Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (20 page)

Gideon said, “This one is Duty, for without duty a man is no better than a beast, living from moment to moment driven by nothing more than base desires. There is no greater glory than the discharge of one’s duty, and no higher honour than to have a solemn duty bestowed upon your shoulders.” And Michael saw that, indeed, DUTY was the word engraved into the blade.

Gideon planted Duty in the ground, and drew forth his straight spatha in both hands. It was of a similar length to the sabre, but straight from hilt to tip, and the jewel in the pommel was a sapphire. The blade was black as ebony, and had an insubstantial quality like smoke to it. Neither of Lord Gideon's swords looked like any sword Michael had seen, yet at the same time they were also the most beautiful weapons he had ever beheld.

Gideon said, “And this one is Piety, for the essence of duty is to give oneself over to something higher, greater than ourselves. And the essence of piety is to comprehend that there are powers greater than ourselves in the world, and to revere them.

“These swords are more than just my weapons, Michael, they are the pillars of my character, the foundations of my virtue. They are my soul. Without my faith in Aegea the Divine, and in her dream of a single universal nation, I would not serve the Empire with all my heart. And without my duty to the Empire I would not be myself. All I am, I am for the Empire’s sake; all I do I do for her. I worship the Empire, I love the Empire. I would be nothing without her. That is my creed, if you will. What is your creed, Michael Sebastian Callistus Dolabella, of the tribe of Ezekiel of the Coronim?”

Michael looked down at his feet. "I used to think I was born with a duty, my lord, to my family. But Miranda always laughed at that, and I wonder if she wasn't right."

"A duty that you choose is always better than one thrust upon you," Gideon said. "For it is easier to keep faith with a thing if you have pledged your heart to it of your own free will. I was born a Commenae, and so I was born to serve the Empire as my family has for the past eight hundred years: a Commenae stood at Aegea's right hand, a Commenae broke the Lavissari on the river Arrun, a Commenae was the last First Sword before the office was proscribed, from the moment I was born the pattern of my life was laid out. And I could have been content with that, served in my legion, risen in rank as an officer, or perhaps gone into politics and scrabbled after magistracies. But I did not. I wanted to become the Empire's First Sword, to revive the office after five hundred years, to restore the faith of Aegea and see the Empire's destiny fulfilled. I cannot say I was successful in all of these ambitions, and yet they burn within me as strong as ever even now. I can fight on for the Empire that is in my heart because I cannot imagine anything else. I will never retire, tend an estate, devote myself to philosophy or literature. I am the Empire's faithful servant, and I will remain so till my dying day. Is there anything which moves you in the same way?"

Michael shook his head. Being a gladiator had merely been a stepping stone to death to him, a means to go out honourably and with the love of the people ringing in his ears. The kind of passion Gideon was talking about, the kind of passion that seeped from his words, had been absent from his soul for some years now. "I am afraid not, my lord."

"Then you must find something Michael, and I shall help you. But first, draw your swords."

"Why, my lord?"

“Because I am going to teach you how to use them,” Gideon said.

"I know how to use them," Michael said with a touch of injured pride. "Three times champion of the Sea Covenant games my lord, and thrice champion of the provincial games in Davidheyr besides."

"As I said, Michael, I have observed your fight on two occasions," Gideon replied. "You are not without skill certainly: fate has blessed you with strength and speed both and you seem to know your way around the basics of swordplay. But at the best of times you are sloppy and you only get worse when you lose your temper, which seems to happen distressingly often. Come at me." 

"My lord?"

Gideon adopted a guard posture, both his blades ready to strike or to defend, "You heard me. Come at me. Hard mind, if you hold back you'll never break through."

"There is no hope that I can best you, my lord," Michael said. 

"Really, and why so sure?" Gideon asked, a twinkle in his eye. 

"Because I have heard this tale before, my lord," Michael said. "You will humble me with your skill, and hope defeat will prick the bubble of my vanity. Without thought I can name three stories in which such a fate befalls the hero."

"Think you yourself the hero of this tale?" Gideon said, with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

"No, my lord, though I have cause enough would make me one were I of noble birth or gentle temperament," Michael said. "But you are too young and proud to make an aged and unassuming master, and too highborn compared to me besides. No, my lord, you are the Hero, and I your rustic servant fit for jests and japes and such relief will prick the long dark hours that lie ahead." 

Gideon's eyebrows rose. "For someone who considers themselves the light relief you are a remarkably dour and stern-faced fellow. No matter, you will be fit for more when I am done with you, much more," Gideon said. "Now, no more arguments: attack." 

Michael drew his swords and closed with Lord Gideon. With his spatha he thrust at Gideon's chest. Gideon looked bored as he parried the blow and thumped Michael on the head with the flat of Piety.  

"This time, make an effort," Gideon said. 

Michael sprang at him, but Gideon cut his legs out from underneath him with a well placed kick to land Michael backside first upon the ground. 

"Useless, absolutely pathetic," Gideon said. "How do you ever think to rescue your sister if this is the best you are capable of? Were you fighting blind men or children these last three years?" 

Michael's jaw clenched. 

"Miranda had best pray some other form of possible salvation presents itself," Gideon continued. "But then, she probably has already: she has learned better than to rely on you." 

With a wordless cry Michael threw himself upon Gideon, blades swinging furiously. Sabre and spatha alike glanced off of Gideon's guard as Michael assailed it again and again, his face fixed in a rictus of fury. He would make Gideon eat those words, he would shove them down his throat, he would- 

Gideon swept Michael's swords from out his hands with two deft blows before headbutting Michael so hard he fell to the ground.  

"Stay down!" Gideon bellowed, his foot on Michael's chest. He continued in a softer tone, "I am truly sorry for those things I said, Michael, I had to rouse you to a temper in order to prove my point."

"I hope you do not take it too amiss if I do not accept your apology, my lord," Michael said as he climbed to his feet. He noticed a number of people watching him and Gideon, and he turned his face away from all of them as he hoped his dignity was less injured than his aching rump. "Your words were somewhat unbecoming of a gentleman."

"I daresay you are right," Gideon said. "But I hope you absorbed the lesson of this day: you are a brute who fights with his rage, and that has served you well against opponents who do not possess your natural gifts, or are bowled over by your ferocity in attack. But once you meet an opponent who can match your strength, your speed even your rage, then you will be as done for as any barbarian warband once their charge has been absorbed by an Imperial battle line.

"There are two ways to fight, Michael, you can either fight with virtue or with fury. Virtue, the quality of civilised men, is always superior to Fury, the quality of barbarians. That is why the Empire always triumphs over the barbarians. Fury will get you killed one day Michael, Virtue will make you invincible."

Michael frowned. "It cannot make me stronger than I am, my lord, nor faster neither." 

"So certain of that, are you?" Gideon said, with one raised eyebrow. 

Michael hesitated. "Not any more, my lord."

"And quite right too, young man," Gideon said loftily. "I am afraid I cannot teach you to relinquish anger, nor how to find within yourself sufficient store of virtue to accomplish our task. You must discover those answers for yourself. But in the meantime I can at least teach you how to move and fight with a little more finesse than you have been displaying previously. Try and keep calm enough to remember this the next time you find yourself in battle, won't you?"

And he began to take Michael through a series of sword stances, painstakingly showing Michael every detail of his position, even getting down to move Michael’s feet himself so that he was sure that they where properly placed. Gideon wasted no time, but neither did he rush things, making sure that everything was as he liked it before he moved on. At first Michael was confused by his instruction method, since there had been none of this in the gladiatorial school, but Gideon was not closemouthed upon the matter and as he worked he answered any questions that Michael had about his training methods. He explained that, since gladiators fought for entertainment, it was only necessary to teach the basics of how to fight since that was all the viewing public would be familiar with, and be interested in seeing. Moreover, Gideon also explained how all the precise placements of feet, legs, arms and the like made the movement of the body and the swords much easier and more economical for the body, as well as ensuring greater precision. Michael’s sloppiness, Gideon said, reduced his chances of breaking through his opponent’s defence and landing a killing stroke, as well as leaving him vulnerable to enemy counterattacks. 

Gideon took Michael through the various movements and stances for a series of sword drills, showing him how to move fluidly from one position to the next, where the sword was supposed to end up each time, and how at any point to convert his attack into a defence if the enemy reacted by attacking pre-emptively. Unfortunately, when he tried to have Michael repeat the drills at increasing speed Michael ran into problems.

"You are thinking about it too much," Gideon said. "Considering each movement separately; in battle that will get you killed. It should flow, instinctively, one stance to the next. You must be as air, Michael, touching all and yet untouchable."

"I try, my lord."

“I know, but we have so very little time,” Gideon said. “We will continue this tomorrow, but for now it is probably time to get some rest." He sat down, and began to assemble a fire for Michael and himself.

“Every morning and every evening I shall train you in the handling of the sword. And as we travel toward our destination we shall talk, that I may mould your spiritual qualities even as I craft your fighting ones.”

"I fear that may me too great a task for even your powers, my lord," Michael said.

"Nonsense Michael, you shouldn't hold such a low opinion of yourself," Gideon replied. "In time, I think you'll make a splendid hero of the Empire."

"What does the Empire need with a such a man as I, my lord?" Michael asked.

Gideon smiled sadly. “Every need in the world Michael, even if it does not realise it yet. More to the point, I rather think that I may have need of you, rather pressingly.”

Michael's brow furrowed in confusion. “What can I possibly do for you that you cannot do for yourself, my lord?”

Gideon looked back at Michael, a shadow flickering across his face, and for a moment Michael thought that he would speak. But then he looked away, concentrating upon sparking the fire with his flint. “Later, Michael, I will explain everything later.”

As he watched without seeing, Gideon’s words reverberated through Michael’s head, consuming his thoughts. Nobody had ever needed him since Felix died. It would be nice for it to be true, what Gideon said, oh how he would love for it to be true. But really, how could it be?

“So tell me,” Gideon said, looking up from the flames that now flickered over the dry wood. “What made you sell yourself into slavery?”

Michael didn't answer. He didn't even look at Gideon, choosing to admire the landscape instead. About a mile back, before Gideon had made the decision to make camp, the column of survivors had crossed a small stream, a tributary of the Iskalon, and now the stream was curling back, like a snake that had turned around and was heading back towards them. There must have been more than twenty streams like it in Corona, fed by the great river Iskalon that had been Turo’s wedding gift to Corona on the nuptials of his daughter. They turned a dirt-bound and barren land into one that overflowed with greenery and potential. As far as the eye could see Michael could see fertile fields stretched out around him, and way into the distance nature’s bounty stretched forth awaiting the firm hand of the harvester. The lemon trees were blooming, flowers grew on the roadside, insects buzzed all around, Corona teemed with life. Except for humans. Of farmers and slaves, those who tilled the fields and farmed their plenty, there was no sign at all. No gangs of fieldhands toiled, no bailiffs oversaw, no ploughmen trod their weary way. There were a few shadowy figures on the horizon, watching without getting close enough to be identified, but otherwise it was as though the Lord of Death had ridden through Corona and carried off all the people who had dwelt here. Curse all rebels.

"You know, I'm not going to forget I asked just because you haven't answered," Gideon said.

Michael sighed, and then shrugged. “Why not, my lord?”