Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (85 page)

"I'd rather you didn't throw your life away," Jason said. "I...I could come with you, to send Michael on his way. And then we will go together to Eternal Pantheia, and try to rouse the Empire against Quirian. If we can reach Lord Manzikes before Antiochus can find us then we can convince him of the threat Quirian poses and let the legions deal with him."

"I thought you didn't have time for Michael's funeral," Amy said.

"I may not," Jason said. "But, truth be told, I would rather have a bloodthirsty brute to hide behind on the road."

Amy chuckled. "Very then, you spoiled little boy, I'll protect you. You're very brave to risk your brother's wrath like that."

"Less brave than you, to talk of slaying Quirian," Jason replied.

Amy shrugged. "No naiad would find it remarkable. Custom is the king of all, as the saying goes. And what of you, Wyrrin, you owe us no loyalty."

Wyrrin did not look at her. He stared at Michael, his eyes inscrutable, his mouth closed, clenching and unclenching his claws. "I have no home to return to, and anywhere that I might flee from the destruction of this land might be far more inhospitable than the Empire has been. I will go with you."

"I'm glad to have you, for what it's worth," Jason said. "And you, Gideon? Will you come with us?"

Gideon looked lost. "I put all my hopes on Michael. Without him I have little confidence. Lord Manzikes will not believe you without proof that you do not possess, and he has no reason to shelter you from Prince Antiochus. I fear that if you go to Eternal Pantheia you will be going to your death."

"Coming from the man whose plan has brought us to this pretty pass, whose charted course brought about the deaths of Tullia, Fia and Michael, you will forgive me if I do not kneel before your sage council," Jason spat. "I must try. I cannot abandon the people to their deaths."

Gideon might have said more, had not Wyrrin suddenly hissed in anger and drawn his swords as he faced towards the forest.

"What is it?" Amy asked, sliding Magnus Alba from its sheath.

"Someone comes, I can smell them," Wyrrin said. "They stink of death."

Amy scowled. "So, Quirian has decided to kill us after all. How can Felix follow such a deceitful snake."

"How could we have done so?" Jason asked. "Damn it, we waited here too long."

"How many men?" Amy asked.

"I smell only one."

"One man," Amy spat. "What an insult. Still, I should quite like a fight. There's an old naiad proverb: the best cure for pain is to do someone injury. That's the rough translation anyway. Killing someone; a good way to say goodbye to Michael."

Jason moved Michael behind a tree, where hopefully the enemy would not see him, then took up his position with the others. Amy stood in front, her greatsword held before her, while Wyrrin and Gideon stood upon her flanks, blades drawn. Jason stood behind them, staff held before him, the runes upon his wand glowing faintly.

"I want no demon summoning," Amy said sharply. "There has been enough evil done today."

"Very well," Jason replied. "Though I wish you hadn't mentioned it."

"So that you could do it anyway?"

"Quite," Jason said. "As a last resort only, of course."

"Oh, of course," Amy said, a touch of mockery entering her voice.

They waited, and watched as the Voice of Corona strode out of the trees. His long cloak billowing around him and his bronze helm gleaming in the sunlight. He emerged from out of the shadows of the wood and stood still and silent as a sentinel upon the Iskalon, watching them.

Amy's brow furrowed. "I was disappointed that Quirian had only sent one man, but I suppose you're more than just a man, aren't you? Haven't we killed you enough times that you will leave us alone?"

The Voice laughed, deeply and without mirth. "I have sworn before God that I will avenge the insults and injuries you have dealt to the Crimson Rose, and in this I mean to keep my word. Would not Michael tell that that was my duty as a Coronim?"

              Amy bared her teeth, a low growl emanating from her throat. "Don't you dare talk about Michael! You don't have the right!"

              The Voice paused. "He is dead then. A pity. I was looking to making his end slow and painful. I suppose I will have to settle for finishing the remainder of his meddling companions. And you, Lord Gideon Commenae, you need not think you will be spared my anger or my vengeance."

"Quirian will not-"

"A fig for Quirian, what care I for his orders?" the Voice demanded. "He used the Crimson Rose, bled us in his cause, and now he casts us aside! Did you think Quirian had sent me here? I am here because I wish to be here, because I want to kill you with my own two hands! And when I have, I will raise a new army of the faithful and I will tear down Quirian and the Empire both, piece by piece. Corona is not mocked, not used, not cast aside or spurned like a dog. Corona is a free land and proud, as all who have mistreated us shall learn to their great cost and sorrow."

Amy stepped between Gideon and the Voice. "You'll have a job by the time I'm finished with you."

"And who are you that I should fear you?" the Voice demanded.

"I am Amitiel Ameliora Doraeus ban Tiralon, daughter of Niccolo," Amy declared. "Squire to Ser Viola of Kraken Tower and true heir to Seafire Peak and all the lands of the Whalewatch. You killed my mother at Lover's Rock."

"I have slain many mothers, should I fear all their daughters?"

"You should when they are naiads, and knights of the Oceanhost," Amy growled, placing her helmet upon her head. Her vision narrowed at once to a narrow slit before her, but she could still see her enemy just fine. She picked up Magnus Alba, and held it ready for a killing blow. "Now then, since you say you mean to kill us, why don't you come and try?"

Quirian's company marched through the outer eaves of the woods, scouts out, weapons ready. Not that they had encountered any trouble, but Lord Father wished to be ready in case any dryads decided to attack them on their way out.

Metella Kardia was not sure why Lord Father did not simply have her tear open a way to the spirit plane there and then, to transport the survivors of their company home, but she did not question his decision. Lord Father was a man of surpassing wisdom, with a reason behind his every action. It was not her place, as a lowly bodyguard, to question the course he had ordained. Her place was to fight and, if need be, die for him. Nothing more.

She did not wish for anything more. There was a certainty in service, like a rock beneath her feet, unyielding and immobile. In a swift-changing world, and Metella knew better than most how swift the world could change, such steadiness was a source of great comfort.

One day she would die, wounded beyond the reach of Filia Miranda, and on that day Metella Kardia would die content, knowing that she had done her duty.

She hoped that Lucifer would be able to find some comfort.

Lucifer was walking in the middle of the formation, head down, chin tucked against his chest. His expression was the picture of misery, and he had stopped exercising any command over the Lost at all, the duties of captain falling to Timaeus.

Metella's eyes left him, glancing to the tall, forbidding figure of her Lord Father, walking beside her.

"With your permission, my lord father?" Metella murmured.

Lord Father's lips twitched upward slightly, and when he spoke his voice was a little amused. But at the same time, he sounded concerned. "Of course. Do what you can for him."

Metella nodded, a barely perceptible motion, and dropped back into the midst of the column. "Lucifer," she began.

"Who's that?" Lucifer asked. "Lucifer? Felix? Who am I, really?"

"Who do you wish to be?" Metella replied.

"I don't know," he moaned.

"Then ask the question of your own heart, and not of me," Metella said softly. "Only know that, whoever you are, I am your friend and I am here. As are we all."

Lucifer raised his head just enough to look her in the eyes. "You didn't know? You didn't know who I was, that my brother was alive, that Filia...that Miranda was my sister."

Metella hesitated for a moment. "I knew that you had a living brother and a sister. Lord Father told me as much. But he told me that you were better off away from them, that you were better off not knowing the truth. I did not know that Miranda was your sister or Michael your brother. I did not even know your original name."

"You lied to me," he muttered.

"I told you what I thought was best," Metella insisted. "I have always done what I thought was best for you, haven't I?"

"I thought so," Lucifer said, his voice small and childlike.

Metella reached out and squeezed him on the shoulder. "I have been true to you, I swear it. Trust me; and trust in our Lord Father also, he has a reason for his every act and he watches over us in all things."

"Does he?"

"How can you ask that?" Metella said. "We are the Lost, who now are found in our Lord Father's grace. What are we without him?"

"I killed my own brother for him," Lucifer said. "Did he deserve to die? Does our Lord Father deserve such loyalty from me?"

Metella did not answer that for a moment. From what she had witnessed of Michael Callistus, he had not seemed a bad man. He was not the ogre of his sister's stories, nor the monster that Lord Father had spoken of rescuing Lucifer from. A little odd, perhaps, old-fashioned to be sure, an acquired taste possibly, yet at heart she had thought him a good man. Yet Lord Father always dealt fairly and honestly with his children, or at the very least behaved ever with their best interests at heart. Metella believed that. She had to believe that. If he said that Michael Callistus had to die, then it was so.

If only she could believe that it was necessary to put Lucifer through such anguish as he now endured.

"Metella," Lord Father called. "Come here."

Metella gave Lucifer's arm another squeeze of reassurance, and then moved quickly back to her Lord Father's side.

"How is he?" Lord Father asked.

"Shaken, Lord Father," Metella whispered.

"A pity," Lord Father said. "I have a task for you."

Metella bowed her head. "I am at your command."

"Retrace our steps, back to where we left Gideon and his friends," Lord Father said. "Find them, kill them all save only Gideon."

Metella's eyes widened. "Lord Father-"

"Yes?" he demanded.

Metella pursed her lips. "You promised Lucifer that you would show mercy."

"And he will continue to believe that I did," Lord Father said. "But I dare not leave my foes alive to trouble me further. Do you understand?"

Metella blinked. "Another lie, Lord Father?"

He nodded. "But kindly meant, as they were before." He paused. "Are you refusing to obey my orders?"

"No, Lord Father, I am at your service ever," Metella said. "But...how will you return to Eternal Pantheia without my spirit magic?"

Lord Father smiled, and touched the white blade slung across his back. "This blade was made for one of the Young Gods. It contains great power, including the souls of warriors struck down by its keen edge. With the power of this sword I will be able to open the way home myself."

Metella bowed her head. "I understand, Lord Father, you have no more use for me."

"My dear child, I said no such thing, nor will I," Lord Father replied solicitiously. "You are the only person I trust with this mission. You are not only my most faithful servant, but also my best. I am very proud of you."

"I revel in your praise, Lord Father," Metella murmured, though her tone of voice did not change in the slightest. "It will be as you have ordered."

She turned away, darting back into the woods, leaving the column of her comrades, leaving Lucifer, far behind.

Metella Kardia was not a woman of great faith. Her god, in many ways, was her Lord Father. She had not stepped into a temple since the barbarians came. Yet, in that moment, as she felt her knives cold beneath her fingertips, Metella wished that she had sufficient faith to pray to some god to forgive her.

The Voice chuckled as he revealed his arms from beneath the folds of his cloak. In his hand of flesh he held a sword, in his hand of bone a ball of eerie blue fire flickered. "So then, will you come one at a time so I may slay you each in turn? Or all at once that I may cut off your heads in a single stroke?"

Gideon charged with a cry that was one part the howl of a wolf, one part the high-pitched shriek of a prowling fury scenting blood. It was the cry of the legions, and Amy imagined that to hear it ripped from ten thousand throats would be a sound to chill the blood and make the spine tremble. But to hear it from a single man it sounded empty, pathetic almost, the last desperate shriek in defiance of a beaten warrior who had no more fight left in him. Gideon charged, Piety held before him like a lance, and Amy realised that he did not mean to slay the Voice. It was as he had told them: Michael's death had shattered him. That was why he made no attempt to use the great power he had employed against the Voice before this, but attacked with a strength that was likely to be painfully inefficient.