Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (55 page)

"That is my hope also Gideon, although..." Michael's feet shifted uncomfortably. "I would never betray you, but, as to the other: be your heir? I am-"

"Not a servant," Gideon said with a shake of his head. "Never just an ordinary servant. I would not place my faith in an ordinary servant. And I do place my faith in you. The question is can I trust you not to shatter it a third time? I should like to be proven right about someone."

Michael came to a rough approximation of attention. "On my honour, my lord Gideon, I swear that I'll not fail you. It would be poor repayment for all you have done for me if I disappointed you in your fondest hopes." And he would do it. In spite of all the flaws with which Turo had shackled him, he would ascend to meet Gideon's expectations. With Amy's help, and Gideon's and Tullia's and Wyrrin's and even Jason's he would rise out of the mire of his sins and shine the brightest star in Gideon's firmament. Indeed, such was the good influence of his friends and comrades on him that he felt the rising out was already done; only the rising up remained. If he lived, he would do as Gideon asked of him.

Gideon smiled. "I have known since Davidheyr that I could count on you. You are a good boy, and a better man than you think you are. A better man than I deserve."

"You are a lord both nobly born and valiant," Michael said. "You deserve a champion of unsurpassed strength and with a blazing fire in his soul that cannot be quenched."

"And I thank the Empress for sending me such," Gideon said. "But that is not what I deserve. The truth is Michael, I-"

His words were silenced in a moment by the sound of His Highness screaming.

At that moment Michael heard Amy bellow in anger, and as he looked towards the camp he could see lightning magic flashing in the darkness.

"Amy! Hold on!" Michael yelled as he began to run towards the camp, heedless of Gideon calling out behind him.
Almighty Turo protect them. Please God keep them safe,
he prayed. His legs pounded upon the soil as he ran to them, the starlight glinting off his swords as they rose and fell in his grasp.

Michael heard an angry shout in front of him as a gladiator armed in the prolixine style - Michael's own style, with two swords and a pair of manicae for protection - erupted out of the darkness, swords swinging. Michael parried the first blow with both his swords, but the strength of his opponent bore him backwards.

Such strength!
Michael rarely felt the lesser man when it came to brute force, but though this gladiator was a stringy fellow the might he was bringing to bear was astonishing.

There was another roar and another gladiator - he was a broadlander too - charged forward, flanking Michael. Michael leapt out of the way, and the two gladiators pursed him rapidly. Too rapidly. Michael was one of the fastest, strongest gladiators to walk the arena sands in Corona province, but the speed of these two foemen put him to shame. If he evaded their blows it was by the skin of his teeth, and once, twice, three times they nearly caught him, dealing him stinging cuts across his chest and the side of his neck. Fast and strong as well, their blows scoring his manicae as though Michael had worn slabs of meat to war instead of hard iron.

So fast, so strong,
Michael thought as he tried desperately to get away from these two relentless pursuers. He could not begin to think of counterattacking while they had him so severely outclassed, and they showed no signs of relenting their assault.
How are there two gladiators so skilled whom I have not heard of?

They dealt him another cut, slicing upwards from his side towards his shoulder. Michael winced from the stinging pain, staggering backwards. His first opponent raised his sword to split Michael's head in two.

Abruptly, Gideon stood between Michael and his enemies, the light of the moon and stars illuminating the obsidian beauty of Piety as Gideon caught the downward stroke without flinching from the weight.

The second man growled as he rounded on Gideon.

Gideon spun with more grace than any dancer, evading the downward stroke of his first opponent while at the same parrying the assault of the second, counterattacking with a slashing stroke that opened the second gladiator's unprotected leg. The rebel howled in pain, and while his guard was down Michael drove forward to drive his spatha into the other man's gut.

He saw the first gladiator's head roll across the ground and looked around to see Gideon standing expressionlessly over the body as it crumpled to the earth.

Michael retrieved his sword from the dead body. "I did not know there were too such gladiators in Corona."

"I suspect that is because there weren't, until recently," Gideon said calmly. "I very much suspect these two men ate human hearts in order to increase their strength and speed. I told you of the practice if you recall."

Michael felt very close to sick. "To think that the Coronim would stoop so low. We must return to the others."

"Wait," Gideon said.

"Why?"

"Because I suspect that is what the enemy wants," Gideon said.

"Michael Sebastian ban Ezekiel!" the Voice of Corona boomed out into the darkness. "Come out, that justice may be done upon you! Come out, or you may hear the last words of your dear comrades, dead from your callousness."

"Don't do it, Michael," Amy yelled. "You have to-" she was abruptly cut off.

Michael snarled, starting forward before he felt Gideon's hand upon his shoulder.

"We cannot abandon them," Michael hissed.

"I said nothing of the sort, but we must be sensible," Gideon said. "It is fair to assume that the Voice has more empowered warriors with him, not to mention his own spirit magic."

"Have you any soulbark, Gideon?"

Gideon hesitated. "There is no time for you to consume it and then wait for the effects to take root. We must make use of wits instead of strength."

"Michael Sebastian ban Ezekiel!" bellowed the Voice. "Do not try my patience!"

"What do we do?" Michael asked, his stomach freezing over with fear for his comrades in jeopardy.

Gideon closed his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer. "You shall answer the summons of the Voice. I must take Duty back from you." He took it out of Michael's unresisting hand before he continued. "Go to him, and try to keep him talking until I'm ready."

"Ready for what?"

Gideon smiled wearily. "To save the day, obviously. Trust in the Empress, Michael, and we will prevail."

Michael nodded. "As you say, Gideon."

He began to stride off towards the camp, spatha held loosely in his hand, his boots trampling down the grass as he walked towards the light of the fire.

Michael advanced, out of the darkness and into the circle of light which spread from the camp fire. Amy, Jason, Wyrrin and Tullia were all on the ground, as were eight dozen dead warriors of the Crimson Rose. Five of them had died from grievous sword wounds, two from what looked like lightning, and one from a spell that had robbed the life from him. But, as good an account of themselves as his friends had given, it had not been enough. Amy was being held between five Rose warriors, one of whom had torn off her helmet and put a blade to her throat. One man, another broadlander, had driven his swords through Tullia's hands, pinning them to the ground while he stood astride her body like a colossus bestriding the world. Jason lay on his back, a gladiator with a trident standing over him to stop him from moving. Two rebels sat on Wyrrin's slender body, and one of them had a blade ready to strike off his head. Other rebels were standing more idly, and all of them tensed as they saw Michael approach.

And in the midst of all, the Voice of Corona stood, his back to Michael, his long cloak covering everything beneath his helmet. His head was bowed, as though he were staring into the yellow flames and seeking enlightenment from them.

"I knew you would come," he said, not looking round. "Men of honour are so predictable."

"I am unsure how you would know that, having no honour of your own," Michael growled. "Nor in any of your wretched army."

"Hardly an army, now," the Voice whispered, turning to face him. "Your interference cost us dearly. The wolves routed our brethren before the walls of Davidheyr, then hounded us day and night until all the petals of the Crimson Rose had withered away! All but one. My last band of faithful followers devoured the hearts of their weaker comrades to increase their strength, then we made our way into Deucalia to wait until the Empire's watch slumbers once more."

Michael shook his head. "You are all monsters, beasts in human skin. For no true men would venture such savagery."

"I would have made you a prince," the Voice declared, his volume rising as his tone became angrier. "I offered you Corona, I offered you my hand in friendship, and instead you sold your people to the mercy of the Empire. You have no right to lecture any true Coronim upon morality! You will die here, by my hand."

The Voice paused for a moment. "It is considered folly to waste one's time pontificating before an enemy who is soon to die, and in so doing allow him the opportunity to escape his fate. Certainly I would not want you to live out the night. However, I do confess that I enjoy the sound of my own voice-"

"I never would have guessed," Amy muttered.

"But I believe I have found a happy medium between the two." The Voice gestured with one hand, and Michael saw someone approaching out the corner of his eye a moment before he felt the pain of a knife piercing his side. He gasped, clutching his wound as the blood flowed out of it and his body burned with white-hot flame. His hand was covered not only in blood but in black ichor.

"The knife was poisoned with Traitor's End," the Voice said. "Your sister could heal you but, of course, she is not here. So, I may now talk to my heart's content smug in the knowledge that you cannot survive. You will die, and I will take your head to Quirian and he will make me strong again."

Michael laughed aloud, throwing back his head. After all the lengths he had gone to seeking death, now that he sought it no longer he was being granted the mercy he had sought after for so long. It was too much, the irony too rich, he had no choice but laughter. "I was under the impression that Quirian was open to sparing my life."

"Is he? Truth to tell I do not care," the Voice said. "The cause of Corona is greater than he is, even if his arrogance blinds him to that fact. He has been a good friend to the Crimson Rose, but I will defeat the Empire without his help, even in the teeth of his antagonism."

"And when I am dead, what then?" Michael growled. "Will you kill my friends regardless?"

"Of course," the Voice said. "But if you wish them to die quickly, and without too much pain, then you will tell me where Gideon Commenae is."

Michael grinned in spite of the pain. "He is taking advantage of the distraction to prepare your death."

"What?"

And then, howling like a wolf, Gideon leapt out of the darkness with Duty and Piety gleaming in his hands. He was so swift, swifter than the wind itself, and he cut down six rebels before they could even raise their weapons. He was so swift that Michael could only see him by the devastation that trailed in his wake, as he scythed down the Crimson Rose left and right.

An arrow flew out of the night to bury itself in the eye of the rebel holding Tullia down and he screamed in pain as he fell backwards. Tullia sat up, her face contorted with the pain of her injuries, and she grimaced as lightning erupted from her hands to lash the fisherman holding down His Highness.

As more rebels died from Gideon's blade, more arrows flew out of the dark, piercing and slaying two the men holding Amy before the rest fell back in confusion.

Amy leapt to her feet, picking up the bloody blade of Magnus Alba. "Right then, you little buggers, who's up for another go?"

"Fall back!" the Voice yelled as his handful of followers died around him. "Fall back, all of you!"

One man chose to ignore his orders and ran at Michael, the same man who had stabbed him earlier come to finish the job. He was as swift as the rest of them, but Michael could tell from the way he was holding the knife which way he intended to come: up through the belly, to slice Michael open. Michael waited until the swing began, then when the rebel's momentum was sure to carry him on he threw his hand into the path of the stroke. His hand roared out in anguish as the poisoned blade pierced it, but his fingers closed over the foeman's hand while with his other fist Michael shattered his arm with a single blow. Then he slew the rebel with his own knife.

More arrows were erupting out of the night to speed up the rout of the Crimson Rose. Only the Voice of Corona stood firm, sword drawn, to buy time for his few remaining warriors. But then Gideon was on him, all other enemies fallen before his might, letting out the wolf-call of the legions as he hurled himself upon the false champion of Corona. Gideon's face was bleeding, Michael saw when he slowed down a little, the cuts forming out of nowhere as though some animal was raking his face with invisible claws, yet at the same time he moved like a god among men, unstoppable, implacable. The Voice of Corona gave ground rapidly before him. Gideon's blades struck through his cuirass, cleaving his hoplite helm in two to reveal the bloody ruin of the man beneath. His skin was rotting away and flies and maggots crawled across the surface of a face now dead and kept alive by will alone.