Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (30 page)

Here were some of the better soldiers of the Crimson Rose, who had buried their spears in the ground point upwards, with their tower shields propped up against the weapons forming makeshift shelters for the men who slumbered beneath them. Their sentries patrolled in their gear of war, conical helmets on their heads and spears in their hands. The sentries' shields were slung across their backs, as if to protect them from someone creeping up behind them.

Michael was glad of the fact. He did not really want to stab anyone in the back anyway, it was dishonourable.

He crouched behind a bush near where the sentries passed by, and when one came close enough he leapt out and slashed with his sword at the man's throat. The rebel went down silently, blood dripping down his neck and staining his tunic. Michael dragged his body into the darkness, hiding it behind the same bush, and noted the armband the dead rebel was wearing. A white rose, stained with blood. A convenient way to identify themselves, since they wore no uniforms and had no gear of war in common. An equally convenient way to avoid suspicion while he searched for prisoners or stores. Michael took the man's armband and slipped it over his own arm, running it up the plates of his manica and stopping just beneath Amy's Favour.

Now, so long as he did not run into anyone who knew him then he should be able to pass for a fighter of the Crimson Rose. Michael crept through the slumbering ranks, picking his way with the tread of a fury unleashed from the realm of death into that of life and tasked to punish vile offences. His hands ached to start laying into the slumbering warriors where they slept. His anger, stirred to wrath by the remembrance of what these proud patriots had done at Lover's Rock, roared at him to strike down as many as he could while they lay helpless.

It would be easy, to slay ten, twenty, maybe even thirty of them before any man knew what was occurring. He could send them to God's judgement in great number, and none would even be able to say that they had fought for their last breath. It would be easy, and it would be just. They had done as much to the good folk of his home town.

Easy, and just, but not honourable. His mother would never have approved of such a thing, nor Amy, neither. She had given him her favour, blessed him and sent him forth to fight in her name, which meant that he carried her honour with him onto the battlefield this night. What would she say of her appointed champion cutting down slumbering enemies who were as threatening to him as babes? What would she say of her friend and protector descending to the level of the Crimson Rose.

The two of you were the kindest, bravest people I ever met
. So she had told him, little guessing that what she saw was just a thin and threadbare veneer of chivalry, so worn down in places that it was possible to see what bestial fury lay beneath.

I think that's what real courage is. And that's what I wanted to be like.

Amy had come back for him. She had turned her back on her home and her family to help
him
when he was in need. She had trained herself in arms because she wanted to be like him. What would she say if she knew that all he was was a common murderer?

He would be a better man from now on, for Amy and for Lord Gideon, whose reputation would be besmirched by the actions of a barbarous servant. He would put aside his childish anger and live from these days forward as a man grown to virtue and to honour. He would banish all his demons and keep the howling beast within him safely caged.

I am a gentleman of Corona,
Michael told himself.
I am the Last Firstborn, a warrior of the old ways. I am the servant of Gideon Commenae and the companion to Amy, daughter of Niccolo. I am a gentleman of Corona: I will pray to God, obey the throne, defend my kinsfolk and eat no beef. I will seek no dishonourable brawls, but strike the pate of any man who curses God or slanders an ally. And I'll kill no man save in battle, where all are equal under the eyes of heaven.

Michael clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. It would not be easy, to overcome his basest self, but with the friendship of Amy and the example of Lord Gideon he would do it. He swore to Turo that he would.

Michael continued on his way through the rebel camp. Not a man stirred, and Michael did not come across a man awake until the fires ceased where the camp of that company ended and that of a less disciplined group of Crimson fighters began. These men had not placed their equipment in an orderly fashion, nor set lookouts or lit fires, but were merely sitting around in disorderly fashion, most asleep but some still awake; drunk too by the sound of it.

Michael sniffed; Turo frowned upon strong liquor and no true Coronim would touch it to such excess. The real Coronim indeed.

He crept closer to their camp, crouched down and hunched over so as not to be seen.

Soon he was close enough to hear what they were saying.

"Going to be a fine sight tomorrow," one of the rebels was saying to a half dozen companions. "I wish I could see the looks on their faces in the city when we stake out those prisoners to die. I'll wager we'll be able to hear them wailing from here."

"I would take that wager, were I a gambling man," Michael said, smiling as he walked casually towards them. "You see, the sound of screaming does not carry so far as you might imagine."

The braggart's eyes barely had time to widen before Michael was on him.

Michael hit him across the head with the flat of his blade - he wanted to stun him, not kill him - but he was the only one shown such mercy. The others went down swiftly, reaching for their weapons or opening their mouths to cry out, Michael killed them before they could so much as squawk.

Michael knelt on the chest of the man who had been so boastful just a few moments earlier, his spatha to the man's throat. The rebel was bald and rather mangy looking, and he writhed and wriggled under Michael's grip.

"Please, please don't kill me. Mercy, in Turo's name."

"Prisoners," Michael snapped. "Tell me everything."

"We've been snapping up people left, right and centre on our way here," the man babbled. "The Voice wants to kill them tomorrow to frighten the people in the city."

"Where are they?"

"You'll never get near them, the Voice has set a strong guard to see they don't escape."

"I asked for directions, not your martial insights," Michael pressed his sword down a little harder.

"By the side of the road, a hundred paces south of the big banner," the man said. "Please, I beg of you, mercy."

Michael wanted to give him the mercy shown to Lover's Rock, he wanted to see the man's fear turn to pain as Michael slew him, he wanted so badly to make them pay.

But he had resolved to be a better man, and he could not break his oath mere moments after he had made it.

As Miranda had wasted little time in pointing out to him, killing Judas slowly and painfully had done little to improve his humour. Perhaps mercy would be a balm more soothing to his soul?

Michael snarled, raising his sword up and hitting the man with the hilt. The rebel's head lolled; he was out cold.

It did not take Michael long to find the Firstborn Road, and with his armband on nobody seemed to question that he was one of them. Michael passed through the camp of slumbering, dicing or carousing men, forcing himself to wave when someone called to him, forcing himself to smile - or at least grimace - when a joke was yelled his way. He would have as soon given these people a sword to the gut as a wave, and as soon bitten their throats out as laughed at any jest of theirs, but he had a mission to save the innocents held captive and he could not falter now.

Michael passed beneath the three standards placed in the earth by the side of the road: the black bull of Corona upon a white field, his broken chains laying at his feet and a garland of roses around his neck, the white bull's head upon a red background - that was the standard of the ban David - and the bleeding rose of the rebellion. He ignored the hoplites standing guard around the banners. From their armour, and their crimson capes, Michael guessed that they were among the rebel elite, the warriors who had been fighting against the Empire long before the rest of this chaff had risen against the rightful order. It was a pity he did not have time to deal with them.

Michael hardly needed directions after that, the commotion told him exactly where to go to find the captives. There were several hundred of them, men and women but no children, and all of them looking underfed, dirty and haggard to a degree that made the refugees in Davidheyr look like they had just polished off a feast at the public expense. Even a good ten yards away Michael could tell that they had been mistreated, and he was sure they would only look worse once he got closer. Their hands were bound but their feet were free, doubtless it was easier to keep them moving that way.

They were all awake, most of them facing away from him, their mass forming half of an open circle facing inwards, the faces of the prisoners showing a mixture of fear and horror at what was happening inside the ring.

The other half of the ring was made up of gladiators. Gladiators turned rebels, at any rate. They still wore their old armour, carried their old weapons, but now they played the crowds and the arena both, forming a makeshift ground for them to watch while others fought.

Two men were trapped inside the circle, between the jeering gladiators on one side and the terrified prisoners on the other, fighting with knives that glistened in the moonlight. Or at least trying to fight. One of the two, a lank and stringy young man with a face so handsome it might almost have been called pretty, was fighting so clumsily it was a wonder he hadn't stabbed himself already. He had several nicks - on his arm, on his ear - and seemed to be surviving through running away, round and round in circles while his opponent, who looked a little stronger and better built, chased after him. The rebels had dug a post into the ground, and from it chained a girl about Miranda's age by the neck with an iron collar. Weeping, she threw herself forward again and again, her blue-black hair flying wildly around her as she tried to intervene in the fray. But the chain that bound her held her fast, and the laughter of the rebels was her only reward.

"Fire!" someone shouted in the camp, and Michael's head and those of others snapped around to see a great conflagration erupting on the far side of the camp.

Thank you, my lord, and well done.

The camp of the Crimson Rose erupted like an angry ant's nest as men rushed to the fires to save their foodstores. But to Michael's dismay the gladiators did not run, but stayed where they were, urging the fighters on. Evidently nothing was more important to them than their desire to see others bleed for a change.

Still,
Michael thought as he rushed towards them.
Hopefully no one else will notice me.

He pushed his way through the throng of gladiators just as a brute in prolixine gear - the same equipment Michael carried, two swords and a manica on each arm - tripped up the handsome young man so that he fell flat on his face on the ground. The girl cried out like a jilted lover as she made another forlorn effort to go to his aid.

"Kill him," the gladiator yelled. "Kill him, or it'll be your life."

"Wait!" Michael yelled, and when the cruel brute turned Michael drove his spatha through the fellow's gut.

Michael extracted his sword, and stepped into the makeshift arena over the dead body of his foe. All eyes were on him, and the two combatants were frozen.

"Are you two all right?" Michael asked. When they both nodded he said, "Free the others then, we're getting out of here." He turned to face the rebel gladiators and smirked. "Come, friends, what sport is there in this unskilled display? Surely there must be a man among you possessed of skill and courage willing and fit to dance with me. As a partner I guarantee I do not disappoint."

"Who in Turo's name are you?" yelled a fisherman with a trident and a net.

"Michael Sebastian Callistus Dolabella ban Ezekiel, late of Jonathan Dolabella's school in Lover's Rock." Michael stepped into a guard, standing foursquare between the gladiators and the prisoners. "Have any among you wretches heard my name before?"

The fisherman charged at him, swinging his net, but Michael closed before he could use it and was past the trident in an instant too. The fisherman fell, his blood staining the grass, and Michael turned to face an argonian, clad in bronze armour with a wicker shield and an ash spear. The argonian cast it at Michael, who dodged the blow before engaging sword to sword. His sabre rang as it clashed with the short sword, his spatha struck off a piece of shield with a dull thud, then Michael dealt a blow that split his foeman's helm in two and he fell slain.

Michael dealt with a helenian and a naiad the same way, laying them low and sending their souls to Turoth's judgement. Had they come at him all at once he might have been in trouble, but each man wanted the glory of slaying Michael Callistus for himself, and they came against him singly to be defeated. It was no true arena, and the uses to which they had put it were not honourable, but Michael could not deny that his blood sang to be once more within the centre of all things, his face in every eye and his name on every tongue.

I'm sorry Amy, but you have no idea the sport you are deprived of.

As their numbers dwindled, five of the remaining gladiators decided to forsake glory and attack him all at once: two argonians, a helenian with the curved knife, a turmeian in cavalry garb, a fisherman and a prolixine whose face looked familiar.