Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (22 page)

Gideon nodded. "It seems little enough to look at, but then so would any city compared against Eternal Pantheia. I suppose I can hardly begrudge you your attachment to Corona's soul; not when it is the source of all of your best qualities."

Davidheyr was surrounded by an earthen wall, reddish brown in colour and beginning to decay with age. Over the rampart Michael could see the towering magnificence of the great temple to Turo, a glory in marble topped with a great dome painted shimmering turquoise, glistening in the sunlight like the surface of the river. He could also just about make out the old royal palace, now the seat of the Imperial proconsul, reaching out towards the clouds with twin towers like those of a fortress. Beyond that, no other edifice in the town was sufficient to peak over even the little wall the Empire had raised. But then, Michael did not necessarily believe that was a bad thing: the palace and the temple, throne and holy faith, what other construct was so worthy to stand alongside those structures in reaching towards heaven?

Gideon stopped, as abruptly as a thrown rock striking a wall, and turned with the speed of a whiplash, looking down the road and to the rear of the column of refugees staggering up behind them.

Michael followed his gaze, and his eyes widened as he saw a group of horsemen flying down the road after them, dust rising from the hooves of their horses.

Those men watching us from a distance a few days ago. And a few of their friends, it seems.

The men were armed, the sunlight glinted upon spearheads and the blades of swords, and some of them were armoured too in bronze or iron. And above their heads their flew the banner of the bleeding rose.

"Turo under the ocean!" Michael snarled. "They tracked us here."

"They are bold indeed if they mean to attack within sight of the walls of the Davidheyr," Gideon muttered. "Have they lost all fear of the Empire's arms?"

Michael glanced back towards the earth rampart that protected Davidheyr. He could not see so much as a single sentry patrolling it. Perhaps the Crimson Rose were right to have lost all their fear.

"How many do you think there are, Michael?" Gideon asked.

Michael squinted. "Fifty?" he guessed.

"Thirty, actually, but not too bad for an amateur. Thirty runaway slaves and glorified brigands upon stolen horses carrying stolen weapons. Yet more than enough to slice through these people in this state. Oh, for a company of line foot; I'd teach them fear right enough."

By now others had begun to notice the approach of the rebel cavalry, and panic was beginning to spread throughout the folk of Lover's Rock, as they cried out in terror and wailed for some salvation from the evil that had deluged their lives.

And on the rebels came. The hooves of their horses shook the ground, the reflections from their weapons were blinding, the dust they kicked up was as a storm. And their howling, their howling carried the promise of death.

"Be calm, good people!" Michael yelled. "Trust in God and all will be well!" He turned to Gideon. "My lord, can we make it to Davidheyr before they are upon us?"

Gideon looked to the town walls, and to the resolutely shut wooden gates, then back to the fast approaching cavalry. "No. We would get half way at best."

Michael nodded, his face stern set and without emotion.
Blessed be Turo, Lord of Seas and Oceans, who teaches my hands to fight and my fingers to war. Blessed be God, who is the strength in my arm and the courage in my heart. Blessed be the King of Waters, who watches over us all the days of our lives.
"Then you must lead these people on, my lord, and I will hold off these villains long enough that you may see them safe."

"Alone?" Gideon said. "One man on foot against thirty men? That's madness."

"Ameliora was one woman, old and alone, and yet she stood against an army," Michael said. "Jonathan was one man alone yet he defied the elven lords in all their power. Heroes, lord, are always alone," Michael grinned wildly, he felt giddy with anticipation of the fight to come. "And yet never so, for God is with us, and walks beside us with every step we take, always. With his help, I will survive. And if not, I will have bought life for wortheir men."

Gideon hesitated. "I will fight beside you."

"No, my lord," Michael said firmly. "You must get the people into Davidheyr, you must carry on the quest, you must bring down Lord Quirian and save my sister, and this country. And besides, these vermin are beneath the dignity of Aegea's anointed, the Empire's First Sword. Leave them for cruder hands, and lower born."

Gideon nodded slightly. "You are a good man."

"I am the Last Firstborn, my lord, I have a reputation to live up to," Michael replied. To the people he cried. "Run! Run for Davidheyr, all of you. Follow Lord Gideon and he will keep you safe! And someone give me a pair of javelins!"

Two long ashen spears were pressed into his palms, and Michael kept a firm grip upon them, feeling the knots and lines in the wood as he strode through the press of frightened people towards the closing foe.

"Be of good heart," he said. "None shall come to harm this day."

All around him the people ran. Parents carried their children, husbands and wives and lovers held each tightly by the hand, the fit carried the lame and the wounded, but they all ran for the safety of the walls as fast as their feet could carry them. They swirled around Michael like all the fish running down a river, fleeing the approach of the hungry bear, save for one salmon, half-mad on dreams of desperate glory, who swan towards the jaws instead of away.

That image is very poor. If I live I will give thought to a better one for such times as these.

"Michael," Wyrrin called out. "Let me stand with you!"

"No," Michael said. "Go with the others. Heal. Then fight for my memory and thus do honour to my name."

"May the light of Arus guide you," Wyrrin called, as he was swept away by the flight.

"And may Turo watch you from the waters, and be with you in the ripplings of the pool," Michael murmured, turning his face towards the horsemen of the Crimson Rose.

They charged towards him, whooping and yelling, waving their swords and spears, eager to run down this one man who stood in their way and glut themselves on the blood of helpless innocents.

"We who are about to die commend our souls to God and praise the Emperor!" Michael shouted. "For Throne and Empire!"

He began to run, his sandals carrying him towards the onrushing horse as the sand covered his legs and got under the straps of his sandals. When the enemy were forty yards distant he cast his first spear. The deadly dart flew true, and plucked the standard bearer of the Rose from out of his saddle and laid him low upon the dusty ground. The foe cried out in anger and dismay. Michael kept on running. When he was twenty yards distant he threw his second spear, and another rebel, clad in magnificent bronze armour and a cape of blue linen, fell, pierced in the chest and sent tumbling to the earth. The Crimson Rose roared, but their warcry could not match the ferocity of Michael's own as he drew forth his shimmering blades and hurled himself upon them with a shout to strike the clouds. "Corona!"

And then he was amongst them.

Michael swung his spatha at the mouth of the nearest horse, a bay mare with spittle flecking its mouth. He bellowed like an angry bull as he swung, and bellowed harder still as his blade connected with the poor creature's mouth. He bore it no malice, and it was not the honourable course to strike the beast instead of the rider, but even the honour of a Coronim must be set aside when the lives of over a hundred innocents were at stake. So he hit the steed in the mouth and watched it rear up in panic and in pain, throwing its rider to the ground where Michael made an end of him.

The cavalry were all around him now, spears and swords lashing out. But they were clumsy upon their untrained mounts, trying to bring plough- and draught- and coach-horses under control, while he was as nimble as a wolf amongst a flock of sheep, and sewed as much discord in their ranks.

A grim-faced and bearded man thrust this spear towards him, but Michael dodged the stroke and pulled him from the saddle to slit his throat. An aged rebel with his hair turned grey struck down with his sword, but Michael parried the blow with his spatha and then sliced the fellow's belly open with his sabre.

The horses were moving in all directions, circling, rearing, tossing their heads and stamping their feet, kicking up so much dust in the air that Michael could barely see more than a blur of brown and bay and grey and black. All he could hear was the whinnying and the crying and the shouting of men. Half blind, he lashed out in every direction, rewarded more often than not by cries of pain. When he saw something flashing in the dust storm he would dodge it, or parry, or take it on his manica if he could not do either.

He took one such stroke upon his armour, a blow so heavy that it jarred his arm, before counterattacking and sweeping off the arm of his assailant in a single blow.

One rebel dismounted to face him, but he was nervous, hiding behind his wooden shield, and once Michael beat down his defence he fell swiftly.

All the horsemen were focussed upon him. Michael could feel it, even if he could no longer see it. They were all on him and none had stopped to pursue the folk of Lover's Rock. He had done as Lord Gideon had asked, he had done his duty.

A horse emerged from out of the dust and the chaos, rearing up violently in front of him. Michael raised his arms to shield his face, but he was still knocked onto his back with a jarring pain coming from his forehead and a feeling of dizzyness, followed by a firm pressure on his chest as a rebel with a scar on his lip planted his foot just below Michael's neck, raising his spear to strike for his eye.

"Bastard," the rebel spat.

Michael smiled. "God save the Empire." His vision was blurring to the point where it seemed that three rebels were trying to finish him off at once. He felt so light-headed. All he could think was that it would be over soon.

The rebel scowled, and raised his spear higher.

"Michael!"

A rock soared through the air, cut through the dust, and struck the warrior of the Crimson Rose full on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. Michael jerked out of the way as the man's falling spearshaft gave him a little rap on the head to go with the far heavier knock he had gotten from the horse.

He could hear the roaring of the Crimson Rose turning to shouts of alarm. He saw a column of armed footmen burst through the dust, led by a warrior in what...no, his mind was playing tricks on him, their leader was armoured like a naiad.

And their banner, rising above the dust he could just make out...it was the Empire's standard.

"Hold on, Michael, I'm coming!" a voice cried out, a voice that was strange and yet familiar at the same time. A voice that tugged at the edges of his memory like a half remembered song from long ago.

She almost sounds like...Amy.

"Don't be scared of her, our Felix, she's just a girl. Come on."

"She looks like she's scared of us, big brother. Or you, anyway."

Michael and Felix stood on the beach, ten feet or so removed from the waves as they lapped up and down upon the sands. Sands that were stained with blood and trodden down with footsteps leading westwards down the shore towards Lover's Rock.

In front of them sat a fishing net, coarse and thick, with a little girl trapped inside it, hunched up and hugging her nears, sniffling and sobbing.

Michael frowned as he looked down at the bloody rock in his hand. He threw it into the sea, watching it sink below the waves for a moment before he took a step closer to the net, putting one hand to the hilt of his knife as he did so.

The girl in the fishing net cried out pitifully, and shrank back further into the net's entrapping embrace.

"Don't be afraid," Michael said, kneeling down in front of her. "I'm not going to hurt you or tease you or trick you or anything like that. I'm not like those other boys."

"You're scarier than they are," Felix muttered.

Michael rolled his eyes. "Thank you very much, our Felix." He returned his attention to the girl. She looked to be about Felix's age, or closer to it than to Michael's, and very fair by Corona's standards. She had long red hair that went down to her waist, and a nice round face. Her eyes...her eyes didn't match up, which Michael had never seen before. One was blue and the other was green, and both of them looked like the sea at different times of the day. She had strange markings on her neck, three on each side like the gills of a shark. Michael had never met anyone quite like her before.

"What's your name?" Michael asked. "I'm Michael; Michael Sebastian, I'm a Firstborn son of Corona. And this is my little brother, Simon Feliccius."

"Everybody calls me Felix," Felix offered tremulously.

Michael tried to smile reassuringly, but it didn't seem to work because the girl seemed no more anxious to talk than she had been a moment before. Michael and Felix had come across some of the other local children tormenting the poor girl, they had stuffed her into this net like a carp and had been dragging her across the beach, jeering and throwing things at her. Michael had put a stop to it, and sent them running, but he seemed to have scared the girl even more than her tormentors had. On the one hand, Michael felt a little bit miffed about that - it wasn't as though he'd killed anybody, after all - but at the same time, with reflection he had acted like a bit of an animal. And this girl, this stranger, didn't know that Miranda would be able to grow Thomas' eye back with a little bit of effort, after all.