The Sword Falls

by A. J. Smith

  I took a knee. “My Lord of the Quarter. I am Prince Oliver and I bear your name. I pay you my respects and ask for your wisdom.”

  The huge spirit took wing and gracefully glided to the ground. Its majestic feathers ruffled in the gentle breeze, and all nearby spirits paused to marvel at its presence. It was the greatest spirit the Eastron had ever found, and the symbol of all that allowed the Winterlords to rule. It craned its neck downwards to regard me. I was tall and bulky, even for a Winterlord, but the huge eagle made me feel like a child. I would be a worm in its enormous, hooked beak, but I sensed warmth and recognition.

  The glass has broken. Soon the sword will fall. Then the sea will rise. The Old Bitch of the Sea has been vanquished. The Night Wing has been corrupted. The Kindly One is ignored. But my voice can still be heard.

  The spirit did not speak. Its thoughts vibrated into meaning and entered my head as words and emotions. I shared a glance with Silver Jack, confirming that he had also heard the words and felt the emotions. The Dawn Claw knew that the realm of form was teetering on the edge of something, and it struggled to make us understand. It wanted us to act, but its emotions felt like huge, churning clouds, with no definite form or direction. Perhaps I was just too simple to comprehend the thoughts of so mighty a spirit.

  You will be king. You must be king. Or all is lost.

  “We should leave,” said Silver Jack. “I think it’s angry.”

  “Angry?” I queried, backing away. “I’d have said it was scared. Maybe sad.”

  The Dawn Claw let us leave, but we did so only slowly, muttering to each other about what the spirit wanted us to know. It flared its wings, becoming even larger, and curling its huge talons into the shimmering grass of the void.

  “I will visit you again,” I said, by way of a farewell.

  We turned from the tree and left the presence of our totem. My time in the void was coming to an end. The glass was a thin barrier, but it held back a world of responsibility and a sea of questions I didn’t want to answer. Unfortunately, the Dawn Claw had offered no advice as to how best to deal with the Silver Parliament. And yet its cryptic words would linger.

  *

  The hold of the Silver Dawn was divided into north and south by the Great Serpent River, with two old bridges connecting the walled southern portion with the sprawling north. The older of the two bridges was here when the Eastron invaded from across the sea, and was one of the few Pure One relics left in the Silver Dawn. The native Rykalite tended to the bridge, and called it the Old Tree, treating it as if it were somehow alive. The second bridge was the larger of the two, and styled after the wings of an enormous eagle. Only Eastron were permitted to cross it, and it was the traditional route taken by ministers to and from the Silver Parliament.

  “Highness, do you not get sick of that view?” asked Silver Jack, joining me at the window. We were at the top of the Golden Keep, in a suite reserved for the Protector of First Port. It was only the second time I’d used it, and only the fourth time I’d been to the hold of the Silver Dawn.

  “It’s the only view I’ve got,” I replied. We’d been here three days, and I’d so far done nothing official. I’d ignored multiple summons and invitations, letting my adjutant, David, come up with excuses for my absence. I’d made extensive use of the phrase a prince will not be rushed. The reality was that I was waiting for my father to die, before I could claim my birthright.

  Jack peered around me, and made a grumbling sound at the procession of black robes crossing the bridge towards the parliament building. “Any silver robes?”

  I shook my head. “Just Dark Brethren. Though I saw two red robes earlier. A young girl and a tall man.”

  “Sea Wolves? The fuck are they doing here?”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Sorry, highness,” he murmured. “Inappropriate language. But the glass broke over the Severed Hand… Half the Sea Wolves are dead. Why would they be here?”

  “Not known, but it changes nothing. I asked the Sea Wolves for help… They declined, so we attend the parliament. They know the world is changing; perhaps there is still wisdom around the First Stone. I’m not king yet, but I intend to act as if I am.”

  From the suite, an armoured young man approached, interrupting my thought. As soon as Jack and I had returned, he’d immediately begun the process of encasing himself in heavy, plate steel. It had taken a little time, even with his squire assisting, but David Falcon’s Fang now felt properly attired to greet me. “Highness, I await instruction,” said the young duellist. “Many people wish to address you. Some wish to petition you. And a few desire to beg you. You even have an overture of peace from Lord Marius Cyclone of the Dark Brethren. He requests a private audience. Word is, he’s ordered the Dark Harbour evacuated.”

  I took a deep breath and turned from the window, attempting to smile at David. “A prince will not be rushed,” I replied. “He can wait. Like everyone else. How many sessions of parliament have I missed?”

  He straightened, appearing slightly proud that I’d spoken to him. I’d spoken to him thousands of times since we first met, and he straightened a little each time. It had stopped irritating me a few months ago.

  “Seven, your highness,” he replied. “Three of them officially requested your presence. And still no word from Minister Elizabeth regarding your petition. Things are… tense.”

  “Highness, are you listening?” snapped Silver Jack. “Because you don’t look like you’re listening. You look like you want us both to fuck off and leave you alone.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “The Stranger is evacuating the Dark Harbour, and wants to talk. Seven sessions of parliament. Nothing from Elizabeth Defiant. Things are tense. Any word of my father?”

  David hung his head. “The last ship from First Port brought nothing new. The Always King has not emerged from his sick bed. The Lady Natasha, your royal mother, remains at his side.”

  My two attendants carried on speaking, but I phased out their chatter and returned to the window. There were so many people below. They had families and lives, and expectations of a simple life. Or perhaps a prince naturally condescends, and they were each an island of complex emotions and untapped potential. Either way, there were a lot of them, and every single one knew my name.

  Five hundred thousand Eastron and Pure Ones lived at the Silver Dawn. There were more Dark Brethren than Winterlords, and more Pure Ones than either. The native Rykalite and Ysalite lived without wyrd, and were vassals, servants and labourers, fulfilling any role the Eastron dismissed, and the hold could never function without them. Their homes were packed together in the Low Eclipse, but their service and labour stretched to every corner of the hold. I wondered if each of them knew my name. Or was I just another pompous Invader, expecting them to bow and avert their eyes?

  “My armour,” I said, interrupting Jack and David. “I should probably look the part if we’re going to the parliament.”

  Silver Jack screwed up his face. “I didn’t think you wanted to be the centre of attention,” he said. “And you’re still being followed, so security is still a problem. And I thought we agreed that we needed more duellists if you were going to be seen in public, and—”

  “—and a hundred other things,” I interrupted. “David, will Minister Elizabeth be in attendance?”

  He nodded. “She’s one of the five envoys, they always sit before the main session begins.”

  “She’s not answering my subtle messages, so I’ll be less subtle. I need to talk to her or we may find ourselves fighting a civil war.” I sized up David and Silver Jack. Both were skilled swordsmen, though David was far larger and significantly younger. “I’m sure you two will be adequate security.”

  They looked at each other. One was wiry, with a twitchy flicker in his eyes. The other was tall and muscular, with the look of man who would not accept defeat.

  “Personally, highness,” began David. “I don’t believe you need an abundance of security. But if you kill a
dozen Dark Brethren on your way to the parliament, we may struggle with future diplomacy.”

  Silver Jack let forth a controlled chuckle. “Has time amongst the Sea Wolves improved your humour, Master Falcon’s Fang?”

  “Possibly,” replied David, with no hint of a smile.

  “The point is taken,” I conceded. “But waiting here for my father to die, or a Brethren assassin to find a way to attack me, is becoming tiresome. I am to be king, and I’ve waited long enough.”

  “Very well, highness,” replied David, with a bow. “Something else I learned from the Sea Wolves – sometimes it is wise to rush in.”

  “No,” snapped Silver Jack. “An aphorism won’t save your head when you’re answering for the death of the prince.”

  David’s lip curled and he made a sharp about turn, facing the older duellist. “You are his anointed guardian, I am merely his adjutant. But on this matter, the prince is correct. He will be king… and we have waited long enough.”

  *

  I was six foot, nine inches tall, with wide shoulders and thick limbs. My armour was specially made to hug every muscle and accentuate my frame, while providing ample protection and complete freedom of movement. The steel was toned in shades of silver and gold, with the grasping talon of the Dawn Claw inlaid in the breastplate. I’d worn the ornate helmet once, many years before, and subsequently discarded it, somewhere in the Eagle House. I preferred to keep my vision open, and endured the fact that my face was visible. I had green eyes, unusual for a Winterlord, and a thin mouth that looked strange when smiling. I kept my dark-brown hair short and my beard shaved close, with no particular effort paid to grooming. I was thirty-two years old and the only surviving child of the Always King, Christophe Dawn Claw, called the Shining Sword.

  But none of that made a difference when we exited the Golden Keep and were faced with half a dozen men in black leather armour, wielding straight swords. They were Dark Brethren, though not void legionnaires or Outrider Knights. Their swagger marked them as cutthroats or mercenaries. Men who didn’t care for the armour I wore or the name I was born with. I was probably just a bag of gold to them. Maybe a reason to brag to their fellows at the Open Hand or the Dark Harbour. In the three days I’d been here, I’d had to kill several such groups, every time I left the Golden Keep.

  “Do you know who you’re threatening?” demanded David, striding down the wide staircase and onto the street of the Silver Dawn.

  One of the mercenaries spat on the floor and hefted himself from the cart he’d been reclining in. “I know one thing,” he replied. “You’re fucking idiots for leaving that building.” He straightened himself on the cobbled street and ran a finger down the blade of his straight sword. “In there you’re something special. Out here, you’re a walking fortune.”

  The road outside the Golden Keep was wide, though the old building was on the coast and somewhat removed from the tightly packed streets of the hold. There were no easily accessible back streets, where reinforcements or additional enemies could hide. I looked across the faces of the Brethren. They were all armed and armoured, glaring at me as if I were a juicy steak. It was likely they believed they were enough to kill me.

  “Just the six of you?” I queried. “You can run away if you wish.”

  “Please,” offered Silver Jack. “Run away. You might cause a diplomatic incident.”

  Our confidence startled the Brethren, but they reacted by assembling into a line and approaching the base of the stairs. They let jagged wyrd flow into their limbs, like a shirt of subtle, blue lightning. It was the gift of every Eastron, from the lowliest mercenary to the mightiest king. It set us apart from the native Pure Ones, but these Dark Brethren had little spiritual power. Unless something truly strange happened, they were about to die. Perhaps one or two would be maimed, lucky enough to receive a glancing blow and remove themselves from the fray. But the future was not bright for any of them. I felt a sadness, the same numb regret I felt before every fight.

  I grasped the scabbard of my broadsword and drew the blade. It was called Zephyr and had been with me since I was thirteen. The blade was pattern-welded, with a faint greenish tinge along the fuller, and a wasting of the blade that made it resemble a long leaf.

  I shrugged my shoulders, sending a subtle shirt of wyrd over my torso. These Dark Brethren were worth nothing more than a moderate use of power. Though David Falcon’s Fang appeared to disagree. The young duellist flared outwards, sending wyrd to each extremity and letting our assailants know that the time for talking was over.

  “I’ll just stand here,” said Silver Jack, grumbling to himself.

  David and I advanced, stepping away from each other and separating the Brethren into two groups of three. My group included the leader. He held his straight sword loosely, like a skilled swordsman. It would be easier if I killed him first, but I decided not to, hoping he’d tell me who else I’d have to kill on my way to the Silver Parliament.

  “You live. For now,” I said to the leader, before casually driving Zephyr into the chest of one of his men. I flung the body from my blade and kicked away a feeble thrust from the third man.

  David engaged to my left, and the grating chant of steel-on-steel filled the air. The few onlookers fled, not wanting to have to explain what they saw, or perhaps just out of fear. Two raging Winterlords, killing Dark Brethren, could conjure all sorts of nightmares for simple folk. But they didn’t have to endure the spectacle for long.

  I swatted away their wild attacks, realizing that any skill they possessed was based on brutality, rather than intelligence. The leader knew how to swing his straight sword, but he simply couldn’t match my strength. The other man died quickly, his chest opened with a casual riposte. The leader could tell he was outmatched, but was knocked unconscious, with a punch to the face, before he could run.

  “David, stop trying to prove something,” barked Silver Jack, drawing his blade and advancing to assist the young duellist. He’d killed one of the Brethren, and wounded a second, but was pushed back by frenzied sword swings. Three against one was a tall order for a duellist of his inexperience, but he’d shown great skill nonetheless, despite using too much wyrd. Once the other Winterlord joined him, the Dark Brethren mercenaries were cut down in seconds.

  “Diplomacy?” queried Silver Jack, looking at me with a raised eyebrow, as he wiped blood from his longsword.

  “An ambush,” snapped David. “We had to defend the prince.”

  “Up an eagle’s arse,” swore Jack. “Every Brethren we kill makes a war more likely.” He was flustered and couldn’t hide his irritation. He looked down at the five dead Dark Brethren and rubbed his eyes. “We have few friends here. The Cyclone brothers control the Silver Dawn. When the Always King dies, there will be no coronation, my prince… there will be a civil war. They’ll seize control. Why the fuck don’t we just go home and prepare?”

  David and I locked eyes. I saw doubt on the young man’s face, but also deference, as if he’d follow my commands, no matter where they led. “Because I must be king, Jack. I’ve said all I plan to say on the matter,” I replied. “I want to speak to Elizabeth Defiant… I trust she is still my friend?”

  Silver Jack averted his eyes and chewed on his lip. “Yes, highness. I forgot myself for a moment.” He deliberately didn’t apologize, and I knew he’d forget himself again, probably within the hour. He knew my sense of duty would never allow me to leave before my father was dead and I’d fulfilled my duty as heir.

  “Perhaps we should cross the river by the Old Tree,” said David. “There will be fewer eyes to report our approach.”

  I kicked the mercenary leader, waking him up. “Listen to me, idiot. Anyone else waiting for us?”

  The man rubbed his face and sat up. “Fuck,” he grunted, “I’m still alive.” He turned his eyes to look at me, his swarthy skin creasing into an expression of fear. “I’ve no honour… no pride, no loyalty. Let me live and I’ll fucking sing.”

  “Name yourse
lf,” I demanded, standing over him.

  “Jago Eclipse,” he replied. “I kill people for money, but I don’t die for it.” He scanned the five dead bodies, sprawled across the street. “Three of them have children. One of them has five. Just simple folk, trying to earn a coin. They leave many hungry mouths, your highness.”

  Silver Jack kicked him, dismissively. “Answer the fucking question. Every cunt that died was given a chance to run. And every cunt that died chose to fight. Any hungry mouths are of their own making.”

  “This is Prince Oliver Dawn Claw,” offered David. “He will be your king.”

  Jago smiled at me, revealing several missing teeth. “I fling myself upon your mercy… my prince.” He spread his arms wide. “I don’t know much about you Winterlords.”

  “Is anyone else waiting for us?” I repeated, ignoring the Dark Brethren’s slimy overtures.

  “Yeah,” replied Jago. “There are loads of people waiting for you. Lord Trego Cyclone or Yanos Wolf Bane will both make a man rich, if a man can wet his blade with your blood. It’s an open offer… since long before you actually came here. There are greasy men at every street corner. And the tenth void legion are skulking around the parliament building.” He spoke to me like my question had been idiotic. “If you’re dead, you can’t be king.”

  “David, restrain this man,” I ordered. “He’s coming with us. And will provide a safe route to the Silver Parliament.”

  The Dark Brethren stood in anticipation, but was wrestled back to the ground by the young duellist, with his arm wrenched behind his back and a knee against his throat. It was a little unnecessary, but served to remind Jago who was in charge.

  2

  The last time I saw my father was two days before I left First Port. The hold was the oldest in the Kingdom of the Four Claws, with the white-brick of the Eagle House rising above every building, casting the eye of the Always King across each warrior, labourer, merchant, fisherman and child. Unlike other holds, First Port had few native Pure Ones, and relied on the wyrd of Eastron to fulfil most functions. Each man and women took pride in their constant improvements, repairs and modifications, using their skill to honour the Eastron from across the sea and the Always King. As such, the great hold of the Winterlords was unmatched for its beauty and spectacle.