Spirit of the Sword: Faith and Virtue (The First Sword Chronicles Book 2)

by Frances Smith

  With his other hand, Silius chipped at the golem's head with a knife. "Up here, you big bugger! Up here! Bugger me, Optio, the things I do for you, eh?"

  The golem turned round and round on the spot, floundering in blindness, trying to reach up to Silius but unable to raise its arms that high.

  "Someone with a hammer, use it!" Silius yelled. "I can't hang on up here forever!"

  Priscus came running, a large, crude stonehammer in his free hand, and he screamed as he swung the hammer at the golem's leg, just below where Jugurtha's axe had bitten in.

  The stone cracked, but did not break.

  Priscus swung again, his dandified curls waving about his head as the hammer fell.

  The stone did not break.

  Jugurtha struck the golem with his axe again, biting into the front of the leg just beneath the knee.

  Priscus swung the hammer a third time, and the leg shattered. Silius leapt clear as the golem wobbled, flailed, then fell on its side so heavily that it broke one of its own arms beneath its weight.

  Then it was just a matter of keeping the other arm busy while Priscus smashed the damn thing's chest until it stopped moving.

  Only then could Jugurtha, Silius or Priscus look around and take stock of the rest of the battle.

  It was almost over, but not quite yet. One golem still fought on, the one that was still rampaging through Fifth Company, carrying all before it. As the three legionaries watched, it picked up a soldier in both hands and ripped him in half, before nearly stomping another soldier flat with a single stone fist. Nobody who approached it so much as got close. Men were starting to run from it instead.

  All save one.

  "Hoi!" Major Skleros barked as he advanced upon the stone monstrosity, his red cloak flapping this way and that behind him. "Hoi, you bastard, down here!"

  The golem stopped, and stared at the short officer walking towards it, sword drawn, shield ready. If those things had expression, then that golem’s expression would have been bemused.

  "You've killed my men," Major Skleros said. "I don't like that. Not one bit. So I'm going to put a stop to it."

  The golem stared at him some more, as it couldn't believe what he was saying. Then it raised a fist.

  And the Major howled.

  He howled as he broke into a run, sprinting forwards as fast as his stumpy legs would carry him. He howled as he leapt up into the air, sword ready.

  He howled as his leap carried him into the golem's chest and he drove his sword through the stone where its heart should have been all the way up to the hilt.

  And he wasn't howling when the thing fell backwards and lay motionless on the street, dead.

  "Bloody black abyss, sir," Lucius muttered. "No one can kill one of them on their own."

  "I did what had to be done," Major Skleros said. "Captain Theseus!"

  "Sir?"

  "Butcher's bill. Captain Orestes!"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Gather twenty men and start moving the wounded. Lieutenant Comitus."

  "Er...yes, sir?"

  "Good shooting with the artillery. Well done," Major Skleros said. "The rest of you, reform the lines, reload the engines. They might be back."

  And if they were, Jugurtha thought, they'd probably break through. Most of the ballista had been smashed, and the vexillation had been decimated. Dead bodies lay everywhere, mingling with shards of stone and the remains of broken engines. There were only two ballistae and a single scorpion still able to shoot, and only enough men for three full ranks. How would they stop a second attack?

  But they formed up ready to fight again, all the same. What else could they do?

  A great horde pressed against the Great Gate, seeking a way out of the city as the heavens vented their wrath upon them.

  But the gate was closed.

  The gatehouse was locked and barred, the gates were shut, and the pitiful cries of the people went unanswered. The gate was closed, but the flood of those seeking it continued.

  Laevina struggled to keep her feet as the ever-growing mass jostled and pushed around her. She knew that if she stumbled, if she fell, then she would not get up again. She would be swallowed by the crowd, trampled into the stones, and not a soul around her would realise.

  The crowd kept on swelling. Every moment and more and more people arrived at the gate, shoving to get out, crying for escape.

  Those closest to the gate banged upon it, shrieked for help, called on the gods, but neither god nor man answered. Mothers and fathers lifted their children up out of the press, holding them in the air as the human waves surged around them, but it would only be a matter of time before mothers and fathers fell, and then the children would fall too. Some were trying to climb the wall itself, up onto the ramparts; but they barely got a few feet up, and there were no guards atop to help them up or hinder them.

  The air was filled with crying and yelling, shrieking and sobbing, cursing and praying. Everyone was being pushed forwards by those behind them, born relentlessly on like waves, crushing those at the front against the immovable walls and the stubborn gate. Already Laevina could hear the howls of pain from those in front, or being trampled underfoot.

  And there was nothing anyone could do to save them.

  "Your Highness," Michael cried. "Can you use a spell?"

  "Anything powerful enough to destroy the gate wouldn't stop with the gate," Jason replied. "I'd kill dozens of people on the other side."

  "It may come to that," Wyrrin said. "Dozens is better than hundreds."

  "There has to be another way," Amy said. "Listen to them in there."

  Michael did not want to listen, but could hardly help but hear the screams and the shouts and the desperate prayers assailing his ears. Amy was right, they had to do something, but the Great Gate was hardly built to be opened from the outside.

  There had to be a way, a way to avoid all those deaths. Would not the Empress protect her children from certain death?

  He could practically hear the response of the Empress, her tone cold and commanding. "I watched over my people by empowering you to be their protector. If you are not sufficient for the task then you should not have sworn to be their champion." Whether Her Majesty was really speaking to him, or whether he could simply imagine her words, they were true either way. What good was a First Sword who let the very heart of Empire fall amidst a torrent of civil blood?

  Yet what could do, as a mere man? If ever there was a time when he needed spirit magic, the time was now.

  Michael closed his eyes, and scowled as he tried to will himself into contact with the spirit realm, to bring through the veil that separated the living and the dreaming planes, to draw on that great well of power he'd touched before and summon his fallen friends to aid him. He could not do it. Will alone was not enough.

  He tried to picture the people on the other side of the gate, the people he could hear screaming, the people he could hear begging, the people he could hear praying, the people he could hear dying. He tried to take his desire to aid them, to save them, to protect them, and use that desire as a blade to slice through the barrier keeping him from the strength to save them. But though he pitied those poor souls beyond the gate, they were too vague in his mind for him to picture them as more than a faceless huddled mass, as solid as smoke and as worthy of care. He did not know them, and not knowing them he could not care for them with sufficient power to rend apart the divide between the planes and grasp the power of the Divine Empress in his hands.

  If I do not open this gate then Eternal Pantheia will burn, the Empire will fall and the Empress' dream, Gideon's dream will die. Is that not bad enough?

  If I do not open this gate then Lucilia will perish in the fires and join her sister in the Heavenvault.

  He thought of Lucilia, of her tears, of her sad smile, of the sound of her voice and the softness of her gentle touch. He could hear Gideon speaking to him, rhapsodising upon the glories of the Empire as it could be, a great land that gloried in it
s virtues as much as in its strength that cared more for honour than for wealth, that acted in accordance with Aegea's words and Aegea's will.

  He thought of his friends, brave Filia Tullia and fierce Princess Fiannuala, of his proud and noble father, who had given their lives to bring him to this point. He could not fail them now. He would not.

  "Well, you won't now that we're here to help you out, will you?"

  Michael opened his eyes. Fiannuala stood before him, leaning on her spear, an easy smile playing across her face and lighting up her golden eyes.

  "Your highness," Michael murmured, unable to keep from smiling in his turn despite the grimness of the circumstance.

  "You called, sir?" Fiannuala asked with a mocking bow.

  "And we came," Tullia said, appearing beside him. "Lucilia-"

  "Will be safe, Filia, I promise," Michael said. "Now that, with your help, I can open this gate."

  Duty rang as Michael drew it from its scabbard.

  "Amy, Wyrrin," Michael said. "Be ready to pull."

  He advanced upon the gate.

  "Stand back!" he cried, and thrust Duty into the gateway between the gates doors. The unbreakable blade, driven by the power of spirit magic, wedged in between the two, before Michael pushed on it as a lever to pry the gateway open. With Tullia and Fiannuala lending him strength, the gateway shrieked and moaned and began to swing outwards.

  The cries of lamentation beyond began to turn to cries of hope and joy, and Michael could see hands pressing on the gate to help force it the rest of the way. He sheathed Duty and, knowing what was likely to happen once the gate was opened, he stood behind the gate and wrapped his fingers around it, pulling on the left-hand gate as Amy and Wyrrin pulled upon the right.

  The gate moaned. It squeaked. It resisted. But it moved. It moved in fits and starts, then in a flow. Though not so great a flow as those who poured out of it, first slipping through the gap and then deluging out like a river in spate as Michael and his comrades pulled the gateway open all the way, and all those who had been trapped beyond spilled out like so many fish flopping out of a fishing net once it sliced open.

  None of them noticed Michael, or Amy or Wyrrin. None of them needed to. Tullia and Fiannuala had seen, and though Michael was disappointed that Gideon was not here he had no doubt that Gideon and the Empress had seen also. The people of the Empire had been saved, for now. That was all that mattered.

  "Michael!"

  Michael saw Silwa rushing out of the crowd, dashing towards him what seemed unseemly haste. "Michael, good. What took you so long?"

  Michael bowed his head. "I apologise for the delay, my lady."

  "Never mind that now," Silwa said. "You realise what's going on?"

  "I fear so, though I do not know the cause," Michael said.

  "Nor do I, nor can I find out without entering the spirit realm, and that I have not time to do," Silwa said. "Come with me, we must get into the palace at once. That is where the heart of the storm is, that is where Miranda will be."

  "Then we must go there, and swiftly," Michael said. "But not right away. There is another who must be seen too first."

  Silwa's grey eyes glanced towards Tullia. "I see. Lead on then, once the press has cleared. To Aulo's Hospital it is."

  XIX

  Stone and Soul

  Miranda found herself smiling as the raw power at her command surged through her. From her vantage point she could see large areas of the city burning already, the light of the flames casting a yellow light upon the clouds above. She could see houses and temples crushed by falling rocks, she could see the lightning lancing down, she could see this city that she hated so much, this city that had murdered so many good, kind people, being cleansed by the wrath of one near divine. Soon it would be over. Soon Portia's funeral pyre would be complete.

  Quirian laughed as the fireballs descended, the flames leaping up the from the city cast an orange glow upon his face, lending his merry features a sinister cast.

  "Have you ever wondered, Filia, why men so fear fire?" Quirian mused as the inferno reigned down. "Fire is, after all, at the heart of civilisation. A society that makes no fire makes nothing. And yet we live in terror of that which is our greatest servant."

  "Fire is feared because it is dangerous," Miranda replied. "Fire kills."

  "So can a horse, if mistreated, but we do not fear them," Quirian said. "I think, I am certain, that the reason we associate fire with truth and justice is because of the visceral terror that the flame inspires in man; what are we, after all, but a race of sinners who shrink from the truth, who shrink from justice, and prefer to hide in our caves of lies and sin. Yes, we fear truth, we fear the revelation of truth, we fear that someone will treat us justly, as we deserve, and as we fear those things we associate them with the flame. But why do we fear the flame in the first place?"

  "I don't know," Miranda snapped. "And I don't care. Leave me to my work, before I decide to give you the justice I am visiting upon this wretched city."

  Quirian smiled. "Of course, Filia, I shall withdraw as you request. But first, there is one matter I would like to make you aware of."

  "Would you indeed? What is it?"

  "I believe your brother and his friends have returned to the city. You may not see it but my keener eyes perceive that the Triumphal Gate has been opened from the outside. I would suggest that Michael and his friends are responsible. They are probably on their way here as we speak."

  Miranda gasped. No. Why do you always have to get in my way? Why do you always have to be so stupid? She closed her eyes as visions of Michael perishing by fire or lightning, having his head staved in by a rock, having the life crushed out of him by a golem filled her mind.

  "Will you really allow him to jeopardise our noble enterprise?" Quirian asked.

  "He's my family," Miranda whispered.

  "He is your enemy," Quirian said. "Are you prepared to do what must be done?"

  "I will do," Miranda muttered. "I will...I will do nothing. Not unless they try to interfere with me personally. Until then, let Michael and Amy wave their swords around, let them fight golems, what does any of it matter? So long as I stand here the outcome is the same."

  "And if they do try to interfere with you personally?" Quirian asked, his voice sly and insidious.

  "Then I will have no choice but to destroy them," Miranda murmured softly.

  Felix sat down upon an ivory chair. No, not a chair he realised after a moment, a throne. An ivory throne, with the arms carved in the shape of elephants and the feet like gryphon's claws. Intricate scenes of hunting and feasting were carved into the back, and the arms danced with a parade of horses, lions, camels, elephants and a host of stranger creatures he could not name, even some who walked on two legs like great hairy men. He wondered what they were called, and why there were none in this land.

  He heard Metella's footsteps approaching, but didn't have time to rise from his seat before she stalked into the room. She looked at him, sitting on the ivory throne, and raised one eyebrow at him curiously.

  "Should I call you Prince Felix or would you prefer Emperor Lucifer?"

  Felix looked away. "I didn't notice where I was sitting at first."

  "Good, I'm not sure I remember how to curtsy," Metella said, walking past him and sitting with her back to him on a chair of gold, set with rubies and sapphires. The room they were occupying, almost directly below 'Randa's position on the roof, didn't seem to have a single chair in it that wasn't ridiculously ornate.

  "What do you think all of these are?" Felix asked.

  "Gifts from foreign kings most likely," Metella replied. "I know that the Empire has sent thrones or curule chairs to our client kings on occasion, when recognising them as kings, friends and allies of the Divine Empire. It would make sense they would send us similar gifts, not realising that we would never use them. So they get put here, in a glorified store room."

  Felix ran his fingers over the patterns carved into the ivory. "Where
do you think it's from?"

  "Triazica? Ambhi, possibly, though less likely. Somewhere they have elephants," Metella said quietly.

  Felix nodded. "How is Octavia?"

  "She will be fine," Metella said. "She is still asleep, but I have not harmed her. When she awakes she will be fine. In body, at least. I cannot speak for her soul when she learns..."

  "Yes," Felix said. "Still, that is...good... I suppose."

  They sat in silence for a moment. Felix clenched his fist. "Metella...do you know what's going on up there?"

  Metella nodded, not looking back at him. "Your sister is laying waste to the city."

  "Can anyone stop her?"

  "The army may stop her golems, though I think they will find it harder than they think, but they can do nothing about her magic. I think...I think that Michael is the only one who could turn Miranda from this course."

  "Then that means I'll have to fight him again," Felix murmured. The Lost had been deployed to guard the central areas of the palace, to bar any access to Miranda. If Michael came here, looking for her, then Felix would have to cross swords his brother in earnest. "I don't want to fight him."

  "Nor I," Metella said. "But what choice do we have? We are of the Lost, sworn to Lord Quirian."

  "Did you know he was going to do this?" Felix demanded anxiously. "Did you know this was his plan? Did you lie to me?"

  Metella looked at him with her cold, blue eyes. "I have never lied to you, from the moment I joined the Lost. The worst I have ever done is failed to speak."

  "Did you do that?" Felix asked. "Did you... fail to speak to me?"

  Metella was silent for a moment. "No. Lord Father did not confide his plans in me. I knew that the Emperor and Empress were marked for death, as we all did, but nothing more than that."

  Felix shook his head, looking down at the crowd. "All those people out there, all this death. This isn't what we thought was going to happen."