She heard footsteps on the floor of the house, heavy footsteps but moving at speed. Miranda heard a woman scream, a man roar in fury, then another scream, longer than the first, turning into a wail of horror and grief.
Then there was more running, more fighting, but the sounds were diminished now, reduced from a battle to a mere skirmish.
And then there was nothing but the moaning.
"Octavia," Miranda whispered. "Octavia, are you there?" Please, God, protect her, she prayed, who found it hard to bend herself to pray for anything. Please keep her safe, and I'll even start going to temple again.
"Miranda?" Octavia asked, her voice quiet. "I'm going to open the door now. Don't be afraid."
Octavia opened the door. Her eyes...there was a hollowness in her eyes, and lines beneath them as if she had suddenly become very old and very tired all in the space of a few minutes. Miranda guessed that she had never seen death before. She had looked like that, the first time she had seen a man die in the arena. She had spent hours trying to understand how everyone else had enjoyed the day out so much and she had felt only revolted inside.
"Is it over?" Miranda asked.
Octavia nodded.
Miranda pushed herself off the wall and leaned upon her cane as she hobbled out of the cupboard. "Then my work has just begun."
She hobbled into the corridor, the smell of blood assailing her nostrils. She glanced at Octavia. "I'm glad that you're all right."
Octavia shook her head. "He never went anywhere near me. It's like he knew where he was going."
"Very probably he did," Miranda muttered.
The first men she passed were dead, and beyond help, she could tell that at a glance. It was not until she reached the front doorway that she came across Major Skleros slumped there, leaning against the doorframe, his face pale and his breathing shallow, but still alive. His sword was broken in his lap, and his right arm had been cut off above the elbow. The ground around him was a mess of blood that trailed out into the courtyard. It looked as if he had tried to fight on even without an arm, which no doubt lay somewhere out there in the mass of dead and wounded men, amongst whom the living shuffled aimlessly as though they were the ghosts in the shadowlands and not the living men who had been fortunate enough to escape.
"Major Skleros?" Miranda murmured, ignoring her own petty pain to crouch down beside him. "Major Skleros, I need you to fight for me, can you hear me? You're a soldier, you should be able to fight for life, shouldn't you? Someone find me Major Skleros' arm!" she bellowed out the door at the surviving soldiers. "And start separating the wounded from the dead so I can treat them."
Narses' eyes snapped open as he grabbed her shoulder tight with his left hand. "His Lordship!" he gasped, his breath ragged, but his eyes burning as intensely as ever, seeming more so in fact against the pallor of his skin. "Save His Lordship!"
"But you-"
"Go!" Narses snarled into her face. His head lolled a little, his eyes began to water; whether it was pain or grief that brought it on Miranda could not have said. "Go," he pleaded. "Save him."
Miranda nodded, and started up the stairs as swiftly as she could. A few dead men lay there, slaves by the look of them, not soldiers. All the soldiers had perished trying to stop the hooded man from getting in the house, it seemed.
She found the Lord Commenae on the landing, leaning against the bannister overlooking the hall. The intruder had sliced through his glittering coat of scales like was nought but cloth, and his insides were spilling out over his legs. Behind her, Miranda heard Octavia retching. Lady Commenae lay not far from her husband, with what looked like a stab wound in her back. Her hand, gentle, pale and delicate, lay outstretched, the tips of her fingers touching her husband's palm.
"Don't go, Anna," the Lord Commenae murmured. "The children need you."
"No child will be made motherless today if I can help it," Miranda growled, throwing herself to the ground beside the stricken patricians and summoning her magic. She confirmed that the Lady Commenae yet lived, if only just, and bent her magic bucking and protesting to the task of saving her.
It started with the Lady Commenae, but it did not end when the wound in her back was stitched shut and she began to breathe more steadily. It did not end when she and Octavia pushed the Lord Commenae's guts back into his stomach before Miranda used her magic to place everything back where it should have gone - her powers may have been ethereal, but she had grounded them in hard knowledge acquired from dissecting the bodies of executed criminals, and she considered she knew as much of the anatomy as any physician of comparable experience - and seal him up before Octavia started to throw up.
Some she could restore almost completely: someone had found Major Skleros' arm, and though he screamed as Miranda reattached it he would have two hands again when all was said and done. Dux Nikephorus was not so fortunate, his leg had been blown apart, there was nothing left of it but blood and drops of flesh. He would never stand on his own feet again.
And there was no saving Lord Manzikes a second time. The hooded intruder had made sure of that, cutting off the commander's head and ripping his heart out of his chest for good measure. Miranda had left the grisly remains where they were, with his other daughter standing over him, silent and shocked, her face a mask of horror. It would have been better not to leave her that way, but Miranda had no time to care for the living while there were still those at risk of death.
And so Miranda worked until her arms trembled and her legs would not move and her throat was drier than a desert and all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball right there on the floor and sleep for as long as the gods would allow her.
But many men who would have died would now live, and that made all the exhaustion, all the trembling of her weary limbs, all the effort she had put forth worth while.
Not that that made it any easier to stand up. She nearly fell over, and Octavia had to catch her.
"Filia Miranda!" she heard Ascanius shouting. "Filia Miranda, where are you love?"
"Please don't call me 'love'," Miranda murmured as she shrank into Octavia's arms
"We're here, Ascanius!" Octavia shouted.
Miranda heard footsteps, and then she saw Ascanius burst into the dining room where she had been working, the dining room filled with men recovering from their injuries. Julian was not far behind him.
"Fire and smoke, love, are you alright?" Ascanius asked.
Miranda nodded. "I'm just tired. Some weren't so lucky."
"I know, we've just been outside," Julian said. "Gods above, what did this? I've never seen a demon attack this vicious."
"Not a demon," Miranda said. "A man."
"A man?" Ascanius asked. "What kind of man...Beltor protect us. I'm glad you're safe, Lord Quirian sent us as soon as he heard. Bugger Lysimachus, he would have to be sleeping it off at a time like this."
"We should go," Julian said. "Lord Quirian will want us back as soon as possible."
"Very well," Miranda said quietly. "I'm finished here anyway."
Ascanius nodded. "Sorry about this, love, but I don't think you're in any fit state to walk." He took her out of Octavia's grasp and swept her up in his arms like a bride. "Come on, Filia; let's get you home."
Home, Miranda thought. Where is home for me, really? Quirian's house is not my home, but then Corona never felt like home, not to me, not really. In a way, butcher's yards like these are the only true home I've ever known. And the worst part is I don't really mind that.
But all she said as she closed her eyes was, "Thank you."
V
The Last Firstborn
Michael’s eyes snapped open.
He turned where he stood, trying to work out where he was. Not in Lover's Rock, that was certain. Michael stood up to his knees in water, still and placid and dark all around him. Above the water's surface mists swirled, impenetrable to his eyes. There was no sound of any living creature. Michael reached down and brushed the gelatinous water with his fingers; it sh
immered for a second and then stopped, and became once more as still as glass. Nor was the change of scene the least of it: all his injuries of the battle had vanished and Michael felt stronger than ever. But with Miranda far away... how was that possible?
“My lord?” Michael shouted. “Lord Commenae, can you hear me? Are you there?”
“No,” said a voice from behind him, a woman’s voice, sultry and a little deep. “Gideon is not here, he will not be joining us.”
Michael’s hands moved to the hilts of his swords. “Is that so? And where are we that he cannot find his way to join us?"
“I confess myself disappointed, Michael; surely your knowledge of Coronim history suggests some possibility to you?”
“I have a notion, ma'am,” Michael confessed. “But not a likely one. The stories say that gods once walked in the dreams of men as surely as they walked upon the earth. But it is many centuries now since last any god did either of those things, and even in Prince Gabriel's day only one still did so.”
“It has been centuries since it was widely reported,” the woman said. “But who is to say that she does not continue her work, in secret, to this very day?”
Michael felt the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to stand on end.
“You may call me Silwa, Michael, I have no desire to stand on ceremony. I try to keep myself out of the accounts these days- there was a time when I coveted fame and glory, but that was a different time and I... a different goddess- but I continue to give aid to those who require it, when I judge their cause is right and their success is in the general interest.”
Michael turned around, slowly, to behold one he would have acclaimed the most beautiful woman in the world had he not been aware that she was not a woman. Not a woman, yet still beautiful. Her skin was milky smooth, so pale that it could almost be seen through, unblemished by any mark or mar. Her hair was spun silk, black like the moonless night and with the texture of finest velvet. Her eyes were grey, like a thick fog hiding her soul from the view of mortals, a fog that at the same time drew their eyes and held them fixed in rapture. Sophos Silwa, Silwa the Wise, Silwa the Cunning, Silwa the Ever-Victorious, Silwa the Mistress of Stratagems. Silwa, daughter of the Eldest, daughter of Thanates. Goddess of Victory and Wisdom. She was armoured for war in gleaming bronze as a prince of old, the aegis in her left hand, a spear in her right and a lion skin cape hanging from her shoulders. All was exactly as the stories proclaimed it should be, but even had she appeared to him in beggars rags Michael would have known her. Not just from her name, but from the aura of majesty which hovered about her and proclaimed 'Here is a Queen of Heaven'.
In spite of the water, in spite of the fact that he had never worshipped any of the Younger Gods, in spite even of the fact that Lord Turo had only ever exhibited at best forced tolerance for his errant niece, Michael lowered himself down to one knee. “Radiant one,”
“I told you Michael, to call me Silwa,” Silwa admonished him.
“I could never do that, ma'am, I should feel like some coarse republican of low manners and no shame,” Michael said.
Silwa chuckled. “You may have your flaws Michael Callistus, but I do not believe republicanism is one of them.”
“Majesty,” Michael would not use her first name. He had no right to be on intimate terms with one who had led the fathers of men to victory on the Field of Broken Chains, who had stood counsellor to Gabriel and Aurelia, who had assembled the White Company, and had plotted in detail the salvation of Pelarius. “I take it that you have walked into my dreams, as you did to summon the heroes of Pelarius to fight...” he searched for an appropriate way to say it.
“To fight my father, Michael," Silwa said. "You need not be afraid to cause me sorrow, I have no regrets. I have not done precisely as you describe, but the error is not of your own making. I never walked into their dreams so much as I summoned their dreams to me, as I have done with you."
“I am sure so high and great a lady did not do so merely for the poor pleasures of my conversation."
“Quite correct,” Silwa said. “I am here to take you on a journey, Michael. Follow me now, and stay close. Do not take your eyes off me, no matter what you hear, do you understand? You must look only at me."
Michael nodded. "Of course, Majesty."
Silwa turned her back on Michael and began to walk away through the mist. Michael followed, staying close behind her while she led him through this strange world like Hippolyto leading Daniel out of the maelstrom and back to the living world. On and on he followed as the water disappeared beneath his feet and the surface became ice, or glass maybe or even diamond it was so hard to make out. He followed, with the goddess his only guide in the fog, and as she had instructed Michael kept his eyes fixed only on her.
Something growled in the mist to his right, a low rumble that spoke of something large and dangerous.
"Keep your eyes upon me," Silwa said. "Look at me and me alone and they cannot harm you."
Something else roared off to Michael's left, the higher pitched cry of a beast entirely different from that which he had heard before. Soon the mist resounded to a cacophony of growls, grunts and shrieks. But worst of all the moaning sound from all about that sounded like a legion of the dead crying out with dusty throats for blood.
"Almighty Turo, Lord of Oceans, watch over me now and in the presence of mine enemies," Michael prayed softly as the grand chorus followed in his wake. But he did not take his eyes off Lady Silwa, though the noises made his ears bleed and his spirit tremble.
And then Silwa turned to face Michael. She raised the aegis in her hand, and the world was still once more.
"That's better," Silwa said. "We have arrived, Michael."
"Arrived wh-" the words died in Michael's throat as he saw: Miranda, sleeping on a luxurious bed, her body bundled up beneath opulent cushions and her white hair splayed out across the overstuffed pillows. Michael rushed to her side, a smile engulfing his face, but as he got closer he saw that his sister was...not all there, somehow. She was like a ghost, a spirit half risen from the land of the dead, a spectre without substance. Michael could almost see through her to the floor beneath, and the bed in which she lay was even more insubstantial.
"Madam, I fear I do not understand," Michael said.
"This is the world of spirits in which you stand, Michael, the domain of death and dreams," Silwa replied. "Your sister is not dead, and so it is but a shadow of her soul that you can see. But see her you can, with my aid; and you know now that she is alive, that she is even content after a fashion, though she has had a trying day."
"Content?" Michael said. "But Lord Gideon said she was in peril."
"She is not yet aware of that fact," Silwa said. "I think she should remain so, for now. No one should have to live knowing that they are soon to die."
"She will not die, not while I live," Michael shouted. "I am sorry, divine radiance, I had no right-"
"All is forgiven. In your place I would be angry also," Silwa said. "But I brought you here so that you could rest a little easier. You still have time, to save her and win all."
"How?" Michael said. "I am her elder brother, I am supposed to protect her, but I do not even know where she is or who I must protect her from."
"Your enemy's name is Quirian," Silwa said. "He has fed fat the grudge he bears the Empire, and he believes your sister is the key to his victory."
"Why?"
"You know the reason, Michael, you always have," Silwa replied. "Now, listen to me very carefully: you cannot undertake this task alone, or even with the help of Gideon Commenae. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of supplying assistance for you, I hope that you can get on with them."
Michael frowned. "Who, Majesty?"
“An old friend who shall assist you when you need it, and a new acquaintance whom you shall meet when he stands in need of aid,” Silwa said. “You will know them when your paths cross with theirs. And now we must go. It is almost time for you to wake."
"Not directly," Silwa said. "But the echo of your words will lodge in her soul, and be in her mind when she awakes, as the memory of a dream."
Michael knelt at Miranda's bedside, and placed his hands upon hers, "I'm coming, our Miranda. Don't worry, I'm coming. I'm so sorry about everything." He stood up, and bent to kiss her forehead. "God keep you, baby sister."
He turned to face Silwa. "Thank you, ma'am. I am ready now."
Silwa nodded. "You know what to do." She shook her aegis with a thundering sound, and Michael began to follow once more in her wake as the roars and the howlings rose once more around him.
"Michael," a voice called out to him in the mists. Felix's voice, high and childish, crying out to him. "Michael, I need you, help."
Michael did not look away. This is a trick. Felix is in Turo's halls.
This is the world of spirits, the domain of death and dreams. Could it be that Felix had never reached the halls of Turo, but was abandoned here instead?.
Even if he has, what could I do for him?
"Michael, please, help me," Felix called.
Michael did not look away.
"Michael!" his mother shrieked in pain.
Michael turned, his gaze scouring the mists to his right, "Mother?"
Laughter was his only answer. Michael took a step backwards as the mist cleared a little, and out of if emerged nightmares. Three of them: the three Furies who had once roamed the world punishing sinners before Aurelia had banished them to the spirit realm for the good of peaceful people. Michael recognised all three of them, from the stories of old and from his darkest dreams; both those in which they came for his soul, and those in which he courted them and asked that they infuse him with their bestial rage. Each had visited his nightmares. Each could claim him as their prey. Each could kill him as easily as he might step on an ant.
Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) Page 13
