Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1)

by Frances Smith

  "One way or another, Michael, you are coming with us," the Voice declared. "The only question is how much healing you will require in our camp."

  Michael gritted his teeth and grunted with the pain and effort that it took him to rise to his feet, slowly like a mountain emerging out of the ocean at the command of God.

  "You fool," the Voice cried. "Rachael, again!"

  Rachael smirked as she loosed another black dart at Michael, piercing his shoulder and sending him reeling backwards. He rested against the temple wall, dropping his sabre as the strength left his arm. He gasped deeply for breath, feeling the beating of his heart as blood stained his chest and stomach.

  Rachael placed another shaft upon her bowstring.

  "No!" Wyrrin yelled as he dashed out of the temple, making a flying leap off the top of the temple steps, a leap that carried him square towards Rachael, descending on her like some ancient spirit of revengement as primal as his fire drake race. Rachael's eyes widened in shock as she loosed her shaft upon him. The arrow struck Wyrrin in his lithe chest and he cried out, but his progress through the air did not cease or falter. Rachael dropped her bow and reached for her knife. Wyrrin was on her before she could draw. The sickle-claw on his toe scythed down, burying itself in Rachael's gut. Rachael screamed. Wyrrin used his grip to steady himself as he placed his black swords upon Rachael's neck and in smoothe strokes cut off her head.

  Wyrrin's claws were still buried in Rachael's stomach as her body toppled backwards. Wyrrin fell with her, and did not rise; orange blood poured from the arrow wound.

  "Gods grant that your spirit be lifted to a glorious place, where you may feast on nectar and ambrosia," Michael murmured. "God intercede on behalf of that bold servant of Arus, for he was valiant and gave his life in defence of faithful Turonim. Now grant me strength to stand as resolute without his aid."

  Slowly, his gait acquiring a shuffling bent as though some heavenly power had transfigured him into an old man, Michael resumed his place in the doorway of the temple. "Is there anyone else?"

  "Many more," the Voice replied. "And you are already wounded, I advise you to surrender now."

  "Prince Gabriel once fought on though a spear had pierced his heart," Michael said. "I would shame my mother and the long line of my ancestors if I should falter from mare pricks and scratches. I will not yield while one of these people remains in danger from your blades."

  "Why risk your life for such ungrateful wretches?" the Voice demanded. "Are you not worth a hundred of them?"

  "Worth a hundred? Why, because I carry a sword and I know how to use it? No!" Michael said. "There is no honour in fighting unless you fight so that others need not." He loved the tales of the Corona Firstborn, but what you always had to remember was that every first born son had served in war so that their younger brothers might in safety devote themselves to peaceful occupations. "My brother Felix feared to fight, he feared even his own shadow, but he was kind and gentle and a better man than I in every way. My sister could not fight even if she would, yet her virtues put my own small stock to shame. I am stronger than any man behind me, and fleeter too of foot. But the fact that all I can do is stand here and offer my body as a breastwork for them is cause for sorrow not for joy.

  "Yet God has disposed that I shall be their protector, and who am I to quarrel with his design? Come again, if you have the stomach for it, and I shall carve the names Miranda and Felix into your skins before I am done."

  The Voice of Corona stared at him, his face invisible behind his helm. He gestured imperiously. "Take him now! Fear not, Michael ban David, we will take care of you."

  The rebels did not surge forward this time, but advanced in slow and cautious fashion. They did not charge, but pelted him with stones in such multitudes he could not help but be struck. Michael cried out as the rocks bruised him and when the barrage ceased he was bleeding from the cuts they had dealt him, his head ringing from a blow, his right hand too badly hurt to hold his sabre, his leg scarce able to support him.

  Michael struggled to raise his spatha, putting both hands upon the hilt. If he could not stand, then he would fight from his knees as best he could. Curse these wounds of his.

  God, give me strength. Please. Help me Mother.

  His sword was kicked out of his hand. Michael looked up to see Matthew standing over him, sword raised.

  Michael snarled. "Was there a man in Master's employ who was not in the service of the Crimson Rose?"

  "Some," Matthew replied. "But they're all dead now, except for you." His words were dispassionate, undercut only by a hint of cruelty. "I never liked you very much." He reversed his sword, to strike Michael with the hilt and knock him out.

  Michael flinched in expectation of the blow. The wailing in the temple rose to a crescendo.

  With staggering speed, the beggar who had been huddling by the temple doorway cast off his all concealing cloak, revealing a pair of handsome blades, one of which he drove through Matthew's cuirass and his chest as he leapt between Michael and the rebel troops. A scything blow cut down another warrior of the Rose.

  "I'd rather you didn't lay down and die just yet," the man said casually. He was tall, six foot three if Michael was any judge, and he possessed what Michael would call a lordly bearing that his worn and weathered clothes in their various shades of grey could not disguise. In fact it was the very casual idleness of his stance that gave it to him, for what in other men might have been a slouch became in this particular man commanding ease.

  "I don't expect you to do anything at the moment of course," the man said, cutting down several more rebels as he did so. His blades moved so fast that Michael could not follow their movements. "Just leave this rabble to me. I would have intervened earlier, had you not seemed to be doing so creditably on your own."

  "Who... who are you?" Michael asked as his benefactor cut through the rebel host with the ease of a pike in a school of salmon, without once altering the look of supreme boredom upon his face.

  "Lord Gideon Commenae, by Aegea's grace I have the honour to be First Sword of the Divine Empire," Gideon replied. "Just a little longer, I'll wager."

  Already the ranks of the Crimson Rose began to falter, the rebels falling back gradually at first and then in a wild rush, swallowing up the Voice in their panicked flight. They ran through the ruins of the town, through the devastation they had wrought, and into the sand dunes beyond and out of sight.

  "Will they be back, my lord?" Michael said.

  "I doubt it," Gideon said. "Their numbers are much diminished, and there is little for them to gain by a return to this place. The only thing they want is you, and you will be gone from here soon enough."

  "I thought you did not wish me to die yet, my lord," Michael said, trying to pull himself up using the temple wall. He got half way before his protesting legs gave way again and he fell.

  Gideon caught him before he hit the ground. "It's alright Michael, I've got you. Just stay alive now and pay attention. Your sister is alive."

  Even through the fog of pain now obscuring his thoughts that rang clear as a trumpet call. "Alive? But where my lord, have you seen her? Did she leave town before this happened?"

  "In a manner of speaking," Gideon said. "But she is in grave danger now and requires your aid. Will you go with me and save Miranda from the perils that surround her?"

  "What perils my lord?" Michael asked. He was so very weary he could barely keep his eyes open.

  "I'll explain all that later," Gideon said. "For now, are you with me?"

  "A man guards his family," Michael murmured. "I am with you, my lord. I..." he found his voice would no longer obey him. Nor would his eyelids as they dropped down to cover his world in darkness.

  "It's alright, Michael," Gideon repeated. "I've got you."

  Miranda awoke to the feeling of a soft bed beneath her, and when she opened her eyes she saw a room lit by candle light and a ceiling over her head painted with images of gods and spirits cavorting in the clouds.<
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  She sat up, gripping her ebony cane tightly. She had been nervous at first, but with her blindfold so tight and her earplugs blocking out all sound it had been very easy to fall asleep. Apparently she had slept all day. And in the process someone had laid her in this bed. The pillows were softer than any she had known, the blanket was scarlet, the sheets were edged with gold and the matress felt as though it was about to swallow her whole as she sank without a trace into its depths.

  Miranda brushed her white hair out of her face as she sat up. "Lysimachus? Julian? Ascanius? Anyone?"

  A door of polished walnut opened and Lysimacus appeared, the candlelight casting long shadows over his face. His eyes had lost their earlier brightness and returned to normal. "Have no fear, Filia, I've not abandoned you."

  "I was not alarmed," Miranda said sharply. "I was... confused. Where are we? Why am I in this bed?"

  Lysimachus smiled. "You are in the house of Lord Quirian, ma'am. And you are in a bed because you are his honoured guest. Would you rather had been laid out to rest on the floor?"

  "Then we have arrived?" Miranda asked. "In a single day?"

  "I have my ways, Filia," Lysimachus replied.

  Miranda heard footsteps on the stairs, moments before Ascanius and Julian followed Lysimachus into the room. Ascanius leaned forward to whisper in Lysimachus' ear.

  Lysimachus nodded. "Lord Quirian wishes to speak with you, Filia. If you'll follow me."

  "I will, but if I may have a moment first." Miranda swung her legs out of the bed and, pushing up against her cane, pushed herself up onto her feet. She walked across to the balcony, her stick thumping softly against the opulent Xarzian rug.

  "Filia," Lysimachus said. "Is anything wrong?"

  "No," Miranda murmured, standing on the balcony and looking up at the sky. "I've just never seen this sky before. It looks almost completely different to how it does in Corona." She had to look to the far east before she found a constellation she recognised: Niccolo, the favoured son of Turo. At home it had hung directly overhead, but now when Miranda looked up she saw nothing that she recognised.

  Miranda smiled. "I am away from there. I am truly away and nothing can drag me back. I have escaped! I am free!" She laughed like a little girl enjoying her first Covenant festival. She heard Ascanius chuckling at her expense but did not care.

  "I'd hazard you are pleased to be here, Filia," Julian said.

  "You have no idea how hard that place was to stand sometimes," Miranda said. "I am hoping that Eternal Pantheia will be more enlightened."

  Lysimachus chuckled. "It is said that within the walls of the eternal city may be found the whole world in miniature. I'm sure you'll find some part of it to your liking." He looked up at the night sky. "Do you look at the stars often?"

  "It was a hobby of mine when I was a child, but since people started beating a path to my door to be cured of all their ills I have had less and less time for it," Miranda admitted. "I doubt that that particular situation will improve now that I am in the prince's service."

  "Lord Quirian is a generous master, he might surprise you," Lysimachus said. "But, generous as he is, his patience is not unlimited. He will not wait all night."

  Miranda nodded. "Very well. Let me meet this Lord Quirian who has offered me such generous terms."

  She allowed Lysimachus to lead the way, with Ascanius and Julian following her down the narrows stairway. It was hard going at times with her clubfoot and her bad leg, but Miranda would not ask for help: instead she gritted her teeth and kept on moving. She would not be dependent upon anyone.

  The three former soldiers led her through a house overflowing with mosaics and statues of incidents and figures from the days before the rise of the Empire; Miranda recognised some of the Coronim legends, though she did not particularly care for them. It puzzled her a little, why an Imperial patrician should lavish so much care upon pre-imperial scenes for his decorating, but she paid it little mind as she was led into a sparsely appointed - though what was appointed looked to be of the very finest quality - dining room.

  Standing between a red velvet reclining couch and a carved oak dining table - laid out with a pitcher of wine, a pitcher of water, two cups and a plate of honey cakes - stood the largest man that Miranda had ever seen. In a country where the average height for a man was around five foot six, this man had to stand at least seven feet tall. Seven feet tall and rippling with muscle. He looked strong enough to tear Michael in half with his bare hands. And yet there was nothing bestial or animalistic about him, as Miranda had found there usually was with strong, muscular men like her brother or his fellow gladiators. No, this man, standing with statuesque stillness waiting for her, appeared eminently civilised, perfectly controlled. His handsome face - he looked to be in the midst of his thirties - betrayed no emotions. His long dark hair was oiled back so that not a single strand obscured his face. His brown eyes were keen and penetrating. He wore a white toga trimmed with gold, and wore it in the antique style with no tunic underneath, only a loincloth to preserve his modesty otherwise.

  Standing behind him, and quite literally overshadowed by him, were two smaller and less burly figures. Both were dressed in black, wearing leather cuirasses and hiding their faces behind silver masks which reflected the orange glow of the torchlight. The one on the right right wore a sword across his back and a stiff iron gauntlet upon his left hand, which was held flat in paralell to his body. The other wore a brace of knives at her waist and dark leather vambraces upon her wrists.

  Miranda approached the trio tremulously. "Pater...forgive me, but surely you cannot be Lord Quirian."

  The large man raised one dark eyebrow. "Can I not? How very surprising. May I ask, Filia, if there is any particular reason why I cannot be the man I am?"

  Miranda swallowed. "Because...quite frankly my lord, you look more bodyguard than master."

  Quirian let out a bark of laughter. "Yes, I suppose I am rather imposing, aren't I? But you will learn, Filia, that in Eternal Pantheia nothing is quite as it seems. Though I possess the height and build of an orc champion I am Lord Quirian, and though Metella here," he gestured to the woman on his left. "Does not have quite my inches I assure you she is the one that you should fear."

  Miranda raised her eyebrows. "Have I any need to fear anyone in this house?"

  "Thankfully not," Quirian replied, an easy smile dancing across his face. "In fact, it is my dear hope that we shall become fast friends. Filia Rebecca Miranda Callistus, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Eternal Pantheia and my home, and let me say how delightful it is to meet you in person at long last." He smiled broadly as he offered Miranda an elaborate bow, then took her hand in his and brushed his lips against her knuckles so gently Miranda felt it only as the passage of a breeze. "Your reputation as a magician precedes you, madam, what a pity that your loveliness is not equally far famed. You are right welcome in our company."

  Miranda did not know where to look as she felt her face begin to burn with embarrassment. If she had enjoyed overheated and melodramatic declarations she would have stayed in Lover's Rock and spoken to her brother more often, yet she could hardly give her host and employer the rough side of her tongue over it, or even a mild rebuke. With as much grace as she could muster she replied, "You are, um, you're welcome, my lord. But, if it please you, I would ask that you call me Miranda from now. I'm not especially fond of Rebecca."

  "Truly? Then you have my most heartfelt apologies, Filia, Miranda it shall be," Quirian said. "Allow me to present to you Filius Lucifer Nemon Filius, the captain of my household warriors, and Filia Metella Kardia, my personal bodyguard."

  "A pleasure to meet you, Filia Miranda," Lucifer said, his voice sounding familiar to Miranda even though she was certain she had never heard it before. Metella merely nodded.

  Quirian smiled as he turned away towards Lysimachus. "Lysimachus, I cannot express well enough my gratitude for the service you have done me. You have my thanks. And the thanks of the Empire of c
ourse, we must not forget the thanks of the Empire."

  "Thank you sir," Lysimachus replied. "Permission to dismiss?"

  "Of course, of course." Quirian whirled around as Lysimachus and his men took their leave, turning his attentions to Miranda once more. "And now, Filia, if you are not too worn out by your journey I should like to discuss exactly what work you are to do for me, and of course for His Imperial Highness."

  "That would be very fine," Miranda said. "However, before we start, Lord Quirian, there is something I should like to discuss with you."

  "I am attentive to you with ever fibre of my being, Filia," Quirian said.

  Here goes, Miranda took a deep breath. "Lord Quirian, I am appreciative of the opportunity that you have given me to come here and serve the Prince and yourself. I am grateful and I am enthusiastic to begin work. That being said, my mother was a seamstress who spent the last years of her life a pariah for faults not her own. I myself have risen from the depths of poverty to attain a semblance of respectability. I do not need, nor do I particularly want, to be treated like some princess who has only descended from her gleaming tower this very day. To be blunt, I find your overheated manners a little offputting. Circumstances have left me with very little patience for affectation."

  Quirian's face assumed a stricken aspect. "Filia, you wound me terribly. In my day a young man who failed to address a young lady with sufficient politesse would be thought the most vulgar of barbarians."

  Miranda raise one eyebrow. "In your day? You do not look like you are within five years of forty."

  Quirian smiled. "I am extraordinarily well-preserved, ma'am. But, in deference to you sensibilities, I shall endeavour to reform my manners to better fit this modern age. Now, will you sit?"

  Miranda sat down upon a blue settee opposite Lord Quirian. "You must tell me exactly who it is that Prince Antiochus wishes me to treat. Is he ill? If he is I can understand why you would want to keep it a secret."

  "Oh no, Filia, the prince is in fine fettle," Lord Quirian said. His eyebrows rose. "You'll not recline, Filia?"