They duelled so swiftly and strongly that they might have been Silwa and Cupas battling in the skies above Heaven's Nest, not a man and a woman fighting with swords and knifes in the middle of Eternal Pantheia. Their movements could not be followed, and Miranda was amazed that they could keep up such pace for more than a few moments. All the fights she had witnessed in the arena, mere minutes of intense combat would leave the most hardened gladiator sweating, but neither showed any signs of slowing though their movements should have had them both gasping for breath by now.
Miranda tore her eyes away from the combat. There was no point in gawping. This was not the arena, and she could do more here than hope that nobody she cared for died. There were still people living on the battlefield, and Metella had given her time to save them.
She started to move forward as quickly as she could, pushing the nobles and equestrians aside. Their pride and posturing, their grand lineages, their money, none of it mattered in this place, at this moment, but her power did. She could do what none of them could.
"Miranda, wait for me!" Octavia called, but Miranda did not slow down. Though her legs burned, though her feet protested, she forced herself to practically run - where it not for her foot, she would have been sprinting - through the blood until she reached the side of Lucifer, whose chest still rose and fell even as his own blood engulfed it.
"That's right, captain, stay with me," Miranda muttered, dropping her stick and placing both hands over his chest. She called her power to her, using her new understanding of magic to comprehend better just what she was doing. Fire, to clean the wound. Water, to soothe the pain. Lightning, to keep him awake. Sorcery and gods knew what else to grow his flesh again. She called them all, and let the light of her power engulf him as his wound began to close, his flesh growing back where the blade had pierced it. "I'm afraid I don't have time to make you good as new, you're going to have a scar; I hope you don't mind."
Lucifer chuckled nervously. He still had his silver mask on, but Miranda found she could imagine him smiling.
Miranda chuckled too. "That's it. Everything is going to be fine. You'll see."
"Metella!" Lucifer croaked.
Miranda's head whipped round, just in time to see Metella misstep in her furious duel against the Unstoppable Man, who produced a dagger like a street magician and rammed it through her leather cuirass and into her heart.
"I know how to stop you as well," he said.
Metella stood before him for a moment, an old tree standing tall before the storm because it is too old and rigid to bend, and then her legs buckled beneath her and she fell to her knees, then collapsed onto her side.
In a flash, the Unstoppable Man was standing over Miranda, one hand gleaming with ethereal power, and Miranda could see that it was Lysimachus' face beneath the hood, both eyes blue now, both eyes burning with cold fury as he gazed upon with a disdainful snarl.
"Lysimachus?" Miranda murmured. "Why?"
"Justice, Filia," he said coldly. "The sins of this land must be paid for."
"Get away from her!" Octavia yelled, hurling a blast of air at him so powerful that even he, who had withstood so much magic on this night, was pushed backwards by it. Octavia ran straight at him, not with her sword out but with her hands outstretched as though she meant to grapple with him like a wrestler.
"I'm sorry for not telling you about this Miranda," Octavia said.
"About what?" Miranda asked. "What are you doing?"
"About this," Octavia said, and her blouse ripped as a pair of beautiful tawny wings, each eight feet across, erupted from her back, from the lump that so disfigured her. Those wings flapped furiously as Octavia raced towards Lysimachus, and Miranda realised what she meant to do: lift Lysimachus into the air and drop him from a great height.
Oh, you sweet, brave fool.
"Don't do it," Miranda yelled. "He's much too fast, he'll-"
Even before Miranda could say so, Lysimachus had struck faster than any snake and severed one of Octavia's arms at the elbow. She screamed in high-pitched pain as he flung her aside with a contemptuous backhand blow.
Slowly, Lysimachus advanced towards Miranda.
But then the ground began to shake, and a shadow briefly blocked out the moonlight as one of Miranda's golems stepped firmly over her and the prone Lucifer to stand between her and Lysimachus.
Soon Lysimachus was surrounded by a dozen golems, their faces impassive, their fists always clenched. They formed a ring of stone enclosing him, while Lysimachus made no move but merely regarded them warily.
"Kill him," Quirian commanded, his voice full of cold command. "But save his head."
Lysimachus charged, but he seemed slower now, closer to human. His sword skittered off the stone without so much as scratching it. He lashed out with the hand that had taken so many lives, but it did nothing. A blow from one golem lifted him up into the air and dropped him on his back upon the courtyard stone. Another golem raised his foot and stamped upon him, crushing his legs beneath the weight brought to bear upon them. Then the golem circle closed in, like crows descending upon carrion, their great fists rising and falling, tearing and pulling.
Lysimachus did not cry out once as they tore him to piece.
Miranda saw no need to watch her creations go about their grisly work. She crawled over to where Octavia lay, her eyes unfocussed.
"Wake up!" Miranda yelled, slapping her across the face. "I told you you were going to survive and I mean the things I say." She grabbed Octavia's severed arm, and joined it back to the bloody, bleeding stump. "This will hurt, but I don't have time to gag you or to take it gently." She poured her power out, fusing arm to stump, rejoining blood vessels, knitting bone, joining flesh. Octavia screeched in pain like a bird having its wings pulled off by a callous child, but when Miranda was done she was alive. Gasping and dry retching, her eyes filled with tears, but alive.
"Stay there," Miranda gasped, taking deep breaths as she girded herself for a night of much work. "Stay there and rest, I'll see who else can still be saved."
And so, as the golems tore Lysimachus to shreds, Miranda worked to put his victims back together.
Fewer of them than she would have liked remained in reach of salvation. Astaraeus had died of shock while Clodia had bled to death from the rent Lysimachus' had made in her gut. Geta lived, but barely, and Miranda did not have time to make him perfectly well again. There were too many wounded, and not enough of her.
The golems were done by the time Miranda limped her way over to where Metella lay, dreading what she might find. Some of the lords and ladies had begun to applaud her stone warriors, while ignoring Miranda's work in saving lives not far away. Miranda more than half expected to find a pale corpse when she reached Metella, but her heart lifted when she found a woman still alive, a slender glow in her blue eyes, her breath the merest whispered hint of life.
Miranda called upon air to aid her other magics this time, to keep Metella alive and breathing as she poured her power into Metella's chest to repair a heart half torn to shreds.
"I can't imagine how you're still alive after this," Miranda said.
"It was not as clean a blow as he believed," Metella murmured. "He should have made certain to destroy my heart."
Miranda shook her head, not understanding. "You are a remarkable woman."
Metella's face remained impassive. "Lysimachus could do as much. Was he a remarkable man?"
Miranda frowned. "You shouldn't talk so much. Stay still now."
"The captain?"
"He will live, as you will," Miranda answered. "You were very brave, to attack for his sake."
"He is...my friend," Metella said. "How could I not?"
Miranda stood up, feeling her back creak and ache while her legs made their feelings know perfectly well. Some of Lord Quirian's guests had approached the golems and were admiring them up close, while Aelia had retrieved Lysimachus' head and presented it to Lord Quirian; Prince Antiochus clapped in delight at the sig
ht of it.
Miranda sighed. None of this was of any interest to her. She had done all she could for the living, all she wanted to do was sleep.
"Filia, with me," Princess Romana yelled peremptorily as she ran out of the courtyard and into the street. The blood stained her purple boots and ruined the hem of her skirt, but the princess did not notice as she gazed about, her mouth open in dismay, her eyes wide with shock, at the devastation wrought by Lysimachus.
Dead men covered the street: Imperial guardsmen, hired blades in crude armour or no armour at all, men wearing the colours of noble houses. There was no place outside the courtyard that was not drowning in blood. Severed limbs were piled high wherever Miranda looked.
"Lysimachus," Miranda murmured. "Why, in the name of God, did you do all this?"
"Lieutenant?" Romana called out frantically. "Lieutenant Aquilla? Sergeant Kalimus? Phebus? Stilicho?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Anyone?"
Someone groaned, and Romana ran to the side of a man in a bloodstained guard's uniform, his armour rent and torn, sitting propped up against the outer wall of Quirian's house, his head resting on his chest. Miranda saw that he had been near enough disembowelled, and by the looks of him he did not have a lot of blood left.
"Dolon, Dolon you are going to be all right," Princess Romana said, taking the guardsman's hand in her own. "Filia, make him well. Optio Dolon, listen to me!"
Dolon's eyes flickered. "Your Highness. I'm sorry."
Romana shook her head. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You did well. You all did well, I am so proud of you."
Dolon smiled as Miranda knelt beside him. "I think I'm a bit far gone ma'am, even for a miracle."
"No!" Romana yelled. "Open your eyes, Optio. Damn you, Optio Dolon I order you to stay alive, do you hear me? In the name of the Empress I command you not to die!"
Dolon's eyes closed.
"Miranda, do something!" Romana shouted.
"I'll do it whether you yell or not," Miranda growled under her breath, conjuring her magic once again, dragging it out no matter its protests or its weariness, thrusting her hand against Dolon's wound and pouring herself into it. His flesh stitched back together, his breathing deepened, until he went from the last gasps of a dying man to the slumber of one who was merely weary.
"Empress be praised. Thank you." Princess Romana's head slumped forward, her bangs falling down over her face. Her hands clenched into fists upon her knees. Miranda realised, with a mixture of surprise and squirming embarrassment, that Romana was sobbing, tears falling down her alabaster face.
"What's the matter?" Romana demanded when she caught Miranda staring. "Does it amaze you so much that I have tears to shed?"
"It surprises me that you would shed them over your common guards," Miranda replied. None of the other nobles had yet come out to view the damage.
"Twenty men, and nineteen of them dead now," Romana sobbed. "Nineteen of my men, my guards, mine. They followed me, they obeyed my commands, they kept me safe. They died to keep me safe. They served me, and those who serve me are more kin to me than Antiochus shall ever be. I am the daughter of Aegea, and they were her sons. Why should I not weep for them?"
"It is over now," Miranda said, offering the only cold comfort that was open to her. "They are avenged."
Romana looked up at her, and through her tears Miranda saw her purple eyes were hard as diamond. "Were it so easy."
Other people had started to drift out into the street now; Princess Romana hesitated for a moment, then rose to her feet, her face becoming a mask of graceful serenity. She bore herself so proudly and so nobly that Miranda could almost ignore the blood that soaked her dress, almost forget that she had been weeping like a babe but a moment earlier.
Princess Romana nodded to Miranda. "Filia. You have done good work this night."
Miranda snorted. "Why, highness, because my creations are able to kill?"
"No, because you saved lives," Romana said. "I once heard the late Lord Manzikes say once that the lives of good soldiers were more precious than cities stormed, treasuries plundered or battlefield triumphs. If he had lived, I think he would have valued you highly. If he had lived."
"Yes, well," Miranda looked away. "Forgive me, your highness, I find that I am very weary." She limped away, moving so slowly and so wearily that Octavia and Aelia had to help her back inside the courtyard. No sooner where they out of sight of the ladies than Miranda collapsed against the nearest wall.
"First the Manzikes' house, now this. Are all nights in Eternal Pantheia so wearying?" Miranda asked. "And on top of everything else you have wings. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I...I didn't know what you'd think," Octavia replied. "Thank you, for saving my life."
Miranda shrugged her gratitude aside. She sighed. "I am afraid I have to ask a favour of you."
"You want me to go to Corona and speak to your brother?" Octavia asked.
Miranda looked up. "How did you know?"
Octavia smiled. "You were yelling."
Miranda snorted. "Would you be willing? I know I haven't the right to ask-"
"I'll do it," Octavia declared. "Because we're friends, and how could I say no? I'll tell him that you're all right, and that he doesn't need to risk himself any more, because I'll protect you now. And I'll come back as soon as I can with good news, I hope." She smiled encouragingly. "Goodbye, I'll see you soon."
"Good luck," Miranda murmured, as Octavia spread her tawny wings and took off into the night sky, winging her way across the stars and the face of the moon. Miranda watched her until she could no longer spot Octavia in the darkness of the night, and only then did she look down to see Lord Quirian, together with Prince Antiochus, glad-handing and accepting the congratulations of the notables and the publicani around the motionless golems and the bloody remains of Lysimachus and his victims.
Miranda shook her head. "I had hoped that he was a better man than this, to canvas for support amidst an abattoir."
"Are you surprised?" Aelia asked.
"No," Miranda said, shaking her head sadly. "And I won't claim I have the right to be surprised, he is a politician after all. But I think I have the right to be disappointed."
X
The Advancement of Michael Callistus
Michael leaned upon his knees. The heat of the sun was making sweat drench his back. Somehow that blazing orb seemed hotter and more savage here, in Deucalia province, than it had back home in Corona. He supposed that Turo under the waves, cherishing that far-famed land, had girdled it about with an ethereal shield which kept the fiercest savagery of the sun at bay. But now he had left the boundaries of God's chosen land and entered into the domain of villainy, so was it any wonder even the weather persecuted him?
In the days of old the Coronim had often warred with the Deucalians, who were known by all to be thieves and liars to a man. In the full bloom of their greatness the Coronim had gained the upper hand over their honourless adversaries: Gabriel had slain the king of Deucalia in single combat, and taken half his lands in token of the victory, and while a scion of Aurelia's line sat the High Throne the Firstborn had defeated the Deucalians at the battle of Deridaeum and put an end to their invasion plans. But the greatness of Corona had diminished, the High Queen fell and the line of David ended, and the fortunes of war had turned against Turo's chosen. Twice Deucalian armies had sacked Davidheyr, carrying off first the Turoneum, the mystic idol given to Simon by God as a talisman to keep Corona safe, and then the sacred tablets of Turo's Covenant with men. Neither treasure had ever been recovered. It was said that the ferocious savages of Mavenor, who dined on human flesh and wore their beards down to their waists, were less strange and barbaric than were the blasphemous heathens who dwelt in this Deucalia, to whence Michael had been driven by cruel circumstance and the hands of fate.
"I hope you realise that Deucalia has been an Imperial province for almost as long as has Corona," Gideon said, displaying again his uncanny ability to know Michael's mind perf
ectly. He himself had made a concession to the heat by taking off his tunic, revealing chiselled muscles and the emblem of the Empire tattooed upon his back: a wolf and a winged unicorn combatant, separated by the infinity symbol - looking slightly squashed by Gideon's narrow frame - and a sword running down the line of Gideon's spine. "The people here are as thoroughly Imperial as any man in Corona, no different than you or I. Actually, there are probably a great many ways in which they are different from you and I, but I imagine they are much like..." Gideon moved to gesture to Jason and Amy, causing the Emperor's bastard son and the ocean knight to watch him with bemused incredulity. Even Gideon seemed slightly at a loss for words for a moment, before rallying to continue. "Much like ordinary people one might find anywhere."
"They are base decievers and dwarfish thieves, utterly without honour, my lord," Michael insisted. "And murderers too most like."
"Once, perhaps, but several hundred years of good Imperial governance has cured them of such childish nonsense," Gideon said airily. "Though I do believe the Novar church is stronger here than anywhere else along the south coast so, Jason, be careful that travellers along the road do not discover your religious leanings. And Michael, I do believe you have already been told to call me Gideon."
"Your pardon, Gideon," Michael said. "But we should all be on our guard in this land. Any passing knave, happening upon us on the road, will try to slit our throats for the ruby in this blade you, by your graciousness, have given me; or else for the sapphire in that weapon you yet bear."
"They will have quite a task before them, if that is their aim," Gideon said.
"I said not otherwise, Gideon, but these lawless folk will attempt it nonetheless," Michael said.
"I do not think caution is unwarranted in any circumstance, but I do believe your paranoia is a little out of date," Jason said.
"Maybe, Your Highness, but I will believe the sinner has repented when I see evidence of his good works," Michael said.
Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) Page 35
