Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (19 page)

 Gideon chuckled. "You are not a slave any longer Michael, Luke Dolabella, the son of your late master, is amongst the column. He has a writ freeing you." Gideon stood up, still dressed in the various shades of grey he had been wearing the night before. He was a tall man, over six feet tall and at least half a foot taller than Michael himself, with a stentorian nose and, of course, those penetrating green eyes that put the fear of God into Michael every time their eyes met. He put on a black sable cloak, which rippled in the wind. "If, as a freedman, you will enter into my service in turn, and join with me to save this great nation from its enemies, then you will have my undying gratitude."

"No gratitude from lords to servants is required, my lord," Michael said. He rose from his seat only to descend onto one knee, taking up his spatha from where it lay upon the ground nearby, drawing it from its scabbard, and presenting it to Gideon.

"This blade, my lord, is no great weapon of great antiquity or powerful magic. It has no lineage, it has not felt the touch of my father or grandfather or my grandfather's father. It is nought but a sword, plain and ordinary, one of a hundred hundred thousand just the same. But it is mine, as my life is mine, as my pride is mine, as my honour is mine, and though they be as common as this sword they are each in their way as dearly held and precious to me. And they are yours, my lord, as I am yours, blade, body and soul. Do with me as you will."

Gideon looked at him for a moment, eyes all-seeing and inscrutable, before he reached out and placed his hand gently upon Michael's forehead. "You are a good fellow. I have no doubt you'll serve me well. Now rise up. Receive your freedom, see to your people. You may be glad to know that your fellow gladiator, the fire drake Wyrrin, survived his injuries as well, though they seem to be taking longer to heal than yours."

"I am glad he lives," Michael said. "I owe him my life. With your permission, my lord."

Gideon nodded, a ghost of a smile upon his face. "Dismissed."

Michael bowed from the waist - something which made half his body begin to ache with a throbbing pain, a reminder that Lady Silwa had helped his healing along, but not healed him so completely as Miranda might have done - and turned away, heading into the mass of campfires and the huddled throngs of the folk of Lover's Rock. Scattered piles of belongings, all that could be carried upon a strong back, lay haphazardly upon the ground as he trod delicately around them: household icons of Turo and Miranda, Turo's daughter; bundles of clothes and blankets; sacks of bread and salted fish; coins peaking out of purses; rusted swords and heavy sticks, boathooks and fishing poles. Women clutched shawls around their bodies for warmth, mothers hugged children to their breasts, men cooked food over open fires, husbands comforted their wives. The local priest - Michael was glad to see that he had escaped the Rose - had rescued the sacred treasures and the holy scrolls from the temple, and was leading a score of people in prayer to God for the deliverance of the province and a safe journey to Davidheyr. Michael knelt unobtrusively at the edge of the crowd, bent his head, and closed his eyes in prayer.

O God, King, Shepherd, Author and Ordainer of All Things, watch over the faithful this day and in all the days to come. Let the wars be ended as the storms at sea come to an end, and let peace reign in this land as stillness reigns upon the waves once the clouds are gone. And let my sister live, let her grow old, let her know love, let her live a life filled to the brim with joy, let her look back in dotage and know that she did well. Let her live, O God I pray to you, and you may do with me as you see fit.

As Michael stood up again the priest called out. "The blessings of God be upon you, Michael; for on that night of terrors you were his instrument."

The congregation turned to stare at him, as did others who had not been worshipping. Michael looked down at his hands. Absent an arena pit and wall to separate him from the crowd, their attentions were less pleasant to endure, especially since he did not feel particularly like God's sword.

"Thank you, Michael; and God bless," some called out.

"You saved my life, Michael, you saved my son," Nathan the carpenter said. "A thousand blessings on you."

"Hurrah for the Last Firstborn!" someone called. "Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" came the shout echoing from a multitude of different throats. At which point Michael did the only thing that a hero could do in this situation, and bowed.

"Your praise humbles me," Michael murmured. "I am but a sword, and I did nought but what a blade is made to do."

He walked away, in search of Luke Dolabella, though whenever someone rose from their seats to thank him he murmured some small words of acknowledgement, touched the hands of any who reached out to clasp his palm in their own.

He had not been lying when he said that he was humbled by it. He had known himself to be - barring the occasional disgraceful display - a popular gladiator in Lover's Rock, and in Corona. But he had never thought himself well-loved as a man in the town he had grown up in, not after the things that he had done in his younger days. This...this he had not dreamt of.

Do you see, Miranda? I am more than just a performing seal?

He found Luke Dolabella sitting by himself, with his own fire shared by no one, befitting the wealthiest man in Lover's Rock and the most gently bred. He started a little at Michael's approach, as if he feared the Crimson Rose had returned to murder him as they did his father. "Oh, Michael. I didn't hear you."

"I am sorry, sir, I shall try to walk with heavier tred in future," Michael said earnestly. "Pater Dolabella, I grieve for your father's passing. He was a gentleman and a good master. You have my condolences."

Master Luke nodded absently. "And you have my thanks, Michael. Without you I'd be dead. So would a lot of others."

"I was fortunate, sir," Michael said. "If any Thomas or Magdalene had lived and I had died they would have done the same."

"Perhaps," Master Luke murmured. "But they're dead...as my father is dead. They're dead and we're alive. It doesn't seem right, does it."

"I have no doubt that God has some plan in mind for you, sir," Michael said.

That raised the edges of Master Luke's lips. "Me? You're the one whom the high lord is asking for, not me. Not that I blame him, I wouldn't even know which end of a sword to pick up." He looked up. "You know, when we were young I was so jealous of you."

Michael blinked. "Forgive me, Pater, but I do not know what I possessed in younger days that should have made you jealous, unless it was the love of a brother and sister quickly lost."

Luke Dolabella shook his head. "When my old man brought you, took you in, I thought...I thought he might love you more than he loved me. You were so strong even then, so tough, you were what a Coronim man should be. I...my hands are stained with ink, not calloused by a blade."

"I have no doubt your father loved you just the same, sir," Michael said. "And whatever courtesy Master Dolabella showed to me was no more than he displayed to any of his servants."

Luke nodded. "I know. I learned in time that I was wrong, but still...I didn't like you very much. I didn't see why my father kept you. He told me you had the right stuff in you...and he was right, wasn't he?"

Michael frowned. "I would be prouder to have vindicated his trust if I could hve saved him."

Master Luke shook his head. "There was nothing you could have done. It's all in God's hands, isn't it?" He reached out and picked up a scroll, sealed with wax stamped with Master Dolabella's signet ring. "This is a grant of liberty. It frees you from my service. You're free again, Michael Sebastian Callistus Dolabella ban Ezekiel. Congratulations."

Michael took the proferred grant of freedom, wondering what Miranda would think to see him set free now, in these circumstances. She might find the whole thing grimly amusing, or she might be infuriated by it.

"Thank you, sir," Michael said, because it was the sort of thing he was expected to say.

"I hope you find your sister," Master Luke said.

Michael bowed. "You are a true gentleman, sir, as your father was."

Master Luke smiled. "Not quite as he was, but thank you."

Next Michael went in search of Wyrrin, and people were only too happy to point him to where the Fire Drake lay on his back, bandages inexpertly applied to the wounds on his scaly chest, his tail twitching back and forth, scraping the dirt away.

Michael knelt down beside him. The fire drake was not as tall as a man - not as tall as some men, anyway, he was roughly of a height with Michael himself - though if his tail were measured too he would come out longer. His body was slim and slender, with less than a foot from one shoulder to the other, and his arms looked so thin Michael marvelled that he could lift a sword let alone wield it. His scales were green, for the most part, with a thick stripe of red banded by two stripes of yellow rising from his snout to circle around his eyes like a river surrounding an island, then descending down his flanks to the tip of his tail. His legs were heavy, and his toes where sharp claws; one in particular on each foot was particularly savage looking, and curved like a sickle.

"Pater Wyrrin," Michael murmured. "Are you awake?"

Wyrrin's eyes snapped. "Michael," he said. "I'm sorry, may I call you Michael?"

Michael nodded. "You may. The right is the least that you have earned."

"I sometimes forget the right way to speak your tongue," Wyrrin said. "Your courtesies make ours look simple, and you do not even have a caste system. Well, not as I was born to, anyway. I am glad that you live."

"And I am glad of your survival," Michael said. "You are a hero to this town."

Wyrrin snorted. "I fought for my own people and saved many lives and they beat me and put me back in chains. I fought for your people and they call me a hero, I was even set free. The world is a strange place when men are kinder and more honourable than fire drakes." It was hard to tell what the lizardlike expressions of his face meant, but Michael thought that Wyrrin smiled. "I am glad to be a hero. Michael?"

"Yes?"

"Is it true there is more fighting for you ahead, that you mean to journey to save your sister from an evil man?"

Michael nodded. "So Lord Gideon says, and I will follow him."

"If my strength has returned by then, may I come with you?" Wyrrin asked.

Michael frowned.
Is this the aid that Lady Silwa promised?
"Why would you wish to do such a thing?"

Wyrrin exhaled heavily. "Because I would like to be a hero some more. It is everything I hoped it would be."

Michael grinned. "It is indeed; there is no sweeter nectar to the soul. If Lord Gideon will allow it then I would be honoured to fight alongside you again, Wyrrin of Arko."

Wyrrin nodded. "And you, Michael of Corona."

Two days passed on the road to Davidheyr and, with Lady Silwa's assistance, Michael's wounds healed rapidly. But they left scars. That had never happened to Michael before. Previously Miranda had left his skin as smooth as a newborn though he had come out of the arena looking like something a lion had chewed on (in one memorable instance his face had in fact been chewed on by a lion, but you would never know it now to look at him). But now...Michael sat at their campsite of that day, feeling the wound left by the Rachael's arrow in his shoulder. It was a crater in his skin, there was no other way to describe it: a red, raw crater that still ached in a low, throbbing way. His other scars were not so bad, a lump here, a tender patch there, but it felt strange to possess them. Strange...but not entirely bad. As he scratched and rubbed at them Michael found he rather liked the feeling, yet at the same time he also found that he did not particularly want to acquire any more of them.

I suppose I shall have to think a little more about how I fight, and remember I am not invulnerable any more.

"You were never invulnerable Michael, so much as you were free from consequence." Gideon sat down opposite him. "Now that you are not free you must learn to take responsibility for your actions, and that means predicting likely consequences."

"I shall endeavour to reform my thinking, my lord," Michael said as he scratched idly at his new scabs and scars; he had always possessed hands that could not bear to be idle, that required something to feel, to brush against, to scratch, to touch. His own body was as good an object of his attentions as any. "If I may my lord, how do you appear to pluck thoughts from my mind?"

"Years of experience," Gideon said glibly, and Michael did not think himself likely to get more from him.

Gideon stared at Michael for a while. "Michael, I watched you fight in the arena and I watched you fight the rebels on the temple steps. At times I could plainly see it was the same man, and at others it appeared that there were two of you with only physical appearance in common. So let me ask you something: what is it that you fight for, really?"

"I...I do not understand, my lord."

Gideon stood up and drew his sabre with a flourish. It was three feet long, with a golden-foiled hilt long enough to be gripped in one hand. The blade curved, just enough to give it a sound slashing edge while still having enough of a point for a good thrust. A ruby red as blood and the size of a duck's egg was set into the pommel of the hilt. The metal of the blade did not seem like metal at all, rather like some smith had managed to forge a blade of glass coated with a light touch of frost, Michael could practically see through it. It looked as delicate as though a breath from Michael might shatter it, yet at the same time strong enough to pierce through any armour. It was a weapon that seemed almost as though it might come alive, and strike down Gideon's enemies independent of an arm to swing it or a hand to wield. This was a sword worthy of a gentleman of high standing. This was the sword of a hero.