Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

The crowd in the stands jeered as another door opened on the other side of the arena from Michael. Two guards dragged a man out into the sandy circle and dumped him there upon his face, clad in a leather cuirass and vambraces. The booing of the crowd became louder as he lay there in the sand, giving no sign of movement. The guards dropped him a round shield and an army-issue sword before retreating back through the gate and locking it behind them.

The crowd yelled as the man got to his feet, picking up his weapons and standing ready and expectant for the fight. He seemed unfazed by the hostility all around him; in fact the wretch appeared to have nothing but contempt for all those baying for his demise. He also looked in good health; Michael felt it was a sign of the moral superiority of the Empire that he did not appear to have put to torture or mistreated in any way. Michael scowled as he took in that vile appearance: the heavy brow of villainy, that black hearted countenance, that heartless gaze, the bestial manner in which he bore himself. Surely he was the epitome of the Crimson Rose.

And more than that; he was the man who had killed Michael's brother.

"You will suffer a thousand deaths before I finish with you," Michael growled.

"You know him?" Mark asked.

"I could not forget his face," Michael replied. The square jaw, the icy blue eyes, the countenance black as his purposes, they had all haunted Michael's dreams for years. Now, praise be to Turo, he would at last be given opportunity for true vengeance.
You will rest easy soon, little Felix, that I promise you.

"Judas Sebastian Antaraeus ban Nathan," the Proconsul declared, and Michael spat on the tunnel floor and cursed that this accursed wretch had the same baptismal name as him. "You have been found guilty of murder, sedition and treason against your lawful sovereign His Imperial Majesty Demodocus the Second. But, as a token of the Empire's mercy in this holy time, you are now given the opportunity to win your freedom by defeating a champion of the court in single combat under the eyes of Turo and the people of this province. Do you have anything to say before you face this earthly judgement and, quite possibly, the final judgement which all Turonim must face?"

"I have nothing to say to one who has betrayed his homeland and his poeple to become a house slave of the Emperor, save only to ask by what right the Empire's dogs drag me forth in chains in the land of my birth?" Judas shouted. "I am no slave to an Emperor, but a free man of a free land. Long live Corona, and long live the Crimson Rose!"

"Insolent little-" Michael stopped, remembering that a gentleman did not curse no matter what, and contented himself with growling from the back of his throat. "Honourable combat is too good for his like. He should be hanged like the rest of them, holy day or no."

"All they want is to be free," Mark said.

"Better a life in honourable slavery than in debased freedom stained with the blood of the slaughtered innocent," Michael said. He knew that his romanticism was not widely shared, but that did not make him any less determined to cling to it come sea or storm. It was true that it was hard to hold to lofty ideals while living in a dark pit as they now sat in, smelling of sweat and blood and leather as they now were, but were not times like that when high principles were needed most? Certainly it was when Turo tried a man's virtue most sorely.

"To champion the court," the herald announced. "To defend the laws of the Empire and the lives of the faithful, to fight in the name of God and right, I give you: the Last Firstborn of Old Corona, Michael Sebastian Callistus ban Ezekiel!"

The crowd erupted in such cheering at his name that it was as though Gabriel himself had been reborn amongst them, and the cheering only redoubled when Michael strode out of the dark tunnel and into the arena itself.

The red stone walls of the amphitheatre loomed over him, and the stands of the crowd loomed higher still, packed in with men and women of every class and station. In the Royal Box, which still bore that name though it had been more than five hundred years since Corona was ruled by a prince of Corona's blood, the proconsul sat with the high priest and Master Dolabella along with other notable men and intimates of the Imperial governor. Michael was hardly able to make out any individuals in the stands so tight was the crowding, but he could see the excitement in their faces as young and old, rich and poor they stared down upon him. For Michael to stand there, with all the faces of the crowd looking down upon him, was to stand in the very centre of the world, observed by earth and sky. For the arena was the world, rendered in miniature: the sandy ground on which they fought the surface of the earth, the walls which bounded it the firmament of sky, and the spectators looking on mirroring the vast crowd of a man's ancestors, who observed his every word and deed from beyond the veil of death. And when a gladiator walked upon these hallowed sands his tread was broad as any great man who had ever bestrode the wider earth. And though the wider world had moved along from heroes; thought it had, some said, no more need of them, then here in this miniature world that was not yet so. And Michael thanked God for it.

Michael squared off against his wretched foeman, a scowl disfiguring a countenance that had not been handsome to begin with.

"Why so angry?" Judas demanded. "Do I know you?"

"You have forgotten me?" Michael shouted. "Forgotten how you kidnapped my brother and slew him far from home? My name is Michael Sebastian Callistus ban Ezekiel and do not think, villain, that your disgrace shall stain the glory of my name any longer!"

Judas tilted his head to one side before he asked, "Didn't I drive a knife through your heart seven years ago?"

Michael made no response, other than to ready himself to strike. His rage surged with anticipation of what was to come.

"We who are about to die," he declared, his voice ringing out across the arena. "Commend our souls to God and praise the Emperor! For Throne and Empire!"

"God defend the right," the Proconsul declared. "Let it begin!"

It began with a clash of blades, a testing by the two combatants of the measure of their foe. They advanced, clashed swords, and then retreated. They advanced, clashed swords again, fell back once again. Michael smiled. He was a cruel fellow, this Judas who had haunted his dreams these seven years past, but Michael knew himself to be superior. God be praised, this fight was his.

"Since you are to soon to face the judgement of Turo," Michael said. "I suggest that you now make confession and repent of all your sins."

"I have no sins to confess," Judas said.

"None!" Michael yelled. "What of my brother's kidnap? What of the severed arm left at our door as token of his death? What of my mother? What would you call such horrendous acts, if not sins that must be acknowledged before God?"

"The price of liberty," Judas declared. "What matter if ten thousand die, so long as Corona lives?"

Michael's response was a wordless snarl as he charged for the foe. He struck in a fury, his spatha striking Judas' shield like waves upon the shore over and over and over again. Judas struck back, thrusting his shield forward, but Michael flowed around the lunge to slash at Judas' leg. The rebel dropped to one knee.

"Wasn't clever of you to give your name," Judas said. "I've got a lot of friends, and everybody has someone that they care about."

Michael did not dignify that petty threat with a response, his lip curling into a sneer. "Stand up, varlet; try and muster in death a little of that dignity that eluded you in life."

"If you're going to kill me get it over with," Judas said. "The Empire may put me to death, but it will not strip my pride from me."

"Pride!" Michael kicked him in the face, taking grim satisfaction from the crunch of Judas' nose as it crumpled under Michael's strength. "If this is what you call pride, then by Turo I vow you'll beg for shame long ere you sue for death. Now stand up!"

Judas lunged to his feet with an angry cry and threw himself at Michael. Their blades clashed, and Michael lowered his guard just long enough for Judas to sink his sword into Michael's side.

Michael felt the steel penetrate his flesh, felt the pain spasm up his body, felt the blood run down his side and leg, soaking his loincloth; and he laughed. He threw back his head and cackled to sky and sea as Judas stepped away from him. He laughed because he knew it would unnerve his opponent, and laughed all the harder because of it.

"You stabbed me through the heart once and it did not send me down to Turo's Hall, yet now you think a blow such as this will lay me low?" Michael said, and enjoyed the look of dismay coming over Judas' face as Michael gave no sign that the wound had hurt him. At the same time, he knew he had to finish this quickly.

And would it not be something grand and glorious if we both fell today, and stood side by side before Turo's judgement?

"One last opportunity," Michael said. "Confess your sins before you die."

"Never," Judas said.

"So be it," Michael said, and came at him. He soon forgot the crowd and the notables above. All he knew was the enemy before him, and his need for vengeance. Wounded though he was he fought with a speed Judas could not match, as though he was fighting not with the strength of his body but with the fury of his wrath; as though he were become less a man than an inhuman spirit of vengeance.

"Confess," Michael said, as he sliced off Judas' shield arm below the shoulder.

"No," Judas shouted out through the pain.

Michael attacked him again, and Judas was no match for Michael's anger. The rebel's sword flew from his hand. Michael sliced through his hamstring and dropped him onto the sand.

"Confess," Michael said again as his sabre swung down to slice off Judas' other hand.

Judas only response was to howl in agony.

Michael dropped to his knees, and hammered his sabre hilt into Judas' eye. "Confess your crimes! By Turo I'll rob you of everything save your tongue if I must."

Judas coughed, and said, "You and your kind are what we fight against. Long live the Rose!"

Michael yelled as he put out Judas's other eye, and started jamming his swords into the other man, anywhere that would hurt, anywhere to make him cry out, anywhere that would make Judas desperate for the pain to stop. And still he would not make confession.

"CONFESS YOUR SINS!" Michael screamed, ramming his spatha near up to the hilt in the stump of Judas' arm. Judas screamed too, and it was only then Michael realised that that was the only sound he could hear.

He looked up. The crowd had long since stopped cheering, and were watching the spectacle unfolding before them with horror and grim fascination. In their eyes, Michael saw fear. In their faces he beheld disgust. In their silence he stood condemned.

Judas laughed, the harsh and rattling laugh of a man with moments to live and nothing to lose. "From the sounds of it, the mob is finding it hard to tell which of us is the monster, isn't it?"

Michael bowed his head, his long black hair falling down over it like curtain that protected him from the harsh gazes of the world, and hid his face from view as he realised just how far he had fallen. How terrified would Felix have been of him, if he had beheld such rage? What would Amy have thought, to see her protector transfigured thus into a beast?

What would his mother have thought of her young firstborn, her man of honour, if she could see him now.

Turo have mercy on my soul,
Michael prayed.

"No. It is not hard to tell at all," he murmured, and cut Judas' throat quickly and cleanly.

He stayed where he was kneeling on the ground, as Judas body was taken away. No one said anything to him, nor did he say aught to them. They were afraid of him. They all knew that his foe had been a sinner most deserving, yet now they feared that he would turn his blade on honest men. The thought made him laugh, for his head was light as a cloud now and even pain seemed amusing. He laughed alone, in the silence of the arena.

God forgive me,
Michael prayed.
Mother, Felix, forgive me.

He was still bleeding. It felt like a drumbeat pounding in his veins, like the sea surging through him from the wound inwards; but the tide was receding, and the beat of the drums was dying. Dying, yes, dying would be preferable to feeling all of his shame.

Michael tipped forwards, his face striking the sand yet he barely felt it getting in his eyes. He felt nothing but the weariness in his soul, and the cold and weakness embracing his limbs.

He felt so very tired. Michael closed his eyes, and let the darkness embrace him.

The sky was dark, for Raphael was melancholy that night and so the moon was dim and scarcely visible. A little candlelight leaked out from the house into the doorway. Enough to illuminate the body, and the blood...

Michael's mother was lying on the ground, a knife driven into her side, her raven hair askew, her breathing shallow. A white rose, its petals turning crimson as they were stained by his mother's blood, had been left by her side.

"Help!" Michael screamed, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. "Someone, please help me!"

"Hush now, Michael," his mother said, her voice low, quiet, fading. "You'll wake your brother and sister."

"But, Mother─"