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

by Frances Smith

  "We have been ready for some time," Wyrrin said. "I would rather fight as a warrior than skulk like a thief. Or a slave."

  Michael nodded. He crept towards the doors. Jason fell back towards the rear of the group with Vergillia. Amy and Wyrrin stood on Michael's flanks, with Ascanius and Julian not far behind.

  Michael looked down at Duty, then at Piety, and drew in breath. He pictured the door before him as the entrance to the arena, and conjured in his mind an audience waiting to be awed.

  "One," he whispered. "Two. Three!" He put his shoulder to the door and bulled into the hall, his comrades following swiftly after him. He saw a score of Quirian's followers, all facing in the other direction. There was a moment when they turned, astonished at the sight of him, and in that moment the defenders of the Empire were upon them.

  One man, tall and stern-faced, conjured fire into the palm of one hand even as he raised a wooden club over his head with the other. Michael parried the club with Duty - actually, the shining blade sliced through the wood with ease - before sinking Piety into his stomach before the foeman had a chance to use his magic. Meanwhile, fireballs were flying over his shoulder from Vergillia to land amidst the Lost and scatter them.

  The Lost had a sorcerer with them, but before he could so much as speak a spell a burst of light from Jason's staff had struck him in the chest and hurled him backwards. Amy was battling five enemies at once and doing handily. Wyrrin was sparring with a squat fellow with a sword and shield, while Michael saw Ascanius grappling with an opponent briefly before kicking him in the groin, head butting him and then cutting his throat. Silwa took up a spear and drove it into a foeman's breast to send him crashing to the floor. Already the defences of the Lost were crumbling as their numbers dwindled.

  Only one man stood firm against the defeat that was so swiftly overwhelming them. Tall and dark, with a small nose and dark, hooded eyes, he held a two handed sword loosely in one hand, standing like a rock in the sea as defeat engulfed him. It was only when he saw Michael that some spirit seemed to animate him, striding forward and raising his sword overhead.

  "Michael Callistus," he hissed. "It would be you, wouldn't it?"

  Michael smiled. "It is always gratifying to be known by ones enemies. I apologise for not being able to name you."

  "Geta," Geta said. "Lieutenant of the Lost. But once I kill you, Lord Father will name me Captain and I'll have Lucifer or Felix or whatever his name is cleaning out the latrines where he belongs."

  "Once you kill me?" Michael asked, settling into a guard. "Stronger foes than you have tried, and here I stand. The prospect of Quirian's blade causes me to tremble, yours I do not fear at all."

  Geta hacked downwards at him, not the clumsy swing that Michael might have hoped for but a more controlled blow. Michael gave ground, letting Geta come on to him, hacking and swinging. Hopefully he would make a mistake, let his anger overthrow his self control, and then Michael would have him easily.

  "How will you defeat my Lord Father if all you know how to do is run away!" Geta snarled, apparently attempting to goad Michael to anger too.

  Michael did not deign to reply to such a feeble taunt. It was only when Geta's swing chipped one of the statues that he said, "Mind your sword! These statues are old and venerable."

  Geta growled as he attacked again, cutting upwards this time in a blow that would have cut Michael in half from crotch to skull had it made contact. The sword swung up, then began to descend downwards upon Michael's crown.

  Then Michael attacked. He parried with Piety - the blow jarred, but Geta was not nearly as strong as some foes he had met - and while his enemy's sword was stuck above his head Michael slashed with Duty at Geta's midriff, cutting through his leather cuirass to open a nasty wound. Geta winced, retreating. Michael pursued, giving him another wound to the shoulder and then to the arm, making him drop his sword.

  "My brother is safe from you," Michael said coldly. "You would have had to kill me to touch him." And then he finished it, driving Piety through Geta's heart.

  Michael looked around, as he wiped the blood from his sword onto his cloak, and saw that all the Lost were fled or perished.

  "Not a hugely trying task, really," Silwa murmured. "One doesn't know whether to be pleased or to ask for more."

  "Quirian will be trying enough," Michael said. "If his servants provide easier meat then I am content."

  "If your enemies are easy to kill you should thank the gods for it," Ascanius said. "It means that you won't die."

  Michael did not respond. Instead he looked around the hall for a moment, letting his eyes take in the proud and noble ladies whose visages adorned it. The ceiling was higher than ten men standing upon one another's shoulders, and the statues were several times the size the subjects could have been in life, wearing modest and loose fitting garments so that observers might dwell upon their virtues rather than their beauty. They seemed to look down upon him with encouragement in their faces, as if they recognised him as First Sword and bid him save the Empire they had loved. When the battle was done, Michael promised himself, he would find out who they were and why they were celebrated; it was meet that the First Sword of the Empire should know the Empire's history and its heroes, its answers to Miranda and Ameliora.

  Michael bowed to them. "My ladies, I apologise that we have disturbed your peace with such a violent ruckus, you have my word that it was unavoidable. But now we leave you, to take our ruckus to more suited parts."

  He straightened up, and noticed that Ascanius and Julian were looking at him as though he was mad. His Highness, on the other hand, smiled fondly at him. Amy's expression was invisible behind her helm.

  Michael cleared his throat. "Your Highness, how much longer until we reach the Princess' chambers?"

  "Not long," Jason said. "Follow me."

  The Lost had left the doors on the other side of the hall open, presumably to see down the long corridor beyond. Indeed, as His Highness had said it was not long before they came to a rough barricade, a hastily thrown together thing of tables and chairs and what looked like a door ripped off its hinges, barring the way into a set of rooms.

  "I was right," Jason muttered. "She retreated into her chambers. Or at least some of her people did, it seems."

  Michael nodded, and poked his head out from around the corner so that he could see the barricade. He half make out guards standing behind it, but they were hunkered down so he could see no faces. "Ho there!" he called. "Are you servants of the Empire?"

  "You know who we are," someone shouted in reply. "We know who you are, too!"

  "No, you do not," Michael said, standing up and walking out into view. "My name is Michael Sebastian Callistus Dolabella Commenae ban Ezekiel, I beg leave to speak to Her Highness Princess Romana if that is possible."

  "The Coronan? The one the princess was..." the sound at the barricades subsided into muttering. "Stay there and don't move. Her Highness has been sent for, but you had best keep your swords sheathed and all your friends stay out of sight."

  "I swear I am no assassin," Michael said. "But I will do as you bid."

  It did not take long for Princess Romana herself to appear. Her Highness was clad for war in armour like a legionary, a sword with a gilded hilt shaped like a unicorn's head - complete with a horn that would make an effective weapon on it's own - at her hip. "Michael!" she cried as she clambered over the barricade, her face illuminated by her smile. "It would seem that the Empress' faith in you was not misplaced, First Sword."

  Michael bowed. "I have not saved the day yet, Your Highness; I must yet speak with my sister and settle with Quirian. But the Lord Commenae asked me to find you and help you from the palace and so here I came first in search of you."

  "And you have found me," Princess Romana said. "Lord Commenae has sent you, but you have no army at your back. The legions have not fought their way into the palace then?"

  "I fear, Highness, that they are stymied by the fires and by Miranda's golems," Michael re
plied. "That is why you must flee, Lord Commenae-"

  "Fears that the city will be lost, so he would have me given into his power where I could reign as his puppet from Ilpua or Veiente, no doubt," Romana said briskly. "And if they, too, fall to Quirian what then? Shall I flee to Tarquinia and thence to Tyronia and thence to Mavenor to call myself Empress while hiding in a wood and ruling among savages like some barbarian chief? Shall I become a creature of the Lord Commenae, a mouth to speak his words? No. This is the city of Panthus and Aegea and her line shall not be driven from it by an upstart charlatan, nor become mere servants of the patrician houses. Besides, judging by the state of your boots you entered via the sewer; we have wounded men here and I shudder to think what so much filth would do to their health; nor will I abandon them to the mercy of the enemy. No." The princess smiled. "I will wait here, until you return to tell me that the day is saved."

  "Your Highness has great faith in me," Michael said.

  "I have faith in the Empress," Romana said. "If she finds you worthy to anoint as First Sword and repose her trust in you, then how can I do otherwise?"

  Michael smiled as he bowed his head. "I shall endeavour, with Her Majesty's aid, to be worthy of such noble mistresses as I am blessed with."

  Romana placed two fingers gently beneath his chin, to tilt it up so he was looking into her purple eyes once more. She placed one hand on the side of his face. "May the Empress' grace go with you and keep you safe, may her valour give you strength, and may her will grant you resolve. And may heaven grant you her fortune."

  "The last, I must possess already, Highness," Michael said. "For I count myself the most fortunate of men." For who else was blessed both with such dear and noble companions, and with the opportunity to serve so grand and glorious a cause and win such honour in the service?

  Romana chuckled. "Come back alive, and come back in glory, Michael Callistus, First Sword of the Divine Empire. For together, you and I have much work to do." She bent down to kiss him softly on the forehead. "Go now, with a princess' blessing, and bring not only salvation but honour and glory to the fair state."

  "I swear I shall, your highness," Michael said. He did not turn away, it was not his place. Instead he watched after her as she retreated behind the barricade her guards defended, and only then he did he turn to face his comrades. "Now comes the more difficult part of our task: to find Miranda, and slay Quirian."

  "Killing men isn't so hard," Ascanius said. "Low or high, they all die when you stick a sword in them."

  "That is not so easy with men as strong as Quirian," Silwa said darkly.

  "Spirit magic will give me strength to match his own, I hope," Michael answered. "Your Highness, what is the best way to get onto the roof of the palace?"

  Jason's answer was nearly instant. "The Treasury of Thrones."

  "The what?" Amy asked.

  "It's a glorified storeroom, where all the thrones that foreign kings send the Emperor when they come to get a treaty are kept," Jason explained. "You can't say you're putting it in a store room, so it's called the Treasury of Thrones instead. More importantly, it has a way into the lofts, which then lead out onto the roof. It's the best way I ever found."

  "Then lead the way," Michael said, and Jason did as he was bade. He led them northward, into the central areas of the palace. As they went, they encountered some more members of Quirian's Lost, in small patrols or pairs of sentries. Some they fought, and those they defeated without much trouble, but it was surprising to Michael how many of them fled rather than do battle, either turning tale at the very sight of Michael's band or making some perfunctory clash of blades before throwing down their weapons and taking to their heels.

  "Is this some trap?" Michael asked. "Do they seek to lure us into overconfidence before springing all their fury on us?"

  "Quirian would never allow a plan that took you close to Miranda," Silwa said. "More likely it is exactly what it seems: the Lost do not wish to fight."

  "Why not?"

  "Because the people who are suffering most at Miranda's hands are the poor, the downtrodden, the helpless, the unwanted," Silwa said. "People just as they were, before Quirian found them. For most of them, it would appear their gratitude to him does not outweigh their empathy for others."

  Ascanius laughed bitterly. "He'd have done better leaving the guards alive, looks like. They wouldn't be having any qualms of conscience."

  "That isn't really a good thing," Julian murmured.

  Fewer dead men lay in this area of the palace, only a few guards, one or two slaves or servants, and they looked to have been killed by blades, rather than golems. It appears that there had been less need to fight for control of this area of the palace. Michael guessed that if Prince Antiochus had plotted a coup he might have concentrated his force in certain areas which, in turn, made them easy targets once Quirian turned against him. But now, as Ascanius said, Quirian's plan was working against him: with only a handful of followers, and those disenchanted with his present course, he had no troops available to bar Michael's steady progress. Had he retained the services of the Imperial Guard, or kept his golems inside the palace, then Michael and his friends would have had a far harder time of it.

  Still, in some ways Michael would have preferred a battle to this empty, dead shell of a palace. These lofty ceilings and these walls, thick with past dignities, deserved better than to be turned into some mausoleum. Even if they resounded to the sounds of battle, at least there would be life in them. Yes, he would have preferred a solid defence that would have drawn out Quirian to where he and Michael could meet in battle that ennobled men and let the gods decide, once and for all, which man would live and which would die.

  As it was, he felt as though Quirian's eyes were constantly upon the back of his neck, watching him from some place unseen, his adversary letting him continue on his merry way while he waited for the perfect moment to strike.

  It was near enough to make him want to shout for Quirian to come out and face him.

  The corridor they were following continued on, but a second corridor intersected it, forming a T. Jason stopped just shy of this junction, pressing himself against and palace wall and gesturing towards the stem of the T. "This corridor leads to the Treasury of Thrones, but if you can get to Miranda through there then Quirian is bound to have set troops to defend it.

  "Either that, or this is a trap," Michael murmured. He motioned for everyone else to stop, while he inched closer to the turning point, and peered around the corner.

  He saw only a single guard, and did not know whether to curse or praise God, for that single guard was Felix.

  "What do we do?" Amy asked.

  Michael hesitated for a moment. "I will go talk to him."

  "Don't take too long," Jason muttered.

  "Follow swiftly once I have disarmed him," Michael said. "But do him no harm."

  "Good luck," Amy whispered.

  Michael smiled, and then stepped out into view. "Good evening, Felix."

  Felix turned to look at him. He wore that silver mask upon his face; his voice was deeper than it had been, more confident. He drew his sword, slowly and deliberately. "Michael. So, you came."

  Michael advanced towards him. "There is no need for us to fight, little Felix. Just let me pass, I need to speak to Miranda."

  "I cannot let you do that."

  Michael kept on walking. "What Miranda is doing is wrong. You have to realise that, Felix."

  "My name is Lucifer," Felix yelled. "I am the captain of the Lost! I have sworn an oath to my Lord Father and I will keep faith with him! If you want to reach Filia Miranda, you will have to go through me."

  Michael folded his arms across his chest. "Our mother gave you a name, Felix. She called you Simon Feliccius Callistus, and you should not and I will not insult her by calling you something else altogether. Especially not when that something is 'Lucifer', I have not heard a name so ridiculous."

  "I cannot let you pass," Felix cried.

 
; "I don't want to fight you, our Felix," Michael whispered.

  "Yet you must," Felix said. "Draw your swords."

  Michael drew Piety.

  "And not the other?" Felix asked.

  "My Duty demands I kill you, Felix," Michael said. "In this case I am not willing to obey. I will heed filial Piety instead and spare you if I can."

  "I mean to win this fight, Michael," Felix said firmly.

  "So do I," Michael replied. "But not all battles end in a death. Let no one else interfere in this duel. It is...a family matter."

  Like two tigers the brothers sprang at one another, coming together like angry bulls with a ringing clash of metal as Felix's sword rang against Piety. Michael pushed with all his weight and forced Felix back out of the light of the treasury and into the dark corridor beyond.

  "Please, our Felix," Michael said. "Put down your sword."

  "No!" Felix bellowed. "My name is Lucifer!" And he attacked again.

  Their blades clattered against one another. Michael and Felix circled around one another as they fought, each passing from light into darkness and back again as they fought in the room and in the corridor, back and forth, this way and that.

  Michael's face twisted into a snarl as he struck, Felix parrying his blows, that expressionless mask staring at him. Michael was starting to hate that mask. It was keeping his brother away from him.

  He attacked with everything he had, and when Felix's blade blocked his own Michael reached out to try and rip the mask from Felix's face.

  "No!" Felix yelled in that unnaturally deep, almost hollow voice he had when he wore that mask, his metal arm - the symbol of all Michael's failures as a brother, thrashing wildly to smack Michael upon the side of the head.

  Michael recoiled, and with an angry snarl Felix threw all his weight upon him and shoved him to the floor. He kicked Piety from Michael's hand, and raised his sword to impale his brother's heart.

  "Sorry, our Felix," Michael said as he punched upwards right into Felix's tender regions. Felix gasped in pain as Michael twisted on the ground like an eel, kicking sideways to cut Felix's legs out from under him. They grappled on the ground, wrestling with one another as though they were children again, rolling around on the sand and into the sea, laughing all the while. Neither of them was laughing now, and there was no salty surf to cool their ardour, no mother's hands to grab their ears and squeeze them tight until they apologised. No, they were more like animals than boys as they scrabbled on the palace floor, swords forgotten, punching and scratching one another, trying to wrench one another's arms from their sockets.