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

by Frances Smith

  “Why should she need to get out?” Miranda asked. “What here could be so terrible that she would risk the punishment for fleeing her master?”

  “I reckon you might find out, Filia, before too long,” Remus muttered. “If you’re still around.”

  “Hey, Remus, where are you going?”

  Remus Askallochus Castra paused, halfway into turning away from the rest of his four man patrol. Night had fallen on the villa; the moonlight was augmented by a burning torch held in the hands of Catilina. Catilina and Segestus, the fourth man of the patrol, were both staring at him strangely, as though they feared that he was mad…no, they already thought he was mad, they were looking at him as though he might be the killer, slinking off into the darkness to plot more murders or something. The thought was enough to put a wry smile upon his wrinkled, weathered face.

  They had worse to worry about than one old soldier with a bundle-load of guilt on his back, if his suspicions proved true.

  “Hey, Remus,” snapped Optio Callimachus, planting his spear butt into the grass. “I asked you a question, guardsman.”

  Yes, and I heard you the first time you asked, it damn you, Remus thought. Callimachus’ promotion was nearly new, and didn’t he know it. He liked to make sure that everyone else knew it, too.

  “I need to relieve myself,” Remus muttered.

  Callimachus’ over-long nose wrinkled in disgust. “Can’t you hold it in till we get back to the villa? Our sweep will be done soon and then you can do it somewhere safe like.”

  “I need to go now,” Remus said flatly.

  “We’re supposed to stick together,” Segestus whispered. “Not go wandering off by ourselves.”

  “Exactly, that was the Major’s order,” Callimachus said. “If you get lost in those trees we’ll have the Eldest’s own job finding you again. Clench your cheeks and hold on until we’re done.”

  “I need to go when I need to go,” Remus said. “You want me to spray all over you?”

  Callimachus’ nose wrinkled in disgust again, with the extra wrinkles conveying the greater disgust. “Alright, if you must; but don’t go too far and be quick about it. Then catch up with the rest of us, at the double.”

  Catilina smirked. “You really are getting old, aren’t you? Maybe you should talk to the major about an early discharge, seems you’re not up to this any more.”

  “Watch your mouth, boy,” Callimachus said. “Cubs don’t get to mock the wolves until they’ve got some scars on them.”

  Catilina paled. “Yes, Optio. Sorry, Optio.”

  Remus snorted. “Thank you kindly, Optio, for everything.” At least I won’t have to put up with you or the cocky little sod or any of the rest of them for much longer.

  Maybe not any longer, after tonight.

  He turned away, hearing them go on without him as he himself made his way a little into the trees that made up the south garden. He stomped past a silver birch, one that looked proper silver for once, although it could have been the moonlight, but he came to a weeping willow tree, with green leaves hanging down in front of his face. Strangest thing, as he raised one hand to brush the leaves aside he swore that he could hear someone sobbing.

  “No…no, please don’t hurt him…please, please he’s only a boy.”

  Remus’ grey eyes widened. No. It couldn’t have been. Not really. He…he was remembering, surely. He couldn’t have…he’d heard that before. He never stopped hearing it.

  Please, he’s only a boy.

  A boy old enough to carry a sword.

  He never did. He stays here, with me, he watches the sheep. Please, he’s all I have since his father died.

  I’ve got my orders.

  “Damn it,” Remus growled, clenching his right hand into a fist, closing his eyes and screwing up his face as he tried to force the memories out. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.” It wasn’t the worst thing that he’d done in the war, but it was the act that had stuck with him the most. Probably because of her. Because of the boy’s mother, the way she’d pleaded for his life.

  I’ve got my orders.

  She’d killed herself, that boy’s mother. She’d thrown herself off the cliff rather than be alone. From the look on her face she’d been dead before she even took the leap. He’d never forget that look.

  He’d been such a coward then. A coward for following his orders, a coward for not disobeying. Some units had mutinied against the worst of what they were asked to do in Oretar: the Fighting Fifth, the Old Dozen, the Foot Cavalry, they’d all ground arms and refused to do the brute work that was asked of them. But not him, not Remus Askallochus Castra, not the Foot Guards. They’d had their orders, and they had carried out those orders no matter what.

  He’d been such a coward then.

  They were all such cowards.

  “Please, he’s only a boy.” There it was again, her voice in the breeze, appealing in vain to his better nature.

  “In the name of all the gods, have mercy!”

  “How are we supposed to survive the winter with our stores burned?”

  “Isn’t there a single scrap of goodness in you?”

  They were coming from all around him now, voices begging him, appealing to him, cursing him, demanding answers that he didn’t have. The voices of the dead, springing out of the earth to claim his ears again.

  “I know,” he said hoarsely, his voice grim but at the same time without fear. He knew what was coming now, and he was not afraid of it. He’d had this coming for a long time. Too long. It was a relief to get it over with now.

  Remus cast his shield aside. It landed with a rattle on the ground. With slow deliberation he unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it on the ground beside him.

  “You might as well come out now, there’s no point you playing games with me,” he said. “I know what you want, and all I can say is hurry up and take it. I know I did wrong, I know I have to answer. I’m not afraid.”

  “’I’m not afraid.’ Mortal, you have no idea how many times in our long lives we have heard our victim say ‘I’m not afraid.’” The voice was sinuous, serpentine, a soft caress of a hiss coming out of the night, accompanied by low humming from either side. All of it was advancing upon him.

  The sound of the humming intensified, its rhythm becoming faster, harsher, the way that the drumbeat changed when the order came to advance at the double towards the enemy. Three…three things stepped out of the darkness, the moonlight reflecting upon their skin.

  They looked like monsters. Monsters with just enough of women about them to be not at all like women, and yet more monstrous because of the way they seemed alike. Their skin was green, and rotted and flaked and cracking in places, and there were holes in their leathery wings, wings like bats they had, and long claws sticking out of their fingers, and snakes coiled around their waists like belts or something. The snakes hissed at him, with the same rhythm as the humming of the monsters themselves.

  “Are you afraid now, Remus Askallochus Castra?” the middle of three of them asked, showing her fangs and her forked tongue as she spoke. Her eyes were black as night, and in the night they were like holes in her head, holes that he felt as though was going to fall through if he stared into them long enough. Her hair…gods save him her hair looked like the spines of dead men, like bones, and on the end of every spine there was a skull, human skulls and a few other things he didn’t reckon he’d ever seen before. They waved up and down, up and down, up and down like flowers brushed by the wind into some sort of nightmare garden, moaning and groaning like just feeling the air put them in pain.

  Remus hadn’t actually needed a piss when he had left his patrol behind, but he felt something warm and wet running down his leg all the same.

  “I’m afraid,” he confessed.

  “Good,” she whispered, her voice a sibilant caress. “For I am Tyria, the Fury of Justice, and these are my sisters. We are here to punish you for the sins that blacken your soul.”

  “As we will punish all th
e sinners who blight this place,” snarled the one on the right, with hair of ice.

  “And sate our long-nurtured hunger with a hunt for wickedness as we have never known,” hissed the one on the left, whose hair was a fiery inferno burning in the darkness.

  “For we are the old gods,” they chanted in unison. “And we will punish evil wherever we find it.”

  “Are you prepared, mortal,” Tyria said. “Are you ready to face the justice that your crimes have earned you?”

  “I…I am,” he stammered.

  The one with the flaming hair snarled in anger. “What a weak mortal he is, to yield so easily.”

  “The others resisted,” said the one with hair of ice.

  “Not enough, where is the hunt I have craved?”

  “The hunt is not our aim,” Tyria snapped. “The punishment is.” A whip appeared in her hands, a whip of smoke emerging as he looked at it, starting in her clawed hand and growing outwards until it was a score of feet in length at least, with sharp teeth like an animal. It coiled like a snake, moving up and down and twisting about like it was alive.

  Quick as a snake it wrapped itself around his neck, biting into his flesh so tight that he would have screamed in pain except that he could hardly breathe. Remus’ eyes bulged as, with a simple tug, Tyria pulled him to the ground. Even the blades of grass seemed to stab at his face.

  “As you sinned, so shall you suffer,” Tyria snarled as an axe made of crude stone, jagged and rough, appeared in her free hand. “This shall hurt exactly as much as you deserve.”

  Appendix: Gods and Immortals of Pelarius

  The Eldar, the old gods

  Riate, Eldest and Highest, King of Heaven and Conqueror of demons; creator of ogres, cyclopes, harpies and woodwights; maker of the first sun and the first moon, now known as the Eldest's Lantern and the Eldest's Mirror; creator of sorcery; currently imprisoned in the Black Abyss alongside his demon host. His name is rarely spoken, he is instead referred to as 'The Eldest' or 'Eldest One'. The demons acknowledge him as their king, and the races he created, known collectively as the Riatian races, revere him as their god. He is worshipped by some Eldar-worshippers as part of the pantheon of the old gods, though other Eldar-worshippers refuse to acknowledge him as part of said pantheon. The Novar Church claims that use of sorcery will release Riate from his imprisonment, and proscribes sorcery on pain of death upon that basis.

  Turo, Lord of the Oceans and creator of the naiad race; originator of water magic; currently believed to reside in Ocean's Heart as King of the Seas. As lord of the oceans is worshipped singly by naiads, caedans, merfolk, henta'i. Eldar-worshippers revere him as part of the pantheon of the old gods, but he is also honoured alone by the Coronim, and by some other communities of humans long the south coast of Pelarius. These worshippers, along with Turo's ocean subjects, are known collectively as the Turonim.

  Arus, Master of Fire and creator of the fire drake race; originator of fire magic; currently wounded and comatose in the care of his brother Turo. He is worshipped singly by fire drakes, who sometimes call themselves the Arunim, and by human Eldar-worshippers as part of the pantheon of the old gods.

  Kinos, Queen of Spirits; originator of spirit magic; slain in battle. She is part of the pantheon of the old gods, but receives little worship even from Eldar-worshippers.

  Dala, Lady of the Woods and creator of the dryad race; originator of wood magic; currently wounded and comatose in the care of her brother Turo. She is worshipped singly by dryads, who sometimes call themselves the Dalrim, and by human Eldar-worshippers as part of the pantheon of the old gods.

  Mithrok, Lord of the Earth and creator of the troll race; originator of earth magic; currently wounded and comatose in the care of his brother Turo. He is worshipped singly by trolls and by human Eldar-worshippers as part of the pantheon of the old gods.

  Thanates, Mistress of the Skies and creator of the aestival race; originator of air magic; currently wounded and comatose in the care of his brother Turo. She is worshipped singly by aestivals and by human Eldar-worshippers as part of the pantheon of the old gods.

  Stratos, Lord of Lightning and creator of the tharil race; originator of lightning magic; slain in battle. He is worshipped singly by tharils and by human Eldar-worshippers as part of the pantheon of the old gods.

  The Novar, the new gods

  Bael, son of Riate and Dala; possessor of wood magic; King in Heavenvault and highest of the Novar.

  Silwa, daughter of Riate and Thanates; possessor of air magic; goddess of victory and wisdom. A noted meddler in the affairs of mortals, she was the old Novar god who did not retire to the Heavenvault after the defeat of the old gods, but continues to live amongst mortal men. As goddess of victory, she enjoys some worship amongst the ranks of the army, but not as much as her half-brother Beltor.

  Cupas, son of Stratos and Thanates; possessor of air and lightning magic.

  Culis, daughter of Stratos and Thanates; possessor of air and lightning magic.

  Tanuk, son of Kinos and Arus; possessor of fire magic; god of death and lord of

  the shadowlands.

  Alectar, daughter of Riate and Dala; possessor of wood magic.

  Lenwar, son of Dala and Mithrok; possessor of wood and earth magic.

  Pen, son of Riate and Kinos; possessor of no natural magics.

  Cuuinthan, son of Riate and Dala; possessor of wood magic.

  Beltor, son of Mithrok and Thanates; possessor of earth and air magic. As God of War, Beltor is particularly beloved by soldiers, and Beltorian cults flourish amongst the ranks of the legions. To be initiated into such a cult is a great honour, accorded only to the most gallant of the Empire's soldiers.

  Syltri, daughter of Mithrok and Thanates; possessor of earth and air magic

  Milcar, son of Kinos and Mithrok; possessor of earth magic.

  Nis, son of Kinos and Mithrok; possessor of earth magic.

  Elyo, daughter of Dala and Mithrok; possessor of wood and earth magic.

  Aulo, daughter of Arus and Thanates; possessor of fire and air magic; goddess of medicine, her temples are sanctuaries for the sick across the empire, and her devotees maintain hospitals in many of the major cities.

  Ro, daughter of Kinos and Arus; possessor of fire magic; the goddess with the veiled face, she is the protector of the crippled and disfigured.

  Sera, daughter of Dala and Arus; possessor of wood and fire magic; goddess of fertility.

  Ubis, son of Arus and Thanates; possessor of fire and wood magic.

  Working together, the old and new gods combined created the orc race. The Novar working alone created the race of man, and thus it is from men that they draw their worshippers, who are known as Novarians.

  Other Gods

  Aegea the Great, Who Did Not Die but Rose Again, Divine Empress of All Pelarius, Lavissar, Triazica and All the Lands that Lie Between or May be Found Beyond, Mother to the Legions and the Minotaurs, Protector of the Empire and All Her People. For the first three hundred years following her death, the worship of Aegea was the state and sole permissible religion throughout the Empire. Religious liberty was granted in 326 FFE (From the Founding of the Empire) by Prince Imperial Romanus III following the ending of the Turonim Rebellion. In 360 FFE the Princess Imperial Thetis denounced the Faith of Aegea, proclaimed herself Empress and was received into the communion of the Novar Church. The Faith of Aegea was proscribed on pain of death, but following the Mother's March the minotaurs won the right to continue worship. Although the proscription was lifted generally in 476, but the minotaur race remains the chief source of Aegea worship throughout the Empire. Amongst humans, the faith is now mainly in army cults such as the Sons of Aegea or the Wolf Brotherhood.

  The Furies, oldest of all immortals; older than the Eldar, the origins of the furies are inscrutable to any save themselves, but their mission is clear: to punish wrongdoing and avenge the weak and helpless upon the strong and powerful. For many centuries they roamed the mortal world, until Aurelia
banished them to the shadowlands, where their only prey are ghosts and those few unfortunate mortals who fall into the cracks between the worlds. They have no worshippers and are despised by all other gods, though desperate folk of all races may cry out to them for justice when they have no other recourse left.

  Kal, The Source of All Evil; older than the Eldar, the origins of Kal are as inscrutable as those of the Furies, and his motives even less clear. What is clear throughout his history is that he delights in spreading chaos and misery, and likes nothing better than to subvert the good into the service of evil. Defeated by the Eldar in war, he corrupted Riate, the King of Heaven, the caused him to turn upon his siblings and the young gods. Immortal, he has been imprisoned several times and consistently managed to escape. He is currently being held beneath the palace of the Princes Imperial.

  Copyright © 2016 Frances Smith

  All rights reserved, no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Cover art copyright © Nicole Cadet 2016