"Thank you," Miranda murmured. She looked up at Michael. "You really have changed. You didn't get angry once."
Michael grinned. "The Empress' grace provides me many opportunities to use up my fury on the deserving. Shall we go down?"
"Wait." Miranda closed her eyes. After a moment, the fire ceased. The skies quieted, and then cleared, the dark of the night replacing the dark of angry clouds. The air stilled, not a spark of lightning to be heard. Then Michael heard an almighty rumbling and a cracking sound like the shattering of a great mountain into a thousand pieces.
"The golems are all destroyed," Miranda said. "The storm is gone and so is my army. I find I have little desire to create another for anyone." She allowed Michael to help her up. "Now, we can go down."
Michael nodded. "I am glad to have you back, our Miranda."
Miranda hesitated. "And, I suppose I'm glad that you've found a purpose in life, something that you love even if it isn't anything I would for chosen for you, still less for myself. I hope you remain happy with the path you have chosen."
Michael helped Miranda to the hatch, and down below into the loft. But when he opened the door to descend down into the treasury, he gasped as he saw everyone lying on the ground, beaten, unconscious, and groaning in pain. Some of them were not moving at all, and the only thing that was stopping him from screaming in pain and fear was that he could see no blood.
"I haven't killed them, yet," Quirian said, and Michael noticed him standing in the centre of the treasury, with many of his Lost gathering on the outskirts. "I will, of course, especially since I rather think you have just foiled my plans and condemned your sister to death into the bargain, but I didn't want to get any blood on the arena floor before we'd had our climactic duel." Quirian smiled. "Come, Michael Callistus, First Sword of the Empire, and let us battle for honour, glory...and for the fate of the world."
Michael leapt from the hatch, landing on his feet on the floor with a thump. He glanced quickly around. Only Lady Silwa had not been harmed. He locked eyes with Lord Quirian. His enemy was clad in a white linthorax cuirass, with pteruges which reached down nearly as far as his knees, with bronze bracers on his wrists and greaves upon his legs. The rest of his arms were bare, and covered in tattoos that Michael recognised from Fiannuala as being sorcerous in nature. He wore two swords strapped across his back, one an ordinary spatha and the other, unmistakably, the sword of Cupas, Semper Fidelis, which he had won in the ruins of Aureliana.
Michael said, "Thank you, for not killing them before we have had a chance to fight."
Quirian smiled thinly. "Not at all, my dear boy. The Empire killed my friends, one by one, before my eyes; but since I am the better man I shall kill you first and let you wait for them in the shadowlands." He looked up, "Filia Miranda, will you come down? Spying like that is very rude."
"Miranda, get away as fast as you can," Michael shouted.
Quirian raised one hand, "Riate, King of Heaven, bind her to me." A white ribbon shot from his finger tips, piercing the ceiling beneath Miranda. Michael heard her cry out before Quirian wrenched his hand back as though he was hauling upon a rope. The ceiling collapsed and Miranda tumbled to the ground, lying in a heap with dust and rubble all around her.
"I am very disappointed in you, Filia," Quirian said, his voice clipped and sharp. "I regret very much that it must come to this. I would have done exactly as I said, and made you queen. But, since apparently you do not wish that, I must take other measures."
Miranda looked up; she was bleeding from the side of her head but still looked lucid as she asked, "What do you mean to do to me?"
"I am afraid that Gideon was half-correct in what he told your brother," Quirian said "I had hoped not to kill you, but I was prepared for the possibility that it would come to that. I have the blade of Cupas, one of the sacred swords forged to slay the elder gods. With it I shall slay you and take your power for myself, and with that I shall reduce all of Pelarius to ashes. All those who have inherited any guilt in the fate of my people shall perish in fire and slaughter." Quirian hesitated a moment. "And once that is done then I shall take my own life and pass into the Heavenvault, and see my family once again."
"You think the Heavenvault will admit a mass murderer?" Michael demanded.
"The gods themselves have done far worse," Quirian said. "Isn't that right, Silwa? You wouldn't be so hypocritical as to deny me a place in paradise, would you?"
"It will come sooner than you think," Miranda growled, pushing herself up onto her hands and knees and stretching one hand towards Quirian as she frowned in concentration.
Nothing happened. Quirian gazed at her with pity in his eyes and a smirk upon his face.
"It's not working," Miranda muttered. "I don't understand."
Quirian chuckled as he raised his palms in the air. Fire appeared in one hand, lightning in the other. "I have acquired all magic from eating the hearts of other men, Filia, and thus become immune to all of them. Only your power remains beyond me, for a little while longer."
"It is too late, Quirian," Silwa snapped. "Already Miranda has destroyed the golems. The Imperial Army will be here very soon, too soon for you."
"Perhaps, though I think that once I have Miranda's power I shall be more than a match for them," Quirian said. "In any event if the legionaries come then I shall meet them in battle and see if I am not stronger than a whole pack of wolves. But, even if they do drag me down beneath their weight of numbers, then at least I will die knowing that I did all I could to bring the Empire down."
"To what end?" Silwa asked.
"To the end of all things," Quirian shouted. "What would you have me do? Flee? I fled from my home when the Empire sacked it, I fled from Eena when the dryads cast me out, I fled to Tyronia but Tyronia surrendered to the Empire, I fled to Lavissar but the legions followed me. I have spent more than a lifetime fleeing from the wolves, no more!"
"If you would set aside your anger-" Silwa began.
"Anger is all the Empire has left to me," Quirian roared. "I will conquer on this day, or I will perish, but I will not run, I will not forget, certainly I shall not forgive. This tale shall end in blood and wrath, it has no other ending."
Michael drew Duty and Piety. "A noble sentiment. And for myself, I would rather see you dead at my feet then be constantly wondering in which shadow you were hiding."
Quirian laughed. "I take it, then, that I am not to receive the offer of clemency that you have given to your brother and sister."
"I have too much respect for you to offer terms you will not accept," Michael replied. "And I think you are too dangerous a man to be allowed to live."
Quirian bowed his head. "I thank you kindly for the compliments. And you are right, I would not accept any terms which you might offer. I am Quirian of the White, Prince of Aureliana and Warden of the White Tower, and I do not beg the mercy of the wolves.
"You know, in many ways it is fitting that you should stand here, in Gideon's place. We are very much alike, you and I, you know. The sorrows that formed you are but a pale reflection of my own travails, but all the same you cannot deny how similar we are. Both elder brothers, firstborn sons, both lesser men elevated in character by the companionship of the good, both vehement and fixed of purpose; your comrades even mirror my friends."
Michael smirked. "You forgot to add that we are both monstrous creatures using antique courtesies to hide our true natures."
Quirian laughed. "Yes, there is that too. And now here we are: the Empire's oldest foe versus her new champion. And we are both Silwa's pawns of course, you the present and I the past. If you defeat me, you will have her betrayal to look forward to."
"Certainly I do not intend to lose," Michael said. "Too much has been lost; too many brave souls have died for me to fail them now. But then, I understand that you could say the same."
"Indeed I could," Quirian said. He drew his swords, both of them long and straight. "And now, I think that we have talked enough, don't you thi
nk? It is time we brought the tale to a close, though whether it be the tale of the Empire or the tale of Quirian the Aurelian which is ending remains to be seen. Come, let us match our blades and let the gods decide whether the Empire will live to see the dawn or no."
Michael closed his eyes for a moment, trusting in Lord Quirian's honour not to stab him before the duel began. In his mind he could see the arena all around him, the crowds waiting, expectant, quiet. In the box he could see the Empress Aegea, Princess Romana, and Gideon, staring down at him with quiet contemplation. It was to them that, in his mind, Michael looked.
"We who stare into the eyes of death upon this day commend our souls to God and lift our voices up to praise the Empress," Michael whispered.
A chill passed over him, accompanied by whispering voices and a tingling in his spine. When Michael opened his eyes, his friends stood around him, waiting expectantly.
"So, this is it," Fiannuala said as she appeared from out of the shadowlands. "It seems like it's taken forever to get here."
"That doesn't matter, the moment has come," Tullia said. "You're here, Michael. Now win, for all of us."
And then, before him, Michael saw Gideon appear, slowly emerging into view, his wounds all gone, his clothes transformed from grey to shining purple, his eyes as keen as ever.
Michael smiled. "Gideon."
Gideon said nothing. Nothing needed to be said. He only needed to nod confidently for Michael to understand his heart.
Michael stepped into a guard.
Quirian said, "Shall we begin?"
Michael nodded, and as Fiannuala began to urge him on he could hear the crowd cheering in his ears. "Now fate decides." And he attacked.
Quirian charged to meet him. The force of their collision was as the meeting of two armies, their phalanxes approaching at a run, filling the air with cries until they strike each other with a clash of shields and a driving forth of all their spears. Michael assailed Quirian with everything he had, and was assailed in turn, for in each the other saw their true opponent, their equal in courage, strength, speed and in the quality of their weapons. This was the last battle, the great battle, the battle that would decide whether the Divine Empire would rise again and make one more attempt to fulfil the destiny that Aegea had laid out for it, or whether it would be consumed in fire and fall into the obscurity of history. This battle would decide whether Pelarius would be under the rule of the Empire, or whether Xarzia and Qart-Hadasht would battle over a desolate wasteland devoid of life. Upon this battle did all the history of the world depend, and both men were fully aware of it.
Quirian fought with all the passion, pride and fury at his command, he fought knowing that he was not only the last of his people, but the last representative of an age when men had given their lives to resist the Empire. If he fell here, then the purple throne would never see an enemy of his like again. But Michael fought with all the Empire's power and resolve at his command, with all the courage of the legions, all the resilience of the citizens, all the strength of his dear departed friends, all the devotion of his father. If he fell here, then Lucilia, Judah, Gwawr and all those like them would perish, and perish not even knowing what was killing them or why. Gideon had trusted him to save the Empire, and Aegea had commanded him to do just that and empowered him to succeed in his endeavour. If he failed now, if he was defeated when the battle hung in the balance, then everything that Tullia and Fiannuala and Gideon had died for would be for nought. He had to win, he had to.
And so Michael and Quirian duelled so furiously that none of those watching could follow the swiftness of their movements, either because of Michael's spirit magic or because of Quirian's superhuman speed and strength. Duty and Piety wove in and out, Quirian's blades struck forth, but neither could gain an advantage over the other for so well had they been trained that neither man left an opening to chance. Thrust, block. Slash, parry, riposte. Lunge, dodge, turn, counter-stroke, parry. Their blades hammered together. They retreated, and then attacked again. They danced around each other, blades swinging all the while. They both cried out their fury, Quirian roaring like a lion while Michael bellowed like a bull.
"I will not lose," Quirian snarled, his eyes blazing with wrath as he swung both swords down at Michael's neck.
Michael slipped out of the way like an eel escaping the grip of the fisherman. "So say all warriors, but it is not for us to decide our fate."
Quirian assailed him yet again. Michael could have danced around him using the fact that while he would not tire while using spirit magic, Quirian would. But that would have been dishonourable in the extreme, unworthy of a warrior or a battle such as this. So he leapt right at Quirian, Duty and Piety shining brightly as the celestial orbs, while in his mind the crowd roared with enthusiasm and in spirit he heard Fiannuala urging him on.
"On the left, he's weaker there," Fiannuala shouted. "You can see him favouring his right."
Michael nodded. "Thank you, highness." And he focussed on Quirian's left. Quirian gave no sign that he was troubled, save for the fact that he went on the defensive and ceased attacking as relentlessly as he had.
"Now!" Tullia shouted, and Michael saw that Quirian had left himself open. He struck with the speed of a viper, howling in triumph as he cut off Quirian's left arm. And the crowd roared in triumph.
Quirian roared in pain, hunching over his stump as he began to retreat. Michael pursued him, beating down his other sword with Piety and roaring as he charged in, Duty drawn back for the killing stroke.
Michael thrust forward. With the final blow he drove Duty through Quirian's chest.
Quirian gasped as he fell to the ground, his body trembling. His voice was faint, almost feeble. "You...you won. You have killed me."
Michael did not reply. There was nothing to say. He felt no desire to crow in triumph, as he had done so often in the arena. This battle had not been fought for his own glory, but for the sake of the Empire and the life of his sister. It would have cheapened that, and disgraced his cause, to have danced in triumph around the body of a noble foe. He was, he hoped, a better man than that now. But, equally, this was no squalid thing that he had done, no cause for shame or horror. So he watched, in silence, as the Empire’s most persistent enemy sank the ground, bleeding his lifeblood out upon the floor.
"Damn you," Quirian spat. "Damn you and damn this Empire. Why do you always win? Why is that nothing can ever destroy you?"
"Perhaps Gideon could have answered you," Michael replied. "But I cannot." He turned away, kneel down to take Miranda by the hand and help her to her feet. "You're not hurt too badly, are you?"
"I'll be all right," Miranda said. "Give me a moment to collect myself and I'll start to tend to everyone else."
Michael nodded. “Thank you, our Miranda, I would appreciate that.”
He turned back to watching Quirian. The great enemy of the Empire was trying to drag his white cloak across his face, so that he would not die with his face bare. With only one arm he could not do it. Silwa went to his aid.
"Let me," Silwa said, unfastening the cloak and draping it over him like a shroud. "Be at peace at last, son of Aureliana."
"Peace," Quirian blinked. "All that I've done, Silwa, all the wars, all the death. Do you think, after all that that I will be seen worthy to enter Heavenfault? To see my family, my comrades again?"
"I am certain of it," Silwa said, placing her hand upon his forehead. "In the name of all the gods I, Silwa, daughter of Thanates and Riate, absolve you of your sins and grant you entry into paradise." She covered his face. Michael saw it shifting with Quirian's fading breath, then the cloak stopped moving and Michael knew that it was over.
"Praise the Empress," Michael sighed. He could feel his eyelids growing heavier by the moment, feel his limbs growing heavier, feel his arms and legs groaning, protesting. His whole body seemed…it seemed as if it was ready to mutiny against the next order that he might give it, whatever that order might be.
And he could se
e Gideon, Tullia and Fiannuala fading before his eyes, as well. They were smiling at him, but saying nothing. Or perhaps they were speaking, but he could no longer hear them.
Michael tried to speak, but no more words would come.
He closed his eyes as he collapsed on the ground and let the darkness take him.
XXI
Romana Unbound
Miranda awoke with a startled cry, clutching at her arms, her breath coming ragged and deep as she hunched over her stomach, her whole body shaking.
"It's all right," Octavia said, her hands firm but gentle on Miranda's back. "It's all right. You're safe. I'm here."
"Oh God," Miranda moaned, bowing her head and staring down at the bloodstained dress, her silver-white locks falling untidily around her. It was dirty too, though not blood-stained. Perhaps it ought to have been. It was as ragged as any old and too-loved doll, sticking together in clumps and lumps. She felt no desire to brush or comb it. If anything she wanted to tear it into shreds, or rip it off completely.
"I saw her," Miranda murmured.
"Saw who?" Octavia asked.
"Portia," Miranda whispered. "She was burning."
Octavia wrapped both arms and wings around Miranda. "You can't think like this. You...you can't."
"If not I, then who?" Miranda demanded. "Who else can bear this sin? Who else bears the blame, but I? Octavia, what have I done?"
"You stopped yourself," Octavia said emphatically. "You came back. You stopped it all."
"How many dead?" Miranda said. "How many, do they know yet?" She had been at work all night trying to save as many lives as she could, until at last Princess Romana had decided she could do no more, and had stuffed her into this little room to wait until her fate could be decided.
It was not a cell. Not technically, at least. It had a comfortable bed, a pair of a reasonable chairs, a table. It also had four guards outside, and a locked door to which she had no key. It was not a cell, but she was a prisoner.
Spirit of the Sword: Faith and Virtue (The First Sword Chronicles Book 2) Page 53