Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (39 page)

Corona laughed, and the magic in his palm flared again. Again Michael barely escaped as an explosion tore up the ground where he had been standing.

"Let no man doubt my power," Corona roared as he pursued Michael. "For I am the soul of Corona made flesh!"

Michael snarled wordlessly. He brought his spatha up into a guard, knowing that this sword, too, would shatter as soon as it made contact with Corona's spectral sword.

"Michael!" Gideon's shout drew Michael's attention as Gideon tossed Duty through the air towards him. "Catch."

Duty wheeled through the night sky before falling towards Michael, who caught it by the hilt in his right hand. It fitted as though it had been made for him. As soon as he laid hands upon it, Duty's glow seemed to acquire a brighter sheen to it, and Michael felt a hum of satisfaction travel up his arm. Gideon had said that these swords were his soul, and Michael knew in his gut that this sword would not shatter before Corona's spirit power.

"You think a new sword is going to help you?" Corona demanded as he charged. He thrust with his sword, Michael parried with Duty, and the two blades ground against one another. Michael turned the blow and cut at Corona. The blow gouged Corona's helm and knocked it askew. Michael kept up the attack. Their blades rang against each other, and Duty notched Corona's blade. Michael hacked downwards, but Corona took the blow upon his arm. It began to bleed profusely. Michael felt emboldened, strengthened, as if Gideon had given him not just a sword but something of his own might alongside it. He beat aside Corona's guard and moved for the kill. Corona thrust out his palm, the magic glowing with the sign that it was about to erupt.

Pray God this sword is everything I think it is,
Michael thought, as he brought Duty up to block the magic's path.

Corona's magic erupted from his hand in a bright blue beam, coursing towards Michael like a runaway stallion, and then it met Duty's waiting blade. It stopped, and like the ocean when it meets a sea wall it lapped up against the blade, flowing up and down it but unable to pass. Michael felt it pushing against him, seeking to batter down his guard and consume him, but he held firm even as the light became so bright he had to close his eyes. It thrust against him with the force of a stampeding cattle herd, but he held firm. It roared with the anger of a lion and he held firm. It blazed with the heat of the hottest summer's day and he held firm.

Michael heard the explosion but did not feel the heat, only its cessation. He opened his eyes, to see by the gashes rent in the stone that the magic, balked in its path, had blasted backwards. Straight into the face of him who had wielded it.

Corona was crouched on the ground in the middle of a crater, smoke wafting from his body. His cloak was a tattered ruin, singed and torn and holed. His armour, already pierced by Michael's blows, had been mostly destroyed, and his arm had been burned away almost to the bone. His helm was lying in ruins on the ground and Michael could see his face; he did not look so different from Michael himself,: black hair, brown eyes, a bronze complexion that looked a common mixture of old Coronim and Shardayan blood. Ribs were visible through his ruined side and blood was dripping from his numerous injuries.

He looked up, locking eyes with Michael, and he might have spoken, screamed or cursed had it not been for the sound of the trumpet.

The trumpet call rose from the north. Three short rising notes, and then a long, dolorous note that stretched on and on. The call was repeated. The Crimson Rose halted, looking north, and Michael's own eyes turned that way too till what he saw made him raise a cheer to strike the stars.

The Thirty Fifth had returned. Skirmishers afoot with bows and javelins ran in front of the main advance, routing scattered elements of the rebel forces and sending them flying. The heavy infantry, an iron line of legionaries with shields locked, advanced at a steady pace behind. The Emperor's colours and the legion's own banner flew over their heads, while a silver wolf mounted on a tall staff caught the glimmer of the moonlight. The sounds of fifes and drums echoed through the night.

Six quick trumpet notes and then the beating of the drums became more rapid and the heavy infantry broke into a run. A wolf-like keening cry ripped from four thousand throats as they surged forward like the tide.

The Crimson Rose rushed to form a line to face this new foe bearing down on them, but Gideon would not relent in his assault. Tullia was with him, her magic blazing with an almost holy light, and they were both of them assailing the flank of the rebel battle line even as the Thirty Fifth slammed into its front and broke it in an instant, like a great wave carrying away the wooden huts that lie along the beach. The men of the Crimson Rose scattered in flight like sheep at the approach of the wolf, and the soldiers of the Empire pursued them.

Michael turned back, to make an end of the Voice of Corona. But he was gone. Michael supposed that he fled the field of disaster, to seek healing before his spirit magic expired and he dropped dead of his injuries. It was hard to blame him overmuch, for all his followers were fleeing too, streaming southwards while the soldiers of the Empire pursued them.

Up on the walls the people cheered. They cheered the Empire, they cheered the legion, they cheered for Amy and for Gideon and Tullia and His Highness. They even cheered for Michael himself, though his part had been the smallest. And they cheered for themselves, for their own courage in the face of danger; courage worthy of Old Corona.

Tullia was already running back towards the city, and to her princely charge, but Gideon lingered among the dead and dying. With the rebels fled and the legion still in pursuit, Michael found that he and Gideon were left in sole possession of the battlefield, staring at one another across their fallen foes.

"Michael," Gideon murmured.

"Yes, my lord?"

Gideon smiled a little. "Damn well done."

Michael felt his cheeks begin to flush. "Congratulations on your victory, my lord," he said. He presented Duty to its rightful master. "And you will be needing this."

Gideon gazed at the glass-like blade for a moment, his fingers lingering upon the single word engraved upon the metal. "Keep it. You lost your other sword, and I think it suits you."

"My lord," Michael said, taking a step back. "This... 'tis a princely gift, and one I am not worthy of."

"You are worthy if I say you are," Gideon said. "It is my sword after all, and I may give it to whom I choose. Did you not like the feel of it?"

"It fit my hand perfectly, my lord."

"Well then," Gideon said with a smile. "Just as I thought. Keep it. You will have more need of it than I do."

Michael smiled as he raised the sword in his hands, the blade still gleaming in effulgent. "You honour me greatly with your trust my lord, I shall endeavour to be worthy of it."

"Gideon."

"Lord?"

"You call me Gideon now, not lord," Gideon said. "And no arguments."

"But my lord," Michael said. "As your servant, that would be most improper."

"Michael, you have never truly been an ordinary manservant," Gideon said. "And you are certainly not going to start now. I insist upon it, and if you continue to refuse I shall get very cross with you, understand?"

"Yes my- Yes, Gideon." That had a nice sound to it, Michael thought. Gideon's affection warmed him, all the more for being so rarely experienced. Not an ordinary servant. What, then, was he? Whatever it was, Michael felt certain that Gideon meant it only as a compliment. He could not conceive of Gideon doing anything to harm him.

"Michael!" Wyrrin cried as he ran towards them, leaping over the bodies of the fallen rebels. "I did it! I swore that I would, and I did it!"

"You did," Michael held out his hand and clasped the fire drake's bony hand in his own, pulling him into an embrace. "You are a true friend to Corona, and to us. And, though you may have missed this battle, you have done more to save this city than any of us."

"Yet I still missed the battle," Wyrrin said mournfully. "And that shall be a great regret of mine for years to come."

"My regret," Michael said. "Shall be that I never had the opportunity to cross blades against so bold a spirit in the arena."

"There is yet time to remedy that," Wyrrin said.

"Perhaps, but it would be the same now that we are both free, without either arena or audience."

"Are you sure that you are not simply afraid to lose?" Wyrrin asked.

"Test me and I shall give you a thrashing regardless," Michael replied. "God bless you Wyrrin, saviour of Davidheyr."

Wyrrin raised his head proudly. "Hmm, Wyrrin of Davidheyr. That has a goodly ring to it, don't you think?"

"Hoi, Michael," Amy yelled from the gateway, where she was waving her captured standard over her head. "Get over here and celebrate with me."

Gideon chuckled. "I think you had better get moving."

Michael beamed as he made his way back to her. Amy had taken off her helm, and she look as though she were in ecstasy at the great praises heaped upon her, as the faithful of Davidheyr pressed close to kiss her hands and offer their thanks to her and to almighty Turo. When he got close, she pulled him into a hug that probably would have hurt had spirit magic not numbed him to pain.

"We did it, Michael," Amy shouted. "We really did it! And we're going to do it again, I can feel it. I knew coming here was right, I knew it! There'll be more glory to come, mark me; much more!"

"But will it ever taste so sweet as this first nectar?" Michael asked, laughing like a little boy. "We did it our Amy, we really did it! We saved Corona. We defended Davidheyr. This...this is our Night of Uprising."

"And the fire will rage on and on," Amy agreed.

Michael hugged her again, and then left her to her admirers. He wanted to see how His Highness and Tullia were. And, judging by the way he was starting to feel tired, he thought the spirit magic might be wearing off. If what Gideon had said was right, he didn't want to collapse in the middle of a crowd.

Judah found him before he could leave, carrying a short sword with blood upon it.

"I fought," Judah said quietly. "Just like you said."

"Yes, just like I said," Michael sighed. "Is everyone all right?"

Judah nodded.

"That is excellent news," Michael said. "Now, using the sword is one thing, but do you know what is harder still?"

"No."

"Putting it away when have no more need of it," Michael said. "Keep it, if you wish, but you will always feel it, feel your hand itching for it, and every time somebody mocks you, insults you, pushes you, you will want to get that sword and avenge yourself upon them. You have to learn to put it away. Do you understand?"

"I think so."

"I hope so," Michael said. It was a lesson he had never learned, but he hoped Judah would do better. "Then Turo be with you, and your family."

"Thank you," Judah said. "For everything."

"I did no more than you," Michael said. "We did our duty, and that is all there is to say on the matter." He left Judah to the celebration while he continued through the streets of Davidheyr, each step carrying him further away from the gate.

Michael could feel the spirit strength ebbing out of him: his legs were stiffening, his arms were leaden, he wanted nothing more than sleep.

Michael's legs grew stiffer with every step, less able to bear his weight, and by the time he found Tullia and his Highness he was clinging to the walls of the houses like an old man whose strength has abandoned him. Jason's head was resting upon the crook of his shepherd's staff, and when he got closer Michael realised that there were tears in his highness' eyes. Tullia stood beside him, a silent presence offering neither comfort nor scorn, but keeping watch over her prince in the midst of his grief. Michael noticed that she looked a little more pale than normal.

Michael leaned against the wall at Jason's side, sighing in relief as he took some of the weight off his weary legs. He was silent for a moment, not wanting to startle His Highness, before he stated the obvious fact. "This was your first battle. For both of you. The first time either of you took life."

Tullia nodded. Jason lifted his head from his staff. "So much death, so much suffering, so much...everything. How do you bear it?"

"Never before have I stood in the middle of so vast a bloody field," Michael said. "This is my first battle too. But I have fought and killed and seen men die before, so I suppose that helps."

"What was it like," Tullia said. "Your first kill?"

Michael thought back to his first time in the arena, six years ago. Truthfully, he had been ecstatic. It had been a good fight, a clean kill, an honourable death, the crowd had loved it. He could still hear them cheering, chanting his name, could still smell the roses they had thrown to him, bright red roses, redder than the blood, and so very fragrant. But that was not the kind of thing they wished to hear. "My example would be of little benefit to you, I think."

"Doesn't the sheer scale of it disturb you?" Jason asked.

Michael 's brow furrowed. "No. We kept the fighting out of the city, no innocents were assailed in their homes, no women or children harmed. For the soldiers, the rebels of the Rose, the men of the Thirty Fifth, this is what they chose. Those who choose to live by the strength of their arms have no right to complain when they are slain by arms. You will never see a gladiator beg for his life because we understand that those who kill must be willing to die; those who seek to take life without risking their own are called murderers. I fear I can offer no comfort on the loss if it upsets you, Your Highness, I might even say it should upset you lest you grow too fond of killing. But as for the foe, as for any bloody work you did this night, put it from your mind. So long as we fight with honour, against foes who have challenged us in battle, we have nothing to regret."