The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire

by Collings, Michaelbrent

  No, she was relying on Present, as she rarely did.

  She tried another door.

  Then a sound came to her. At first she tried to ignore it, but it whittled its way into the crevices of her mind. Then the whittling became a scything slash – a cut that was deep, and painful, and at the same time the sweetest thing she had ever felt. It was a song – and more than a song, it was Song itself.

  She turned, and saw the Singer. Saw the woman beyond the thin man.

  (don't)

  The tiny part of her that screamed not to go disappeared. She ran toward the woman. Never minding that the man of teeth and saw blades stood between them. Never minding that she ran to her death.

  Because the Song lay just beyond that death.

  And the Song was sweet.

  14

  It took a few tries for Arrow to understand Cloud's gestures. More than a few tries, actually, because Arrow kept having to pause to blast bullets out of the sky, looking away from the other man's frantic gyrations to target the missiles that were coming ever closer.

  Then he understood – he thought – and wasn't convinced he wanted to understand.

  Madness.

  Then a bullet came so close that the sound alone nearly deafened him when it exploded. He nodded.

  Cloud took up a position at his side. Pointed at one of the closest tanks, one that hung in the air close to another one.

  Arrow nodded. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. He would need everything his Gift could give.

  Cloud shot his hand into the sky.

  A bolt of lightning crashed down.

  Arrow fired.

  The lightning held. Not long, but longer than any bolt of lightning should hold. Longer than any could hold, without the power of a Cursed One behind it.

  The bullet passed through the jagging shard of light. The lightning transformed. Shifted under Cloud's Gift, joining with the bullet and creating a force of raw, Elemental power.

  The bullet hit the force shield. Exploded.

  The tank remained perfectly intact, but it slammed backward into the tank behind it. The force field protected both the vehicles' integrity, but it did not protect them from being moved by the force of a bullet that had an entire lightning bolt trapped within it. The ultimate Shell.

  For a moment it looked like the trick had gained them nothing. The tanks hung there in the air, unmarked and no longer even moving.

  Then, abruptly, they both fell from the sky. Pinwheeling like papers dropped from the fingers of bored children.

  He was right!

  The fields protected the tanks. But Cloud's idea had been to hit the tanks hard enough, not directly, but indirectly, that they moved through the sky. And if they moved hard enough the men inside them would be knocked to bits inside their own steel tombs.

  Cloud pointed at the next tank.

  Arrow nodded.

  Drew his sights onto his next target.

  The lightning flashed.

  15

  Sword was pretty sure they were in the right place.

  It was only a few buildings down from the one they had come from, but they could tell instantly that it was different. A place designed to be guarded, even within a heavily-guarded Army base.

  But now: nearly bereft of humanity. Everyone fled to the front gate.

  They encountered two guards. Smoke took the shape of an Imperial colonel again and screamed for them to "go, go, go to the front and give their Gods' blasted weapons some use!"

  Then they were in.

  They moved through a hall, but there was little question which way to go. It was a corridor that had a few doors on either side, but one at the end that was larger and far more ornate. Another guard stood before it.

  "Open that!" snarled Smoke before they had even gotten close.

  "But –"

  Brother Scieran didn't waste time talking. He cut the guard down with his sickle. Then took a key from a chain on his belt, and opened the door.

  They stepped in.

  And Sword reeled.

  The Dream.

  This was the place.

  The floor was as she remembered: white, with gold veins throughout. The white walls, sparkling with the same gold.

  And that was when she knew that, though she may have stumbled into a place out of Dream, they weren't in the right place for what they needed. Because why would she have ever been in a secret archive?

  And what was this place?

  She realized that Smoke had slumped. Brother Scieran had let go of him. Not out of callousness, but because of simple shock. Not shock at the room – he was less concerned for the place than for those within it.

  The Chancellor, the Emperor, Armor, and a small man that Sword supposed was Minister Vuko looked up as they entered. The Chancellor gestured at the men of the Imperial Guard that surrounded them. Rage clouded his bear-like features as he said, "Kill them all."

  16

  Wind had stopped looking for the backup archives. She had tried for a while, looking for a building that appeared as if it might hold secrets. But they all looked secretive to her. This entire place was a monument to the ability of humanity to exist in a state of terror. To their inability to trust one another – because, at heart, so many were not worthy of that trust.

  So she gave up.

  And rode the winds.

  The air gathered her unto itself, held her in its softest and yet strongest of hands.

  And with it, she killed.

  She used that air to throw men from walls to their deaths. She battered them against buildings, and saw their blood flow.

  Perhaps she would not find any secrets. But she would at least let these people know something of the fear she had known. Something of her terror, and the feeling of helplessness she had suffered when huddling behind a rotten log.

  Something caught Wind's eye.

  A trio of figures, deep in an alley.

  She descended from the heights, and saw:

  The man who was made of blade.

  The woman who called people to die.

  And Rune… Rune was running toward them. Clearly without sense. Just heeding the woman's call.

  For a moment, Wind was back in her village. Watching her father burn. Running back into the house, back for family that would never emerge.

  I can save him. I can save him. This time I can save him.

  I can save Rune.

  Almost she sent shards of sharpened air toward the woman. There was no thought of doing it to Rune – not again, not after what she had done in a blind panic to her brother – but this time she could destroy the woman at the heart of this pain.

  Then she thought of something else. Something better. Something more fitting.

  Something just.

  She curled a hand in the air.

  The wind gathered.

  17

  Siren Sang.

  The girl who killed Scholar ran to her.

  Teeth held out arms that would embrace, and in their embrace would destroy the girl who had killed a son and brother and friend.

  Then something strange happened.

  Wind swirled around Siren's body. Not like anything she had ever known. It was like being at the center of a cyclone, the eye of a hurricane so small it barely captured her at its center.

  As it happened, she saw the girl slow.

  What…?

  Then she understood: her Song wasn't making it past this strange swirling wind. It was losing power.

  She Sang louder.

  The girl sped up again.

  Nearly to Teeth. His arms wide and blades vibrating with power and bloodlust.

  The turning winds grew faster.

  The girl slowed again. She actually took a step backward.

  Siren opened her mouth to its widest. She Sang louder than she had ever Sung before. Sang for Scholar, for family lost, for pain that came again and again into her life.

  And then, at the height of her Song, the winds collapsed. Th
e air rushed at her, pounded into her, and brought with it…

  … her own Song.

  The sound pummeled her ears, peeled back her skull, flayed her brain to bits. She was caught in a loop of her own Call. Screaming to herself to come, come, come, and no pleasure to be found because she was already here, already here, please Gods stop it I'm already here!

  She was vaguely aware of the girl. The girl who shimmered, then took a near-impossible leap off the side wall. Teeth reached for her, and one of his arms slid against her ribs.

  But she landed behind him.

  And planted her dagger in one of the few areas not sliding with shimmering blades: the back of his neck.

  Siren saw Teeth stiffen. Saw her last family fall.

  She began to dance… dance… dance to the sound of her own Song.

  Then the winds closed around her.

  Crushed her.

  And, at the last, she thought she might be going home. Thought perhaps she might simply be following her family to a new place. A place where Scholar – and now Teeth – would be waiting, and where they could be a family again, and never more to part.

  She died.

  And was not unhappy.

  18

  Brother Scieran moved. And never before had Sword seen him – a Knight of the Order of Chain – attack in all his rage and glory.

  It was wonderful and terrible to behold.

  He lashed out with his whip, yanking a Guard to him, cutting the man down: three motions so fast they blurred into one. Another lash and a man's neck was broken. A flash of his sickle and a third man found himself with no hands.

  Sword could fight better. But this was an unGifted man. Someone who had earned his ability through sweat and blood. And though terrifying, there was something both pure and beautiful about his skill and his righteous wrath.

  She didn't move to join him, though. Partly because the Chancellor turned to the Emperor and whispered something to the young man –

  (Is he my brother? Can I kill my brother?)

  – and partly because one other man stepped through the melee, ignoring the battle between Knight and Guards.

  Armor faced her.

  "I am sorry, my daughter."

  "I am sorry, too, my father."

  A beat. She added: "You can join us."

  He shook his head. "Alas, I cannot."

  He clapped his hands. And ran at her.

  19

  Rune felt blood running along the front of her blouse. Different than the rain that ran across everything. This was sticky; a red sludge that mixed with the ash-rain and created something the color of death.

  He was fast. The bladed man was… so… fast.

  He had mortally wounded her the first time she ran at him. Nearly did so the second time. Maybe did do so. She couldn't tell how bad the wound really was.

  She felt as much as saw a presence beside her. Whirled. Saw it was Wind. The woman smiled at her. Pointed at her wound.

  "I'll live," she said. Though she didn't know if that was true at all.

  Don't have time to die right now, that's sure.

  There's never enough time to die, dearie. That's the tragedy of it all.

  She shoved that thought behind her. Gestured to Wind. "You have enough fire left in you to lift us both?" she said.

  Wind nodded, and a moment later they were aloft.

  20

  "I don't want to. I don't want to." Malal felt small. Small. Smaller.

  "You must. You will." The Chancellor's eyes. So strange.

  Smaller….

  Smaller….

  Nearly gone.

  21

  Armor wasn't nearly as fast as Sword. But he only had to hit her once.

  And she… she couldn't hit him at all.

  Not just because of his Gift. Because of who he was.

  He still bore a scar down his right arm. Along the place where that strange light had created a sword from nothing, if only for a moment. But that light was gone now – and she thought it possible that she would be unable to call it back.

  Not against him.

  But Armor seemed to have no qualms about attacking her. He chased her all over the room –

  (the room of my Dream why here why am I here again?)

  – and never stopped his attack for a moment. A massive hand fell toward her, and she spun away at the last second. She felt the wind of its passage, and it smashed a huge chunk of marble from the floor, powdering them both with dust.

  He came at her again.

  She dodged behind a pillar. He just rammed right through it.

  "I am Armor, girl," he said. "You'll not escape me." And, for just a moment, a moment more terrible than his rage, she saw something new in his face. Anguish. "You'll not escape," he whispered. "I can't let you escape."

  Then he ran again.

  About to hit her.

  She raised her blade. Slashed. Spun. Hacked at his neck with her dagger.

  And had two empty hands. The impact had traveled up the blades, shattered them – then even the hilts had dissolved. She had less even than she had enjoyed before, when she at least clutched the remains of a katana and the nub of a wakizashi. Her hands were numb, ringing with her weapons' impact on Armor's impervious body.

  He raised her arm to block him. Aware that without a weapon she had nothing to defend – her Gift was useless.

  He brought his fist down upon her.

  22

  Arrow felt himself lifted off the ground. Flung around, whipped back and forth. He screamed.

  "Stop! Stop it, stop it!"

  He glared at Cloud, and the hurricane that had erupted from the clouds above calmed. Cloud shrugged. The Acropolis was too far away to run to, and they thought this might get them there faster. Arrow knew Cloud had always called storms to carry him and Wind in the past – but that was with the stabilizing influence of her Gift as well. Working together they could travel quickly through the skies. Alone, she was much slower, and he – apparently he wasn't so good at causing the storm to gently move people from one place to another.

  "I guess we're on foot," said Arrow. Then laughed. "Or not."

  He began running. Turning to Cloud, who of course hadn't heard a word of what he said. He gestured.

  Come on. Quick!

  Cloud looked puzzled. Until Arrow pointed at his destination, and then the other man's expression – beaten, weathered, tired – split into the first complete and utter grin Arrow had ever seen on his face.

  23

  Vuko watched the battle between the Knight of the Order of Chain and the Imperial Guard, he watched the one-sided fight between the girl and the lieutenant. He watched the big, tattooed convict slumped dying in a corner.

  And he watched the Chancellor. Whispering to the Emperor. Watched Malal seem to crumple in on himself.

  For some reason, that worried Vuko most of all.

  But all of it was worrisome. All of it dangerous to the most important person in the room: Vuko.

  He waited until he was certain no one was looking, then began to back slowly away from them all.

  24

  The hand came down. Huge. Terrible. Unstoppable.

  And something hurtled through space. A blur that centered itself directly between Sword and Armor.

  A moment.

  A moment where time stretched.

  A moment where she saw… everything.

  Where Sword saw Brother Scieran's eyes. Serene. Looking at her as he put himself between her and Armor's strike.

  His eyes closed. He looked like he was praying.

  Then Armor's fist crashed into him. The right side of Brother Scieran's chest seemed to fold in on itself.

  The priest flew through the air. Armor looked at his fist as though unsure what he had just done.

  Sword shrieked. One father, attacked by another.

  Armor screamed his own scream – one of pain, of self-loathing, of despair. Then reared his hand again.

  She rolled. Grabbed
something without seeing it.

  Came up with Brother Scieran's whip.

  And knew how she could change the tide of this fight.

  25

  Rune was flying above the Acropolis with Wind. Watching the people who were not positioned on the remains of the west wall scurrying like ants, trying to find who they were supposed to be fighting. A few looked skyward and saw them. Loosed rifle shots that went wide.

  She was losing blood.

  Fast.

  Then she felt something squeezing her. She looked down and saw the blood – gouting from her side where the bladed man had hit her – slow and stop. She didn't understand how at first, then looked to Wind, who floated beside her. Realized: it was air. Wind had created a tight bandage of air itself, squeezing the wound, shutting it as much as could be done.

  Don't know if it'll help.

  But she smiled at Wind. Realizing as she did so that blood was coming from her mouth, as well.

  Just one more scar to go with the rest of 'em. Hold on, girl.

  They were flying through the air, looking for the place their friends might be. Not finding them.

  But something found them.

  A lone tank, wobbly but flying, bore down on them.

  Pointed its gun.

  26

  Sword remembered.

  Remembered that Armor had never been close by when Siren Sang.

  And the one time he had – he had reacted worse than anyone else. Reduced to a panicked mass of pain.

  Now her once-friend, once-ally, once-father – but no more – looked at the whip in her hand. He breathed heavily, but looked unconcerned.

  "You'll never touch me with that," he said.

  "I'm not going to try," she answered. And cracked the whip.

  Her Gift pulsed through her arm. Rushed up and out. Pushed from handle to thong to fall to silver flail at the end.