Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (31 page)

Virtue, not fury
, Michael fought to control his elation at the fighting, to achieve the airy quality that Gideon claimed was the mark of a master swordsman. He could not forget his anger at the Rose, or at anything else he had to be angry about, but he sat hard upon his glee and allowed himself to take no pleasure in the retribution he was visiting. He fought because it was right to do so, not because of the love of fighting. Or so he told himself. It was probably not what Gideon could achieve, but it was what Michael could manage.

Michael picked up the spear of the argonian he had cut down and hurled it; another argonian fell. The other threw his spear but Michael caught it in mid air, reversed it and threw it back, and his second enemy fell. Michael retrieved his sword just as the fisherman threw his net. Michael stepped into it, swords working furiously, and only tattered fragments fell around him like gossamer. The remaining three fell on him at once, using the trident's longer reach to drive him onto the swords of the others. But Michael was the wind and they could not touch him. He fell upon the helenian and cut his throat, then glided past the trident to drive home his sword into the fisherman.

Only the prolixine remained. Michael remembered him now: Peter was his name, the champion of Ceiron. He had beaten Michael once, in games held on the accession of the new Emperor. But Michael had not been trained by Gideon Commenae then.

Their blades rang against one another, over and over, the sound the rhythm of their battle. But though Michael came close to breaking Peter's guard, neither Peter's spatha nor his sabre came within a hair of Michael. Michael touched all, and yet was never touched. He slipped through Peter's guard and made an end of him. In Michael's mind the crowd cheered, even as he turned to face the remaining gladiators.

There was a great cry behind him and all the prisoners taken by the Rose surged forward around him, taking up weapons from the fallen to hurl themselves upon their hated captors. Michael saw the man who had almost won the impromptu combat before his arrival fall with his stomach opened, but he was one grain of sand in a desert that was burying its enemies.

Of course, now that they had announced themselves not even Gideon's fire could stop the rebels from noticing what was happening.

"Head for the city," Michael yelled, gesturing with his spatha. "Cut through their camp and make for Davidheyr. Keep together, follow me!"

He led the way, trusting that they would follow him. They were all vulnerable, and he could have stayed on their flanks or even their rear and justified to anyone who asked that it was a place of danger, but he felt that they had most need of a fighter at the front, to be the tip of the spear that broke the battle line.

The hue and cry was up now in the Crimson camp, and from all over Michael could hear men waking to find themselves under attack, he could see them grabbing weapons and converging on their captives.

Lightning erupted from behind Michael, streams of it twisting and winding around one another, snapping like hounds as they leapt upon the enemy. It wound around the closest fighter of the Rose, the lightning contorting around him until his cries ceased and he fell.

Michael kept running but he glanced behind him to see the dark haired girl who had been chained to a post by the rebels running close behind him, her blue eyes fierce with anger.

A little behind her jogged the handsome, purple haired young man, who had apparently found a shepherd's staff from somewhere and was gripping it tight as he panted to keep up.

Had the Crimson Rose had the time or the discipline to form a line against them, then Michael thought his escape would have faltered; like a barbarian warband against a legion their mass would have been broken against order and discipline. But the rebels possessed neither, and merely ran pell-mell to engage those over whom they had so recently crowed in triumph. And Michael was at the fore to meet them. Once Michael had stood them off alone, a single lion against a pack of jackals, and they had nearly brought him down with numbers; but now the lion had a pride behind him and they were no match. Like a hero of old he sliced through them, opening a way through which the others streamed. He heard the crackle of lightning magic behind him, and trusted that the girl mage was keeping the flanks clear even as he bore over the opposition to the fore like a mighty wave rolling on. They cut their way to the edges of the Crimson Rose camp, the rebels scattering out of their path like wild geese, and Michael halted to see those he had freed into the twilight land.

"Keep going, on to the city," he said, gesturing with his sword towards the lights of Davidheyr.

Now the pattern of the battle would change. They had broken out, and now the fighting would come from behind as the pursuit harried them. That meant that Michael's place was now at the hindmost place. But, aside from a few mad-eyed rebels who charged out of their camp and met their end upon his blade, no organised body of the Rose seemed interested in venturing out into the darkness. They contented themselves with massing at the edge of their camp, hurling javelins or firing arrows, but none would come forth and strive like men against him blade upon blade. After retreating with his face to the enemy for a while, Michael dared to think they had gotten away with it and turned his back upon them in ostentatious condemnation of their cowardice.

"Michael Sebastian ban David!" the Voice of Corona thundered as he strode through the lines of his troops, his dark cloak billowing about him, a sword in one hand and a knife in the other. "You are swift becoming a nuisance to me."

Michael turned to face him, smirking. "Your praise warms my soul."

The Voice halted a dozen paces away, his eyes obscured by his helmet. "We should not be enemies, Michael. Are we not both Coronim? Do we not both love the old ways?"

"You tell me if you love the old ways even as you spit on their values."

"Men of honour err when they assume that the world is as honourable as they are," the Voice replied. "I do what I must so that Corona may live on."

"Corona does live on," Michael said softly. "As a part of the Empire."

"No!" the Voice yelled. "There is no life for Corona in the Empire, freedom is our only means of survival. The Empire is dying, Michael, soon it will perish from the earth. Only as an independent land can Corona survive, and all the Coronim with it."

"All the ones who have not perished at your hands," Michael growled.

The Voice was silent for a moment. "You have cause for anger, I concede. But you could do more to help your people as my ally than as my enemy." He knelt briefly, burying his sword point first in the ground. As he stood, the Voice of Corona spoke again. "You know what you are now, from whom you are descended. Surely you can see that your place is at the head of the Crimson Rose, who fight for the same free land that Gabriel died for?" He offered his hand. "Please, Michael Sebastian ban David, heir to Gabriel and Last Firstborn of Old Corona, join with your Coronim brothers and help us cast down the tyranny of the wolves."

Michael's lip curled into a sneer. "If they are wolves, then they are at least less savage than the men who follow at your back. My concern is not with thrones or with the borders of nations: I stand for kin and comrades and for the people of this land, as I did at Lover's Rock. You must slay the bull before you may butcher the herd."

Again, the Voice was silent for a moment. "I see. Twice now I have asked for your assistance, Michael, and twice you have refused me. I shall ask once more, and after that you will be my enemy."

"Ask as often as you like, or not," Michael replied. "My answer will not change, for you are my enemy already."

"We shall see," the Voice said. "A pleasant good night, Michael Sebastian ban David. Tell the traitors you have rescued to enjoy their taste of liberty: it will be brief."

"I do not believe it so."

"The world is changing, the iron might of the Empire is rusted away. Corona may rise again to play a part in the new world that is emerging, or it will burn in the fires that will soon consume the Empire. I will not let that come to pass."

"Nor will I," Michael said. "But I would prefer to extinguish the flames."

The Voice chuckled darkly. "Good night, Michael." He retrieved his sword and turned away, his cloak swaying as he walked back towards his camp.

Michael watched him retire for half a dozen paces before he turned his back upon the Voice.

Gideon was waiting for him, eyes flickering between Michael and the Voice. "What did he want?"

"He wanted me to join him," Michael muttered. "He might as well try training cats to speak."

Gideon snorted, and together the two of them made their way back to Davidheyr. 

The other prisoners liberated from the rebels had already entered the city, but Amy still held the gate for them and it was only when all three of them were inside that she allowed the guards to close it again.

Michael untied the scarf around his arm and handed it to her.

"Did it help?" Amy asked.

"I think so, yes," Michael said. "In more ways than you might think."

"Michael Callistus," the young man with the purple hair stepped forward, extending one hand to Michael. "We have come in search of you at the request of Silwa." The young man was nearly as tall as Gideon, but much thinner; Michael doubted he had been eating properly even before he got captured by the Crimson Rose. His eyes were as purple as his hair, and as far as Michael could see that was its natural colour. His colour was darker than any man of Corona, though with little sign of him having been overly touched by the sun during his life. His clothes were blue, and looked like they had been rather fine before the rebels caught him, with golden thread woven into the tunic sleeves in the pattern of leaves. Of course, captivity had left them looking rather dirty and ill cared for now. In addition to his staff, he had a sturdy rod thrust into his belt alongside a much smaller wooden wand, both of which, like the staff, had words carved into them in an ancient script.

Michael was not sure what he was supposed to make of such a man, nor why Lady Silwa would have sent him one who was quite plainly not a warrior. "You are the aid that Lady Silwa promised?"

"After our capture, she told me we would know you by the fact that you would set us free. My name is Jason," Jason continued to hold out his hand. "And this is Tullia. We are in your debt."

While there was some doubt from his looks over where exactly Filius Jason hailed from, Filia Tullia was a northerner quite plain. Her complexion was mild and her face was soft, her blue-black hair cut short at just below the ears. She was smaller even than Michael, the smallest of the company otherwise, though she looked healthier than Jason did. Her eyes were crystal blue and as she regarded Michael he had the impression of a sentinel goose, or perhaps a swan: that her beauty was matched by her vigilance, and her small frame and delicate appearance would be matched by a fierce strength if he should rouse it.

It would have been rude to ignore Jason's outstretched hand any longer, so Michael clasped his arm firmly at the wrist for a moment, "Filius Jason." He took Tullia's hand in his own and gently brushed his lips against it, "Filia Tullia. You owe me nothing, either of you. I did what any true Coronim would have done."

Tullia's face went pale, save for the bruises she bore. "I am no Filia but a mere servant to the Empire and to His Highness." She was dressed in black, and in a boyish fashion, with a long tunic covering her body down to her thighs, but leaving her legs bare down to her sandals. She had knives hidden up both the sleeves of her tunic and she carried a gladius, taken from the Crimson Rose, with the air of one who knew how to use it.

"My mother always told me that no one was ever too poor to be well mannered, or ever too poor to be deserving of courteous treatment. I remained a gentleman through seven years in chains, and a hundred years of service would make you no less a lady, Filia," Michael said.

"You do me honour I am undeserving," Tullia murmured quietly.

"Filia, I am sure I do you less than you deserve," Michael replied.

"There is nothing more frustrating than when someone is too humble for their own good is there?" Gideon asked, a smile playing across his features.

Michael lifted his chin. "I am certain I know not to what my lord refers."

"Is that so," Gideon said. "May one ask why you two have chosen to travel across the Empire to join your fortunes to our own?" His eyes swept over Jason and Tullia, lingering on the staff in Jason's hand.

Jason bowed his head. "It is a long story."

"Then we had best be seated before we hear it," Gideon said. "Come, let us see if we cannot find some secluded corner in which to talk."

They found the late captives already settling in with the other refugees from the Rose, and the square and the streets around abuzz. As Gideon led them in, people began to crowd around them.

"Is it true?" the old woman with a child in her arms demanded. "Is it true a great blow was struck against the Crimson Rose?"

"Where their dead piled ten feet high?"

"Have they fled in terror?"

"I regret not, but it is only a matter of time," Gideon said with sublime confidence. "They will not stand against the Empire's might."

"Praise God," someone shouted. "And down with the rebels!"