Legacy of Steel

by Matthew Ward

  “Hammers!” Aeldran bellowed. “Break them apart!”

  Golden magic crackled through the rain as his words found purchase. Bronze turned cold and lifeless as its animating magic fled.

  Aeldran sought Naradna among the gorse. He found his prize at the heart of a shrinking ring of scarlet and gold. A leaping simarka bowled an Immortal into the thorns, then bounded away to make another pass.

  Distracted, Aeldran barely glimpsed the pouncing simarka. A desperate jerk of his arm, and his shield took the brunt. His steed screamed and plunged sideways. Thrown from the saddle, Aeldran rolled and landed heavily on hands and knees. His panicked horse scrabbled desperately away. The simarka slewed in the mud.

  Aeldran scrambled to his feet. The simarka circled about, frozen sneer mocking the uselessness of Aeldran’s sword.

  One step. Two. The simarka gathered to the pounce. Aeldran cast aside his mangled shield, and breathed wordless prayer to Ashana.

  A pale shape in torn robes slipped between them. Sera’s right hand clutched her bloodied side, pierced by an arrow’s splintered remnant. Her left extended towards the simarka, fingers splayed.

  At once, the beast’s purpose fled. Pounce dissolved into a puzzled crouch, and then a lazy sprawl suited more to a cat at the fireside. Sera held her pose a moment longer, then her legs buckled.

  Aeldran caught her, too late remembering the gruesome fate promised to a man who laid hands on a lunassera. “My thanks, Ashanal.”

  “The princessa,” she breathed. “She needs…”

  Eyes fluttered closed behind the silver mask. Lips stuttered uneven breaths.

  Aeldran stared west through the downpour, where outriders and Immortals set to watch over Melanna Saranal lay dead in the roadway. Setting down the unconscious handmaiden, he ran for his horse.

  The silver dagger punched twice between Rosa’s ribs before she staggered away. Liquid fire raged beneath her skin, the metal’s kiss poison to eternal flesh.

  She twisted from a third lunge and yanked at Melanna’s wrist, dragging her around. She kicked the princessa’s legs away. Fingers hissed and blackened as she twisted the dagger free. A flick of the wrist, and it was gone over the bridge’s low parapet and into the seething stream.

  “It’s over. Yield.”

  Melanna laughed, blood bubbling on her lips. “The Goddess warned me that saving you would be the death of my dreams. I’ll not beg. Do as you must.”

  Rosa bit back disgust. She’d nothing in common with the shadowthorn, and yet had received the answer she herself would have given. As for the business at Tevar Flood… Did she owe the princessa her life, or for the bleak blessing of an eternal existence? Did it even matter? She hadn’t sought this war. Alive, the princessa was the most valuable of hostages. Dead, she was no longer a threat – no longer a symbol.

  Dead would suffice.

  “Icansae Brigantim! Icansae y Saranal!”

  Warned by the bellowed words and the thunder of hooves, Rosa spun around. The glittering blow meant for her head hacked into her shoulder. Teeth gritted against the pain, she back-cut at the rider. The horse reared, and the blow fell wide. The rider dropped down to shield the battered princessa, sword levelled and steady.

  “Icansae y Saranal. You will not have her.”

  Rosa grabbed at the parapet. The pain in her shoulder was already a warm scrape as her collarbone reknitted. However impressive the shadowthorn’s armour and haloed helm, he wasn’t her match. Not alone. Not without silver, and the silver was gone. But as the rain quickened to fresh hoofbeats and gold gleamed against the grey, Rosa realised he wouldn’t be alone for long. The gambit had failed.

  “Another time, shadowthorn.”

  Clasping hand to chest in a salute less sardonic than intended, Rosa turned her back and set out across the bridge.

  Thaldvar sent his last arrow winging towards shieldsmen still floundering on the slope. “She’s falling back!”

  Shielding her eyes from the rain, Sevaka peered at the bridge. Even as Rosa hauled herself onto the horse tethered on the western bank, a press of golden armour spilled onto the bridge.

  “Maldrath! Now!” Nothing happened. Sevaka cast about for the proctor. “Maldrath!”

  “Hush, child,” he said testily. “Lumestra rewards the patient.”

  She scrambled across the scree and seized a double handful of the proctor’s sodden jerkin. “Want me to move you closer to her?”

  Far below, two kraikons broached the surface of the stream. Standing waist-deep among the rushing waters, they braced palms beneath the stone span and heaved.

  Immortals spilled over the parapet as stone tore loose, joined in the stream’s chill embrace by the arches of the disintegrating roadway. Pausing only to cast the remnants of the bridge into the massing shadowthorns, the kraikons clambered up the bank and lumbered away after Rosa’s retreating steed.

  “That’s that, then,” said Thaldvar.

  “It is,” Sevaka replied. “My apologies, Maldrath.”

  The proctor steepled his fingers and contrived a look of wounded pride.

  Sevaka peered down the slope. The shadowthorns had barely made it halfway. “Tell Lieutenant Gavrida to start the retreat. We’ll follow, with the simarka bringing up the rear.”

  Thaldvar nodded and moved away. Maldrath hesitated, then he too withdrew. After all, the plan had been Lady Roslava Orova’s, not an upstart Psanneque’s, and therefore not to be quibbled.

  And it had been a good plan, even if it hadn’t quite achieved the princessa’s capture. A hundred blades and two dozen simarka had bloodied a column ten times their size for little loss in return, and had thinned the pale-witches to almost nothing. Yes, a good plan, and the first real victory since Ahrad’s fall. Tomorrow would need another, but tomorrow would wait.

  Twenty-Eight

  [[And where are you going this fine morning?]]

  Anastacia’s voice radiated innocence; her posture and poise contentment at being out in the sunshine. Strange to see. So far as Kurkas knew neither winter’s bite nor summer’s kiss offered up sensation to her porcelain skin, but for all that she was the very image of a cat basking in heavenly warmth. Elegance to match Stonecrest’s slender, stone-clad façade. Modest by highblood standards, the three-storey mansion’s splendour stood stark contrast to the brooding walls of Swanholt, the Akadra residence where Kurkas had served so long.

  He halted at Stonecrest’s modest gate and gave her the very oldest of old-fashioned looks.

  “You know full well where I’m going, plant pot.”

  [[Don’t be dull, Vladama. It doesn’t suit you.]] The swirling black eyes shifted to Kurkas’ left. [[You’ve better manners than your captain, haven’t you?]]

  Altiris – newly arrayed in a phoenix tabard rather more presentable than Kurkas’ own – stiffened.

  “Leave the boy alone.”

  [[Vladama, please. You make me sound like a monster.]] Dark skirts drifted across new-fallen Fade leaves. [[How are you, Altiris? I’ve scarcely seen you since your little misadventure.]]

  He shot Kurkas a confirmatory glance, having been warned against speaking out of turn about his recovery. Receiving it, he offered a stiff bow. “I’m well, lady. Bruised and sore, but better than I’ve any right to be.”

  A musical laugh. [[I’m not a lady. I’m Anastacia – Ana to those I like. Not “lady”, not “plant pot”. Ana.]] She took his hand in one of hers, and patted it with the other. Dark eyes dwelled on his as if he were the only thing in the world worthy of note. [[Now, tell me where you’re going.]]

  “Lady, I…”

  Altiris’ throat bobbed, the lad caught between the deference owed a noblewoman, and Lord Trelan’s instruction – since reinforced by Kurkas himself – that Anastacia not become involved. And then there was the crafted intimacy of touch, of the personal name. Even the perfectly balanced perfumes of lavender and jasmine – another oddity of the morning, given she was as numb to scent as to sensation. All mustered to an eros
ion of resolve and a temptation to indiscretion. Just because Kurkas considered himself immune to such wiles didn’t render him blind to them.

  Kurkas scratched his head and stared through the railings to where Brass and Kelver stood sentry in the street – the much too empty street. He’d known livelier curfews. Saving a period of panic the day the Council had issued proclamation of war, the city had been holding its breath. Oh, there’d been the expected departure of certain wealthy citizens to Selann and the Outer Isles – even a few to ocean-flung colonies further west – soon followed by regiments and knightly brotherhoods marching east to match the shadowthorns. Most folk were staying close to home, hoping not to be noticed. The taverns were full of gossip claiming the Council would soon order conscription. That was a bad sign, if true. Conscription belonged to the monarchy of old.

  But the frontier wasn’t Kurkas’ burden until it touched on Stonecrest’s bounds. Vranakin mischief? That was the business of the afternoon, not the morning.

  He turned his attention back to Brass and Kelver. The slight twitch of Brass’ shoulders spoke to scarcely contained mirth. Kurkas sighed, frustrated not just by Brass’ amusement, but Anastacia’s insistence on her games. It wasn’t enough for her to know. She had to make a point of being told – of making someone break their promise. Better him than Altiris.

  “We’re bound for Abbeyfields,” he said at last. “I’m tutoring Lord Reveque’s kids in the art of the sword.”

  Anastacia let Altiris’ hand fall, the boy forgotten. [[There. That wasn’t so hard. The art of the sword? Such a poetic name for braining someone with a lump of metal.]]

  He shrugged. “Universal language, violence. Can’t hurt to speak it fluently.”

  [[And Altiris, I suppose, is also a tutor?]]

  “He’s teaching me too, lady.” The lad’s face flushed. “I’m of an age and height with Sidara… I mean the Lady Reveque… so we spar together.”

  [[It all sounds delightful. I think I’ll come along. I might have insights our gallant captain does not.]]

  There it was. Never a question, of course, nor a suggestion. A statement of intent.

  “Ain’t sure that’s a good idea,” said Kurkas.

  [[Gainsaying the lady of the house, captain?]]

  Altiris frowned. “You said you weren’t a lady.”

  Her posture shifted from friendliness to something distinctly other.

  Kurkas cleared his throat. “Altiris, you go on ahead. I’d like to speak with Lady Plant Pot.”

  The lad nodded, brushed a stand of wayward red hair out of his eyes and made for the gate. Anastacia a sour presence at his shoulder, Kurkas strode a dozen paces in the opposite direction, away from Brass’ prying ears, and sank against a gnarled oak.

  Anastacia folded her arms. [[Forgetting your place, Vladama?]]

  “Don’t torment the lad. It’s beneath you.”

  [[You give lessons in dignity, as well as murder?]]

  “All part of the service.” He grimaced away a flash of temper. “You’re not welcome up at Abbeyfields. I ain’t saying it’s right, but that’s the way it is. You insist otherwise, it’ll be trouble.”

  [[Afraid you’ll lose out on a lucrative tutorship?]]

  “Lord Trelan doesn’t need you making matters worse while he’s gone. Raven’s Eyes, but Lady Reveque barely let me and the lad onto the grounds that first day, and watched us like a hawk every moment we were there. She barely trusts us now.”

  Anastacia folded her arms. [[You are forgetting your place.]]

  “And what is my place? You won’t retain a steward, and make no attempt to run the household, so who ends up dealing with all that? Me, that’s who. Should be that with his lordship gone, you’d take on his duties at council and all the rest, but you’re not doing that either. You reckon I’m forgetting my place? You’ve never shown the slightest interest in learning what yours is.”

  He already regretted having spoken so freely. Not because it was an appalling breach of protocol – which it was – but because Anastacia’s cold, rigid stare made it impossible to forget the violence of which she was capable.

  “Look, I shouldn’t have—”

  [[You must think me very selfish. And I am.]] To his surprise, he heard no anger, only contrition. [[This city. This world. This tangle of ephemeral threads. You were born to it. I was made for something very different. What I was and what I am… reconciling them would drive me to tears of frustration, had I any longer that luxury. But I am trying.]]

  Kurkas’ mood softened. “Aggravating Lady Reveque ain’t a good place to start.”

  [[Not long ago, you told me to seek a friend. Now you’d have it otherwise? You’d have me – who can help Sidara understand what she is – do nothing?]]

  “The proctors can teach her.”

  [[Proctors.]] She waved the objection aside. [[Why are you tutoring her, Vladama?]]

  He frowned. “Because I was asked… And because the way things are going around here, she’ll end up with a sword in her hand sooner or later. Better she knows how to wield it.”

  Anastacia tilted her head in victory. Sidara, of all people, had more weapons at her disposal than mere steel.

  “I hate you.”

  [[Of course you don’t, Vladama. Dregmeet scum or not, you’re my friend. But you can’t be right all the time.]]

  Funny thing was, she sounded like she meant it. But he’d known her too long not to recognise misdirection. “And that’s really all it is? You’ve no other stake than being ‘helpful’?”

  She straightened. [[Are you testing me, Vladama?]]

  “Are you going to answer the question?”

  She started towards the house, but after three paces checked her stride. [[This body – this shell Viktor Akadra entombed me within – it holds me distant from the world. From sensation. Even from myself in ways I can’t wholly explain. I am smothered in gloom, numbed by it. When I touched Sidara, light broke through the clouds. For the first time in a year – no, for the first time since my mother sent me plummeting from Astarria – I felt like more than an echo of myself. If there’s a chance she can help me regain that?]] She hung her head. [[I told you I was selfish, Vladama. Would you do different to restore your arm? Your eye? My loss outshines yours a hundredfold.]]

  “Of course it does,” he replied sourly. “Did you tell Lord Trelan?”

  [[We didn’t part on the best of terms.]]

  That much Kurkas had already known. She could be lying, of course. But after a year as a phoenix, Kurkas reckoned he’d an ear for when Anastacia spoke the truth, and when she did not. When she gave away pieces of herself, as she had just then, it was truth more often than it wasn’t. And she was right about Sidara.

  “I can’t sneak you into Abbeyfields,” he said at last. “You’ll have to climb the fence and meet us at the riverside. And if Lady Reveque discovers you—”

  [[She won’t. You said it yourself: she trusts you now. She’ll not be watching closely.]]

  The last puzzle-piece fell into place. Whimsy hadn’t brought her to the gate that morning, but a balance of impatience and calculation. Long enough for Lady Reveque’s lingering suspicions to subside.

  “So you’re using me, after all?”

  [[This is Tressia, Vladama. We all use each other. That doesn’t mean we’re not friends.]]

  He shook his head, the last anger fading into hurt. “You still don’t get it, do you? Until you start putting others first, you don’t have any friends.”

  Singlesticks met with a sharp crack. Scarcely had the practice swords parted when Altiris lunged to fresh attack, polished ash darting a low-low-high flurry so perfectly executed that it coaxed Kurkas to a smile.

  Sidara retreated along the forested riverbank, her movements stiff, the lack of confidence testament to a sheltered upbringing. Her first parry was clean, the second came late and the third barely connected at all.

  She yelped as Altiris’ fourth strike tore the singlestick from her hand. Before she c
ould reclaim it, he had the rounded “point” of the practice sword at her gambeson’s throat. Like the rest of her sparring gear, the padded jacket was at least a size too large, and no amount of strap-tightening could make it otherwise. Between that and her height – Altiris’ claim of parity was off by a good three inches, even without the braids coiled about her crown – she looked less the knight-in-training and more a rangy scarecrow.

  Kurkas waved Altiris away. The lad delivered an approximation of a courtly bow and retreated a dozen paces to the birch tree established as one extent of the duelling ground.

  “Better,” said Kurkas.

  Sidara, face flushed in defeat, offered a glare that was very much her mother’s. “He’s too strong.”

  “So be faster. You’re fighting yourself. Your arm knows what’s needed, but you do insist on thinking it through.”

  The scowl slid into thoughtfulness. She’d taken losing hard from the first, but her bitter moods never lasted. Kurkas had learned to neither chivvy nor indulge, but to simply offer counsel.

  She stepped back. “Yes, captain.”

  Polite too. Never quite knew what you were getting with a nobleman’s whelp. Privilege warped the brain, and never so completely as with the young.

  He beckoned Altiris. “Again.”

  As the clack of singlesticks rang out anew, Kurkas withdrew deeper into the trees. “Enjoying yourself?”

  Anastacia stood beside a statue of Lumestra, so motionless she might have been its twin. [[I confess, I expected more structure.]]

  “Stances and grips? Stuff like that? We did a little, and you can see how fast she’s picked it up.” He shrugged. “As for the rest? I’m not teaching her to stand her place in a shield wall. Not sure Lady Reveque would like it if I did. She reckons her perfect daughter’s never even been in a fight with other children… even her brother.”

  [[Do you believe her?]]