The Sword Falls

by A. J. Smith

  “They’ll die without swinging their swords,” said Santago.

  “Find cover!” bellowed Mikael Brand, as the rogue wave bore down on the sea wall. Around him, most Sea Wolves were too stunned to respond. Many just stood, wide-eyed, and watched the wave approach. As it closed, I saw terror in their eyes. It was a final, delicious realization that they were all going to die.

  The wave reached the formidable sea wall, and when it struck, it momentarily eclipsed the hold. I expected shouting and destruction, but what I saw was beyond anything I’d imagined. The bubbling frogspawn, carried by the wave, attached itself to anything it touched, and immediately began consuming stone, wood, steel and flesh. The wave had caused some damage, but the bubbling slime was the true weapon. Men and women screamed, as their bodies were quickly dissolved. Others flailed in terror, as limbs disappeared to nothing. Not all those struck by the frogspawn died, but the single attack had neutralized hundreds of defenders. Then the base of Shatter Point began to bubble and corrode. Immense, thick stone walls, behind which the Sea Wolves had hidden for almost a hundred years, suddenly looked like paper, as the outer defences were consumed.

  Mikael Brand had half his face missing, but managed to stand, as chunks of the sea wall fell into Red Haven. I felt that he wanted to say something, but all around him, his people were breaking. Rune, the spirit-master, had disappeared to nothing when a glob of slime had struck his chest. Veronica, the red-headed duellist, had been thrown backwards by the wave, with her body smashed on the rocks below. All the Battle Brand could do, as he stood on the crumbling tower, was watch the destruction of his hold.

  “Ah, the deep-spawn,” chuckled Santago, as if he were watching children at play. “Precocious offspring of the Whips. They do so delight in being involved.”

  “I never… I never imagined such… power.” My words were hushed. “No hold of Eastron can stand against our friends.”

  “Last Port is small,” replied Santago, “and we do not want to kill a few generations of infant Sunken Men to seize every hold.”

  I smiled. “No, it’s better to bring them under my wing, and the wing of the Waking God. We must not deny him servants.”

  He laughed, and I felt a friendly hand on my shoulder. “These spawn sacrifice themselves to honour you, friend Oliver. But you will be the saviour of these lands, and you will be the Forever King.”

  Elated, and eager to continue my new journey, I turned back to Last Port. More waves had struck, and more ravenous deep-spawn had feasted. Half the hold was now a steaming shell of stone. The spawn consumed so quickly that a low, misty vapour was beginning to rise from the ruin. A miasma of dust, blood and water, all mixed into fine particles, and drifting over thousands of dead Sea Wolves. Perhaps tens of thousands. The entire sea wall had disappeared, as had Shatter Point, and there were no recognizable figures along the coast. Further inland, where the wave and the bubbling deep-spawn had not reached, I could see more scurrying ants, as any Sea Wolf lucky enough to still be alive ran from their hold. There was no order, no coordination, there was just fear and panic… It was beautiful.

  “And so falls Last Port,” stated Santago Cyclone, like he was reading the final sentence of a story meant for children.

  27

  When I returned to the night-road, Quinn and Silver Jack were exactly where I’d left them, as if no time had passed. Santago couldn’t come back with me, and our friendship would have to remain secret for now… at least until I was face to face with the Dawn Claw. It was the heart of the Winterlords and would be my offering to the Waking God.

  “Eagle Prince,” said the horizon-walker. “Don’t wander too far.”

  “Please tell me we don’t have to jump off again,” sneered Silver Jack.

  “Not this time,” replied Quinn. “This time we walk off.”

  I moved back to join them, glancing off the night-road as I did so. “I see nothing beneath us,” I said. “Just more void. How far from the ground are we?”

  A subtle curl appeared at the corner of Quinn’s lip. “There is no ground beneath us. We’re off the edge of the map. The void we see beyond the glass starts as a reflection of our own world, the realm of form.… where everything appears flat. Spirit-masters have long taught that we live on a globe, but the void doesn’t work like that. We have travelled beyond the influence of the Eastron.”

  This news painted a face of annoyed amazement on Silver Jack, but I found it rather pleasing. As a normal Eastron, the concept would have frightened me, but as the Forever King, with the Waking God as my ally, I knew I had nothing to fear… not even the distant void.

  Silence stretched for a few moments, with Jack trying to frame his internal monologue into a recognizable question, and Quinn looking off into the void sky. I just waited, enjoying the sense of absolute certainty that I now felt. After a wait of ten minutes or more, the horizon-walker stamped his foot on the edge of the night-road, making Silver Jack jump to his feet in alarm.

  “Steady yourselves,” said Quinn, “it’s close.”

  “What’s close?” snapped Jack, clearly at the end of his wits.

  As if in answer to his question, the night-road began to shake, and a sudden wind whistled around us from no single direction. The shaking was gentle at first, then the chitinous ground beneath us started to vibrate, and the wind started to howl. All three of us braced ourselves, as a glaring, silver light appeared from every angle at once. A potent layer of wyrd flowed over each of us, as spiritual power flooded the area, like an expanding bubble. My mind was flooded with inherited feelings of pride, nobility and honour, instantly taking me back to my education at First Port.

  “Stand at the edge,” instructed Quinn, needing to shout to be heard. “Walk when I say.”

  “Fuck off,” mouthed Jack, before doing exactly what he was told.

  A deep sound then resonated around us, as if an enormous bird was cawing. The horizon-walker had called it a golden roost, and a pocket realm, but it resembled an immense globe, gliding through the void sky. Its surface was translucent, and within were the tangled branches of huge trees, like gnarled hands grasping the outer layer of the globe. Other shapes and textures danced within, with everything a shining silver, or a warm gold. It was the realm of the Dawn Claw, totem spirit of the Winterlords.

  The wind dropped, as if we’d reached the eye of the storm, and the immense globe passed in front of us. Up close, there were many platforms and protrusions, jutting from the sphere, and formed from branches and earth.

  “Walk!” said Quinn, taking a large stride from the night-road.

  Jack and I followed, and the transition was remarkably smooth. As soon as my foot touched the bark of a twisted tree trunk, everything was calm. It didn’t feel like the realm of form, but the oppressive atmosphere of the distant void was gone. Within a few steps, we were walking on soft grass, with immense trees framing our entrance.

  “We’ve been here before,” said Jack, clearly fighting the urge to shout his annoyance. “At the Silver Dawn. How can it be the same place?”

  Quinn threw back his head and took a deep breath of clean air. His hawk face relaxed, and his intense concentration fell away. His expression reminded me how important I was to this Dark Brethren Outrider Knight. He’d fulfilled a duty he’d had almost his entire life, though he wore his obligations well.

  “Are we pleased with ourselves?” I asked him.

  He laughed, the first such expression of emotion I’d seen from him. “Yes, yes we are,” he replied. “What we just did was incredibly dangerous. In all honesty, I’m surprised we made it all the way here.”

  “You could have fucking told us that,” grumbled Silver Jack.

  “Would it have helped?”

  My guardian let the matter drop and strolled away, across warm, green grass. He was in a huff, not least because he didn’t understand where he was or what he was doing. He wanted to direct his displeasure at me, but knew that I would not accept such insubordination. I wouldn’t p
unish him, but I’d certainly leave him in no doubt as to who was in charge of his fate.

  “Let us walk,” I commanded. “I am eager to see the Lord of the Quarter.”

  With a lush, spectral landscape around me, I strode into the roost. At first there were no birds, but once we’d penetrated a few layers of the enormous globe, it appeared that every one of a thousand branches was covered with birds of prey. All manner of hawks, falcons, kites and eagles, looked down on me. Jack was right, we had been here before, but everything was different now. The spirits no longer looked at me with reverence. Now they looked at me with fear, as if they could sense that my loyalties had changed. My devotion had always been to the Dawn Claw – now it was to the Waking God.

  Ahead of us, appearing to be the centre of the roost, was a huge tree of tangled branches and mottled leaves. It was as I remembered it, though now appeared to be in the midst of autumn, with leaves scattered around the trunk.

  I strode past Quinn and Jack, and stood, looking up at the Dawn Claw’s perch. The powerful spirit remained aloft, with its gold and silver feathers, and ageless eyes of deep bronze. Its wings were gathered and it looked smaller than I remembered, but there was no mistaking the aura of potency that surrounded it. Unlike before, the immense spirit did not glide down to meet me.

  Then I heard Quinn gasp. I spun around, and saw an arm wrapped around the horizon-walker’s neck. Then a broad-bladed knife appeared and was held under his chin. It was my friend, Santago Cyclone. He wore his thick, black overcoat, and had approached in silence.

  “How the fuck did you get here?” demanded Quinn, recognizing the Dark Brethren elder.

  “Shh,” replied Santago, “I followed a friend.” He smiled at me, before slowly drawing his knife across Quinn’s neck, cutting deeply into his flesh, and causing a sudden waterfall of blood to flow down the man’s chest. “You are no longer needed, Outrider Knight. I hope you were humble and knew of your sins.”

  The horizon-walker didn’t die easily. He spluttered and flailed, trying to reach his blade with one hand and grasp his neck with the other, but no amount of struggling would save his life. He couldn’t free himself from Santago’s choke-hold, let alone stop the flow of blood. As life disappeared from his eyes and he was allowed to drop to the grass, a thousand birds flew from their perches, as if alarmed by a sudden noise.

  Silver Jack was startled, but managed to draw his sword and advance on Santago, whilst trying not to look at Quinn’s body. “You’re the Bloodied Harp,” announced my guardian, before glancing back at me. “He’s the elder of the Open Hand. Marius’s brother.”

  “Easy, Jack,” I said, approaching the short Winterlord. “There is no fight here.”

  He looked around, seeing a dense flock of birds, circling overhead, and the imperious Dawn Claw, regarding the scene from the top of his roost. He then stared at me, with unsaid words mingling on his lips. After a moment, he dropped his sword, hung his head, and fell to his knees. My guardian had exhausted his resolve, and was likely wondering whether or not he was going insane. He began muttering something to himself, over and over again, though I couldn’t hear specific words until Santago and I met next to him. He was saying I made a vow, and the words were repeated like a mantra.

  “You want to spare this man?” asked Santago, sheathing his knife within his long, black coat.

  “Yes, certainly,” I replied. “He is dear to me.”

  My friend smiled again and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. All around us the golden roost of the Dawn Claw reacted to our presence, though none of the cawing birds approached. Santago emitted a pulsing ball of greenish wyrd that seemed to repel the spirits of the pocket realm. Behind him, superimposed upon every movement, was the outline of an owl, flaring its black wings.

  “You have done well, King Oliver. You have done so, so well.” My friend started to laugh, spreading his arms and looking up at the Dawn Claw. “Look at you… golden bird. We are mightier than you. Flap your wings and caw of your nobility. Embrace your flock and teach them how superior they are, but you know the true master of this world, and you will now submit to him.”

  I marvelled at his display of power. The Night Wing was with him, pushing endless layers of wyrd through his body, but the power was rotten green, and given by the Waking God. As I’d seen behind Alexis Wind Claw at the Silver Parliament, the totem spirit of the Dark Brethren had been the first corrupted by his beautiful chaos, and was now a loyal servant. I watched, as the spiteful owl flared its wings and rose to face the Dawn Claw.

  “This is my offering,” I stated.

  “Watch, friend Oliver,” said Santago. “For such a thing may never be seen again.” His eyes were now wide, with a seeping green vapour around each of his pupils.

  The huge eagle flapped its wings, cawing manically at the owl, but seemingly unable to attack it. It pecked at the air between them, buffeted the green energy with its vast wings, but could do nothing to repel it. Encircling the huge tree, thousands more bird-spirits tried to peck at the Night Wing, but the power of the Waking God burned their wings, and turned their feathers to rot. The energy whirled in the air, throwing forth circular distortions between myself, Santago, and the owl, and causing Silver Jack to curl up in a ball, cover his ears, and scream.

  “Do we kill it?” I asked, excitedly.

  “Oh, no,” replied Santago, cackling to himself. “But we will turn it into a monster. We will use it to make the Winterlords our friends.” He wove his green wyrd into a whip, and skilfully threw it at the Dawn Claw. The tip caught the eagle’s neck and extended, snaring the spirit as if he were wrangling a horse. “Come to me, golden bird.”

  The Night Wing turned its cruel eyes to the other bird-spirits, and let forth a guttural snarl, unlike any natural sound, and the smaller birds started to die. Some went limp and fell to the grass, others twitched violently and froze in mid-air, but most were simply reduced to dust with a panicked caw. As each died, the roost lost a sliver of its golden colour. By the time the Dawn Claw had been violently dragged to ground level, the roost was more green than golden. The colour change made my heart beat faster, as if a curtain had been removed, showing me how petty these spirits truly were.

  “Look at this feeble sparrow,” sneered Santago, weaving his wyrd around the snared eagle. Its gold and silver feathers began to smoulder, as the green energy of the Waking God wrapped itself around the Lord of the Quarter. Within moments, only its ageless bronze eyes were visible.

  “Now comes pain,” I whispered, feeling thousands of positive emotions all at once.

  I forgive you, Oliver who bears my name. Your mind is weaker than I hoped, and you are now lost.… as am I… as is everything.

  “Do not dare talk to me!” I roared, directing a powerful kick at the huge eagle’s head. “You are a tiny relic of an age best forgotten. You are my father, my mother, and every Winterlord who ever thought they meant something. I mean something… not you, not them. Me!”

  Santago Cyclone took a knee next to me, and bowed. “You are the Forever King, friend Oliver. And I pledge myself to you, as adviser… and closest friend.” His smile once again resembled a black triangle, and I felt nothing but love in his words. “So, let us remind the golden pigeon who truly rules this land.”

  I felt my new wyrd rise in mighty waves, and I let it pulse from my arms. Standing over the Dawn Claw, I dismissed the layers of Santago’s whip, to reveal an immense, twitching eagle, unable to move. Slowly, so that every morsel of pain was felt, I began to pluck the spirit’s feathers. Santago joined me, and the two of us used the power of the Waking God to torture the eagle, removing every one of its silver and gold feathers. As we worked, more and more green energy was pushed into the Dawn Claw, until it was infused with rotten wyrd, and began to enjoy the pain.

  “I made a vow!” screamed Silver Jack, burying his broadsword in my back. The point emerged through my chest, and a spray of blood burst from my mouth.

  My wyrd retreated and I couldn�
��t catch my breath. The wound didn’t hurt, not in the way I would have expected. It was a fatal thrust, skewering a lung, and slicing my heart, but the sensation wasn’t pain. Everything went numb. I couldn’t feel my limbs, and my vision quickly turned black.

  James Silver Born, called Silver Jack, Winterlord duellist of First Port, had killed me.

  *

  I saw a curiously-angled corridor. No doors, carpet, or windows, just a layer of stagnant water, covering every surface. Every few steps, the gradient of the floor changed and the ceiling began to loom over me. My movements didn’t disturb the water, and my passing was utterly silent.

  I was dead. I could not have survived the wound. Silver Jack was a skilled swordsman, and he’d struck to kill. I was wearing no armour and the thrust had ripped through my chest. I was surprised I hadn’t died instantly… but then I wouldn’t have known who killed me. Jack would likely suffer a painful death, but the thought gave me no joy. He was still the only connection to my previous life that I valued and I wished I could have made him understand, though the oppressive angles of the corridor make it difficult to think on the circumstances of my death. Ahead of me was perhaps the last journey I would ever take.

  I walked forwards, through the still water. The corridor appeared endless, falling in upon itself, as an angular spiral at the far edge of my vision. I found myself tilting my head every few feet, just to properly orient myself, before straightening and starting again. I walked, with each step being a tick of the clock, until I’d walked for an hour or more. Was this death? Did every mortal experience this… an endless walk, until lost in monotony? Did not a king and the mightiest Eastron who’d ever lived deserve something more?