Short Swords: Tales from the Divine Empire (The First Sword Chronicles Book 3)

by Frances Smith

  “The same thing as you, Sergeant Major?”

  Mezentius shook his head. “No, you don’t want to go doing that. I’m an old soldier; and a company sergeant major what’s more. I’ve earned the right to be an insubordinate fool sometimes. Guardsmen like you need to jump to it when the officer gives the word. Off you go.”

  “But you won’t go?” Lucius asked.

  “No,” Mezentius agreed. “But someone has to give the boys a fighting chance.”

  Lucius left, scurrying away. Mezentius wished him well. He might seem nervous as a damp cabbage but he had some iron in him, when it counted. Too many braggarts in the army these days, it sometimes seemed to him. Too many who talked a good game then wet themselves when they heard the war horns of the Mavenorians. Catilina had been one of them, and even Gabinius had had a touch of it. Lucius, though, he was the right stuff, the real thing. Or he would be, if he made it out of this madness.

  I suppose I’ll have to make sure he has time to get away, Mezentius thought.

  And so, armoured for battle and dressed for the parade ground both, Mezentius strode out of the house and onto the lawn before it, clattering his sword against his shield so that the sound echoed through the night.

  “Come on!” he yelled. “Come on then, be you god or demon or whatever you are! Come on then out with you, and let me look you eye to eye! Unless you’re afraid to stand face to face against a soldier!”

  Mezentius turned in a circle, bellowing his challenge to the world and to the heavens, and then he stopped. His one good eye widened.

  “Gods save us,” he muttered.

  There, standing before him in a pool of moonlight, was Marcellus. A man he hadn’t thought about in years, a man he remembered at once. They had been soldiers together, when Mezentius was an optio and Marcellus a legionary. Comrades…and rivals, for the affections of fair Cornelia, the sergeant-major’s daughter. She’d preferred Marcellus, and why wouldn’t she, with those bright blue eyes of his, that boyish look, that long blond hair? But Mezentius had been an optio, and all the officers liked him, trusted him, and relied on him. Optio Mezentius was a good man, they said, a man who did his duty, a pillar of the legion. His armour had always been polished to a shine on parade, his sword had always been sharp for inspection, and he was always ready with a crisp salute for every officer who came along. Always obliging, he was, always ready to what was asked of him. Officers liked that, appreciated it. So when he’d accused Marcellus of stealing from the stores, and planted a few things in his pack to serve as evidence, who had doubted the word of dependable Optio Mezentius, being such a good fellow as he was? Theft was a flogging punishment, and Legate Geminus had been a right bastard when it came to floggings. He’d sentenced Marcellus to two hundred lashes, and Mezentius’ rival had died strapped to the triangle, bled to death from the wounds to his back.

  He’d had no joy of the victory. He’d barely been able to look at Cornelia when it was all done, and she’d died of a chill that winter in any case. From then on he’d known no love but service, and had no wife but his sword.

  And now Marcellus stood before him, staring at him with anger and accusation in his gaze, his whole body covered in blood.

  “So, that’s it then?” Mezentius asked quietly. “I see.” He stepped forward, shield held before him and sword ready. “Well then, whoever you are behind that phantom, let’s get to it, shall we?”

  They passed two more dead men on the way back to Miranda’s bedroom.

  She couldn’t remember their names. They were just lying there with blood pooling around them, their insides burned out from within, staring up at her with the blackened remains of their eyes.

  A scream echoed down the corridor from behind them, Miranda thought it sounded a lot like Major Severus.

  God under the waves, what could be doing this? Miranda was not a religious woman, she was not pious, she had attended temple only because it was the done thing in the small town she grew up in and she hadn’t wanted to be ostracised by her neighbours…but times like this were enough to almost make her wish she could be religious, could put all her cares upon God and abrogate all personal responsibility.

  But she could not, because she did not believe, not like that.

  “Miranda,” Octavia murmured, tugging at her arm like a sulky child, bored rigid and eager to be home. “Miranda, please, come on.”

  Miranda smiled, a smile touched with melancholy. “Why? Go there, stay here, what difference does it make?”

  “You don’t have to stay,” Octavia pleaded. “Please, Miranda, just climb into my arms and I’ll fly us both away from here.”

  “I told Major Severus-“

  “I don’t care what you told him, I don’t care what you promised,” Octavia yelled. “You can’t ask me to just watch you die!”

  “Then perhaps-“

  “No!” Octavia shrieked. “Don’t say that, Miranda, don’t say it and don’t even think it either. I’m not leaving you. I know that’s what you were about to say so don’t even deny it. I’m not leaving you, I’m not. Like I told you the last time you tried to send me away: I won’t leave you. No matter what you do or where you go, I’ll be there.”

  “Because I don’t love freedom and I don’t love the skies and I don’t love flying,” Miranda whispered. “I love you.”

  Octavia nodded. “You remembered.”

  “How could I forget?” Miranda murmured, reaching out and running her hand through Octavia’s hair, her soft and gentle hair. She bowed her head, pressing her forehead against Octavia’s feeling the warmth of their touch, the softness of her skin. “But I can’t run away.”

  “Why not?” Octavia asked. “I don’t understand why you have to stay here.”

  “Because I did a terrible thing,” Miranda said. “And if anyone here should answer for their crimes it’s me.”

  “You’re not a bad person,” Octavia said. “I know that. I know your heart; I’ve seen how gentle it is.”

  Miranda smiled. “It’s not about whether I am a good person or a bad one. Even if I was a good person, that doesn’t change the fact that I did a bad thing.”

  “It doesn’t mean that you have to do a stupid thing now,” Octavia said, tears springing from the corners of her eyes. “I can get you out of here.”

  “What if you can’t?” Miranda asked. “What if whatever this is…? I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”

  “But I’m supposed to watch you get worse than hurt?” Octavia asked. “You always did have a selfish streak.”

  Miranda felt water in her eyes even as she chuckled. “You’re making this very difficult, you know.”

  “Good,” Octavia said. “Then give me what I want, and come with me.”

  Miranda snorted. “Now who’s being selfish?”

  Octavia smiled. “It’s all in a good cause.”

  Miranda shook her head. “I’m not going to get rid of you, am I?”

  “No,” Octavia said, her golden eyes sparkling. With one hand she reached up and touched the braid of golden hair that hung down the left side of her face, tied up with silver thread. “I belong to you, remember? I’m yours; I’m tied to you, until the ending of the world.”

  God, if you really do care about mortals like me…if you can forgive me for one thing, forgive me for what I do now.

  She nodded. “Alright, I’ll come with you. Let’s get away from here.”

  Octavia beamed as she held out her arms. “Quickly then, climb in.”

  Miranda shook her head. “I need to get a couple of things first.”

  Octavia frowned. “What?”

  “Portia’s necklace, I can’t leave it behind,” Miranda said. It was even mostly true.

  Octavia looked troubled, but she said. “Very well, you lead the way; I’ll stay behind you in case something comes.”

  And so Miranda went on ahead, passing another dead soldier as she did so, her leg protesting the effort as she walked quickly through the corridors, her stick tapp
ing against the stones of the floor.

  If this doesn’t work, then Octavia could be badly hurt.

  But this should work. I’m fairly certain it will work.

  Swiftly, or as swiftly as Miranda could go hobbling along, she reached her room. The shutters were closed, the candles were out, and the entire place was swathed in darkness. Still, Miranda strode in-

  And the door slammed shut behind her. The lock turned with a click. There was a sliding sound as a chest moved across the floor to block the doorway.

  “Miranda!” Octavia shouted. Miranda could hear her banging on the door. “Miranda, what’s going on? Miranda!”

  Go, Miranda thought. Go, please. Go and live. Go and be happy.

  Perhaps she had done just that, perhaps she had understood Miranda’s intent, for the sound of her banging on the door, calling to Miranda trying to get in, it all appeared to disappear. No, not disappear…Miranda found that she could hear it, if she concentrated. It was just muffled, as though it was all so terribly far off now. Something happening a long way away, and of very little importance.

  Would that she was really far away, far from this, Miranda thought. I don’t want her to remember me as a burned out corpse.

  Still, at least she would not come to harm. Only Miranda would suffer for Miranda’s crimes.

  She looked around the room, and saw nothing. The darkness was absolute; she could not even make out silhouettes.

  Still…there was something in here with her; she could feel it making her spine shiver.

  I will not die a quivering wreck, sobbing for my life, Miranda thought. I will be brave, like mother.

  “Whoever you are, whatever you are,” Miranda said. “I think this game has gone on long enough, don’t you? Why don’t you come out of this darkness, and we can put an end to this.”

  For a moment there was nothing, no response, no movement, nothing. And then…a light. At first Miranda thought it was a candle being lit in the darkness, but it was too bright. A lantern then? No, brighter still…it was a fire. A flame of crimson burning atop the head of a monster.

  “Hello at last, Miranda Callistus.”

  III

  The Kindly Ones

  Miranda’s breath caught in her throat as she beheld this…thing before her. This creature of stale flesh, of peeling skin, of fire and rot combined, this leather winged demon in the shape of a woman, this…thing she knew.

  It was a strange thing, to have a monster with hair of fire and the wings of a bat bear down on you and think you than you knew them from somewhere, but Miranda felt it nonetheless. Hair that was fire, burning crimson and bright enough to illuminate the room, or at least to cast the light upon her whose hair it was. Grey-green skin, falling off in flakes, leather wings full of holes, clawed fingers and a snake coiled around her waist. Fangs jutting out of her mouth. A flaming sword in one hand, and a knotted club so old it should have crumbled to dust held in the other. And golden eyes, like Octavia’s but utterly devoid of kindness, love or gentleness. They were consumed by hatred and anger instead.

  Miranda had not seen this thing, this woman, this creature before, but she had heard of her. Memories from the dark recesses of her mind returned to her, surprising her with their continued presence, memories she thought she had forgotten, of a childhood long past when ghost stories where the most frightening thing the world could offer.

  “It’s Ellyria, isn’t it?” Miranda said softly. “I remember you, from Michael’s stories.”

  “And her hair is on fire...no her hair is fire,” Michael said. “It burns about her head like a corona. And she has a flaming sword and fangs in her mouth like a dog.” He bared his teeth, as though he himself were the dog, and growled in the direction of Felix, who shrank back before the performance.

  “Michael, stop scaring your brother,” Mother said sternly from where she sat by the fireplace, darning a tunic for one of the fishermen.

  Michael frowned. “Yes, mother. Sorry, our Felix.”

  Miranda crossed her arms. “You’re making all this up, aren’t you?”

  “No!” Michael cried, sounding affronted that she would ever suggest such a thing. “I dreamed her, and it was a true dream too, the kind that are real, like Gabriel used to get in the stories.”

  “Then what did she want, this real monster?” Miranda asked.

  Michael hesitated. “She…she said she wanted to help me be great. She said I had a lot of promise within me.”

  “Greatness can never come from wrath and fury,” Mother remarked. “And there is nothing to be proud of in a fierce temper. You must not take pride in that, Michael, but learn to bind it down with honour and duty.”

  “Yes, mother,” Michael said earnestly. “But you do believe me, don’t you?”

  Mother looked up from her sewing, affixing Michael with her soft brown eyes. “Her name is Ellyria, and she is one of the Furies, the immortal avengers who deal out justice to the wicked. And she is perilous, Michael, so if you dream of her again you must beware her, and not be tempted by anything she says.”

  Michael nodded, but uncertainly. “But she says that she wishes to-“

  “Michael,” Mother said firmly. “A gentleman would never take such help as a fury offers him. The likes of Gabriel and Jonathon would never stoop so low.”

  Michael stiffened. “Then nor will I, I swear it by God himself, where he rests beneath the ocean.”

  Mother smiled. “That’s my Firstborn. Now off to bed with all of you.”

  “Ah, yes, Michael,” Ellyria said with a theatrical sigh. “He did love me once, you know. So many nights I talked with him in his dreams, so much strength I lent to him, such black acts he committed while full of the wrath that I nurtured in him. But he has turned his back on me now, left me as forlorn as the shy maiden at the fair who must watch, alone and unattended, while he that she loves best dances the night away with bejewelled and perfumed harlots. He has a heart only for honour, now, and duty and the Empress Aegea, that little tart who steals away men’s souls and leaves them bereft and empty. But I will win him back, mark me well, for when his honour proves insufficient to the task he will return to his rage, and to me, and I will greet him then like an old friend.”

  Miranda wasn’t sure how much of that was sincere and how much was put on for her benefit, to rile her or intimidate her or to just utterly confuse her as to what was going on. If that was the aim it had more than half succeeded. “The truth is,” she said, if only to gain a little time to rebalance her thoughts. “That I never quite believed that you were real.”

  Ellyria snorted. “I am real, Miranda Callistus, as real as are your sins.”

  “My sins,” Miranda murmured. “Yes, I suppose they are rather real, aren’t they?” She hesitated. “Aren’t there supposed to be three of you?”

  Ellyria snarled. “My sisters are occupied with other sinners.”

  “Here I am, sister, my work is done,” a second fury appeared, with hair like ice sticking up in jagged shards from atop her head. Hamara. In one hand she held an icy blade, spiky and sharp, and in the other she held a round object, which she dropped roughly to the floor.

  Mezentius’ head.

  “He was brave,” Hamara said. “But foolish, to dare to stand against us.”

  “All sin shall falter before justice,” Ellyria declared, and Hamara hummed in agreement.

  “Now I am here, last of we sisters three,” the third and final fury said as she appeared, fading into view from the darkness. Tyria, this one, the Fury of Justice, with the spines of dead men sticking out of her scalp, waving though there was no wind, trembling like the branches of the trees in the middle of a storm, with piteously moaning skulls atop each one, crying out in pain at their eternal torment. Her axe was bloody, and her sharp-fanged whip snaked around her feet as though it were a living thing. “Severus has had his life.”

  Ellyria spread out her arms, and the light from her hair burned brighter than ever as she cried out, “Join with me, sist
ers! For the time has come to visit justice upon a sinner whose like has rarely been seen in the mortal world!” The three furies began to hum in unison, a mournful dirge that spoke of ancient rites and ritual bloodlettings as the three of them closed in around her.

  Miranda straightened her back. “If you want me dead then I do not dispute that I have earned it, but was it necessary to carve your way through so many men to get to me? Your powers seem to have rendered that unnecessary.”

  The furies ceased humming for a moment to laugh. “You think their deaths were for your benefit?” Ellyria said. “Fool. Each that we slew had a black mark or three upon his soul, each was our lawful prey, each had done bloody acts in wrath or envy, or simply done some sin that cried out for justice and for vengeance.”

  “Have we not the right to avenge the dead of Oretar?” Tyria asked.

  “Have we not the right to avenge a man murdered for daring to love a woman?” Hamara demanded.

  “Have we not the right to avenge the many girls that Catilina slew so he might revel in their pain?” Ellyria said.

  “Have we not the right to avenge the fallen of Eternal Pantheia, whose dead are on your head and on your conscience?” the three furies demanded of her in unison.

  “When the weak are denied justice, who shall strike down the strong but we?” Tyria cried.

  “We are the avengers of the weak, the defenders of the powerless, the scourge of the powerful and the enforcers of nature’s laws,” Hamara said.

  Ellyria declared, “We are the old gods, the truly old gods, old when the world was young, set to be a shield and scourge alike for mortal kind, to punish their transgressions and protect those who can claim no better vengeance.”

  “Oh, in the name of God, if you wish to punish me then do so, but at least spare me all of this unconvincing self-justification,” Miranda snapped. “I grew up with a brother who insisted to anyone who would listen that he was a true hero out of the old stories, the Last Firstborn of Old Corona, a gentleman of antique virtue. But I know a hero from a thug in a threadbare cloak, I know a gladiator from a peerless warrior, I know a gentleman from a selfish little boy playing pretend. And I know avengers and protectors of the helpless from a trio of sadistic monsters justifying themselves with an appeal to nature’s laws, knowing as well as I do that nature’s laws favour only the strong.”