will of the Empire. The younger ones… do not. It is at your discretion." He looked at Marionette, and for a moment she actually seemed to look back, to be fully present. "You do not make the choice, Marionette, do you understand? Your vote carries no weight here."

  She nodded. Looked like she cared not at all one way or the other.

  As for the rest of them, they sighed as one. Sword felt particular relief. If Marionette was being excluded then Armor really meant that they could spare the younger ones, at least. He clearly didn't want the homicidal little girl weighing in on whether or not to kill the children – for she would certainly jump at the chance to make more "poppets." From what Sword understood, Marionette could only maintain each undead for about six hours. After that, the body fell lifeless again. And then Marionette would miss her toy, and would seek another. And another.

  And another.

  Sword suspected that, given the chance, Marionette would kill the entirety of Ansborn, and live a life alone with her poppets, dancing a long dance with the dead atop the five mountains.

  "So who wants to not kill the kids?" said Teeth, and his hand – still holding the bread – shot in the air.

  "One moment," said Malal.

  Everyone turned their attention to the boy Emperor. He was slouched in his seat. Again looking so tired that Sword ached for him. The weight of millions on his shoulders, and for this moment every single one of them showed in his eyes.

  "They don't have to die, but they can't be left anywhere that they will be permitted to speak."

  Everyone but Armor and Devar looked at one another. Teeth said, "What's he mean, Scholar? And use little words, please," in a whisper so loud it probably carried outside the hall.

  Then, suddenly, Sword knew. And knew that no one else could know, no one else could possibly understand. She would be the only one to give voice to Malal's meaning.

  "He means we kill everyone but them, then take them to a kennel and give them over to one of the trainers, to be sold as tongueless slaves or to fight as child-Dogs in the arena."

  She stared at Malal as he said it. He didn't move for what seemed a long time. But then, slowly, he nodded.

  Sword closed her eyes. Opened them. All eyes were on her. " You know me," she said to her friends. "You know where I came from." She closed her eyes. "The alternative is no mercy. And there will be no vote." She opened her eyes and turned back to Malal.

  "We will kill the traitor. We will kill them all."

  11

  Sword crouched in the brambles, and itched, and waited.

  That was one thing she had learned early in her studies, and which had been pounded into her head every time she went on an assignment: much of what she did was glorified waiting. She looked back on what she and Garden had done when they went after Creed, the first mission that had resulted in an all-out fight with dozens of men, and despaired at how badly planned and executed that had been. Had she thought about it she would have had Garden make some kind of movement in the trees on one side of the wall, would have drawn attention away from the other side. Would have snuck in unnoticed. Perhaps killed a single guard and taken his uniform. Any of a thousand options that she knew of now, and would use in the future.

  She was better at what she did.

  But still, every time she began a job there was a tinge of regret. There had never been time for guilt when she was a Dog. There was only the run to the arena, the explosive burst onto the killing grounds, then every particle of her body focused on the grisly job of survival.

  This was survival, too, she supposed. But survival of a different kind. Not survival for herself only, but survival for all of Ansborn. She had read much of what the Imperial libraries held on the history and economics of the country, and she knew how frail it always was. Yes, the five States were built on five massive islands in the clouds, yes there was food production on the side-farms, yes there was mining that brought up iron and copper and brass and the other metals needed for workers and craftsmen.

  But still, it was a closed system, and had been for a thousand years. Ever since Eka first ascended from the netherlands below the clouds.

  So when someone threatened the Empire it wasn't just a threat to Malal's person – though that was serious enough, given that she liked him, respected him – it was a threat to the millions who depended on the fragile stability the throne provided.

  A sound drew her attention. They had chosen this place as a good one to fight: a place where Eva –

  (no no not Eva just the target not a mother just a threat to the Empire)

  – and her rebel forces would have to enter a narrow gap between hills. Once through, it would be harder for them to retreat.

  Easier for them to be gathered up and slaughtered.

  The first troops came through. They were not what Sword expected. Her image of a soldier was based on Armor: tall, proper, with perfectly pressed uniform and gleaming sword at his side. These men and women looked more like they had just dropped tills on the side-fields. Some had swords, but just as many held hoes and pitchforks and shovels. They had dirty faces and looked undernourished.

  Sword wondered where they were headed. This particular path led to nowhere but –

  Faith. They're seeking sanctuary.

  But no, that didn't make sense, did it? The priests and pr
iestesses of Gods' Church gave sanctuary to all who sought it, and the Imperial Crown honored that sanctuary, completely and utterly. Any criminal or lawbreaker, no matter how mean or how severe the crime, could go to any cathedral and simply announce a desire for sanctuary, and no one could arrest or harm him or her. But to take advantage of that they must abandon all weapons and all illegal pursuits. If they broke the covenant of sanctuary, the priests and priestesses of the Order of Chain – warriors themselves, trained in a special monastery where none others were permitted – broke them painfully with their traditional weapons: whips and sickles.

  So if these were rebels and killers who sought to overthrow the Emperor, they could hardly be seeking sanctuary. Where were they going?

  It was academic, she supposed. They were going to die here.

  The forces moved into the pass. She waited. Watched. The rebels were gathered in a thick knot in the center, tight around a line of carriages that she supposed must carry supplies.

  And, she suspected, one of those carriages held Eva.

  And her family.

  Don't think of that.

  She waited. Her turn would come soon enough, and she only hoped she would have the strength for it.

  A sound drifted through the night. Low at first, almost inaudible, but its effect on the rebels was instant. They all went absolutely still as Siren's lilting music touched them. A few – strong-willed beyond normal men and women – shook themselves and took a few steps, but even they had trouble doing more than that.

  The Song grew louder. And suddenly the rebels near the front of the column started shrieking. They ran forward. A few were so affected they lost all reason and started hacking at one another with their makeshift weapons.

  "She's something," said Devar. He was crouched near her. Another first: he had never accompanied them on any of their missions before. Sword felt guilty, but she was almost excited about this night, if only to see what his Gift might be.

  She nodded. Even though Siren was directing her music at the rebels, the magic that flowed beyond her directed Song was enough to make her tremble.

  There were well over two hundred rebels in the group. Of them, ten or fifteen, driven mad by Siren's Gift, were turning the front of the group into a vicious melee. Another twenty or thirty peeled away from the group and, driven to a strange desire, ran straight for her.

  Siren stood a few hundred rods ahead. In plain view, her dagger drawn. But it would not be nearly enough to handle the dozens coming at her.

  Shadows seemed to peel away from the hills and race to her side.

  Teeth and Scholar sped toward Siren, angling their run slightly so they intercepted the rushing mob before they could reach the woman. Siren kept singing, distracting them with desire to simply reach her.

  And Teeth and Scholar had full reign.

  Teeth became a saw that moved so fast it was nearly invisible. Feet, hands, arms, legs. Even back and chest exploded in vibrating serrations that were harder than steel. He threw himself into the onrushing rebels, and wherever he went there was only blood and dead flesh left behind.

  Scholar was no less effective. He intercepted one man at a time, armed only with his razor, but with each slash he opened an artery that caused the man or woman to fall within a few steps. He moved so fluidly that his glasses never slid the smallest fraction down his nose; his fedora remained perched perfectly at a jaunty angle on his head.

  Only one person got through them. And for that woman, Siren held out her knife and the mad lust for Siren's Song drove the rebel to impale herself.

  Still, it all seemed to sap Siren's concentration just a bit. Either that or the people just grew accustomed to it and were able to fight it off a bit. Sword saw heads shaking among the hundred and fifty or so who were left, saw them drawing into a circle, unsheathing weapons, starting to move back in an orderly retreat.

  Well-disciplined.

  She could not help but admire them. Most people fell to pieces when faced with powers they did not understand. These did not.

  And she knew why, though she wished she didn't. They had a cause. They were fighting for more than themselves. They believed in something, no matter how wrongheaded it might be. And that gave them strength.

  And they know that the children's lives hang in the balance.

  She pushed that thought away.

  The rebels retreated a dozen rods. Then Garden, who was waiting on the opposite hill, began her work.

  The vines, the bushes, the very grass itself… all of it erupted around the rebels. Where before they had been walking on flat ground, aware of only a trio of enemies at their front, now they faced demonic creatures in their midst. Vines tore them, brambles shot at them and rent flesh, thorns shot off swelling branches and pierced faces and eyes.

  The shrieks of the rebels reached a crescendo.

  "Now," said Devar. He stood.

  They waded into the rebels.

  Sword's katana and wakizashi flew in tight circles of death, cutting through all before her. Barely any even managed to raise a weapon in defense, let alone attack.

  She glanced to her side. Saw Devar. He had a rapier, and had apparently used it to impale someone, because the blade was sticking through a woman's chest, out her back.

  Then Sword blinked… and Devar was gone.

  He reappeared an instant later, ten feet away. And his sword reappeared as well… deep inside another rebel's eye.

  Sword nearly forgot to block a rebel's clumsy attack with a shovel. She disarmed and killed him in a single move. Glanced at Devar. He was appearing and disappearing all over the battlefield, each time reappearing with his weapon buried in someone's body. Every time he disappeared that body would fall, dead.

  One time he appeared between two rebels, whose mouths opened in surprise as they realized one had a sword buried in his throat, the other had a hand buried in his chest, crushing his very heart.

  They fell as one.

  Gods, he can transport himself anywhere.

  She wondered at the power. Someone like that would be unstoppable in any battle. No wonder he had risen to be Armor's superior, even at his young age. The Wanderers could move people across long distances, as they had the night she killed Creed, but that was a complicated task, and any Wanderer who moved someone that way would be unable to repeat the magic for days, even weeks.

  This, though….

  There, gone, there, gone. And another man or woman fallen with each appearance.

  Then her attention turned as she heard the tinkling sound of a child's laughter. It shouldn't have carried over the din of the battle, but it found its way through the fissures in the commotion, the fractions of a second when all fell quiet.

  And the dead began to stand.

  The men and women Sword had just killed began to rise. Began to fight at her side.

  She felt like screaming, "Don't help me! Not like this! Get these things away!"

  The fight had never been on the side of the rebels. But now it devolved from melee to massacre.

  Sword fought through to the first of the wagons. The horses reared as she approached, eyes rolling back so far that the whites took over. "Shhh," she whispered, wondering why she did it. Why it mattered that there be some semblance of calm in this madness. The horses still shied away, and one reared back. One of its hooves slammed toward her head…

  … and bounced with a clang off one of Armor's now-huge fists. There was the crack of breaking bone and the horse fell over as the soldier grinned. "Careful, child," he said. He had been hidden near the rear of the column, but must have emerged from hiding soon after Siren finished her Song and was now creating havoc among the small army in the pass.

  Sword nodded her thanks. Then went to the carriage the downed horse and its mate had been pulling. The carriage was a flat bed covered by a high tent of canvas, threaded closed in the back. She sliced open the lashings and opened it.

  Just food. Wheat, some seed. A few guns.

  The next ca
rriage was nearly as empty.

  The next vehicle in the caravan was a covered wagon. And it held the woman. Held Eva. She was huddled in the middle of the wagon, head bowed as she tried to hold all her children to her as tightly as possible. All but one of them had heads lowered, buried deep in her breast. That last looked to be the oldest, a little younger than Sword. He sat beside them, trembling but clearly determined to be brave. He held a long dagger in his hand. The point wobbled so much he was more in danger of cutting himself than anyone else.

  "I'll kill you," he whispered. But his voice shook and cracked.

  Eva pulled her son back. He resisted, but she forced him away from Sword. "Kill me," she said. "Kill me but not the children. They've done nothing. They're no part of this."

  Sword found she couldn't move. Armor had left her side somewhere between the horse and here, and she was alone.

  Am I to kill them all myself?

  It's your job.

  But how can I?

  You've killed children before.

  Not like this.

  Eva took her silence as an encouraging sign. "You're not like them," she said. "Not like the others. You can help us. Please, help –"

  Then she went quiet. The silence was abrupt, so sudden it was jarring even with the clamor of battle still a nearly physical presence around them.

  Eva opened her mouth. Blood dribbled out. She looked down.

  A rapier emerged from her chest.

  Devar was sitting on the small bench built into the side of the wagon. He had appeared behind Eva, and as he had done dozens of times already, his blade had appeared as an already-killing stroke.

  "This is for betraying the Empire," he whispered.

  "Mercy," she managed. Then fell.

  The children cried out. The older ones pulled their younger brothers and sisters closer.

  Devar shook his head. "Your mercy is that I killed you first, so you'll not see your children die."