Eventually, General Ramses could take the provocation no longer. He lifted his head to face her, biting his lower lip so hard that blood trickled down his chin. “Very well, then. Have your audience with His Majesty. But I will insist on accompanying you.”
He raised a hand to his soldiers. The gate lifted ponderously, its iron chains grating so fiercely one could feel it. Once the way was open, General Ramses took the lead, and Hiro followed him in at Lucia’s side.
With a thunderous crash, the gate fell shut behind them. Screams rose into the air as a cloud of dust rolled out, turning the air into a brown haze. The soldiers milled anxiously in the murk, uncertain what to do.
“What is the meaning of this?!” General Ramses’s voice rang out, but the uproar showed no sign of subsiding.
Hiro glanced around, then raised his hand high. Wind swirled around his palm. In the blink of an eye, it turned to a violent squall that snatched the dust skyward. Lucia shot him a curious look as their vision cleared, but he only shrugged. She raised her fan over her mouth, her shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter.
“I gave no order to close the gate!” Ramses bellowed to the battlements, arms crossed to shield his face.
Several unfortunate soldiers had been beneath the gate when it shut. It had killed them instantly, evidencing its weight. Blood oozed from their crushed bodies. Shouts of confusion rose from beyond the wall. The palace garrison had been shut out too.
“Well, well.” Hiro sensed something ominous in the chaos and raised a hand to his mask.
A figure appeared on the battlements, silhouetted against the sun, and alighted softly on the ground. Their face was concealed by a hood, but their nonchalance in the confusion was unsettling.
General Ramses drew his sword as the intruder approached. “Identify yourself.”
“I am Ladon of the primozlosta.” The hooded figure’s voice was inflectionless, and his attention never wavered from Hiro. Bodies rained down behind him—the rampart guards, most likely. None were breathing, but their armor was pristine. Blood seeped from the seams. They had been slain without a fight.
Ladon spread his arms wide. “I will brook no interference. The masses must quit the stage.”
Hiro stared back in silence. His eyes flicked back up. Another figure had appeared on the ramparts. They leaped high without hesitation, touching down with a soft noise. As they rose from their crouch, they turned to regard him.
“I am Hydra, also of the primozlosta.”
His presence was overwhelming. Hatred radiated from him. Yet more than anything else, his mana was so potent that it warped the very air. The two primozlosta remained nonchalant, but their opponents stiffened.
“Orcus!” Lucia exclaimed, assuming a battle stance. Ramses leveled his sword. Yet neither Ladon nor Hydra showed any interest in them. From beginning to end, their eyes were only for Hiro.
“These two seem to have business with me,” Hiro said. “You go on ahead and secure the high king.” Testing the ground underfoot, he drew Dáinsleif from its sheath, and his smile broadened.
Lucia blinked for an instant, but she quickly spun about and dashed away toward the palace entrance. “Very well. Come, General Ramses!”
“Your Majesty?”
Bewilderment filled Ramses’s face, but he glanced several times between Hiro and Lucia, and that seemed to be enough to convince him. He too set off running for the palace and quickly caught up to Lucia.
“Is the High King safe, Your Majesty?!” After the appearance of the intruders, he feared the worst.
“I cannot say. Where is Nameless, may I ask?”
As the question left Lucia’s lips, she pushed open the palace door. Her face crinkled in distaste at what she found.
“No survivors, ’twould seem.”
The inhabitants had been slaughtered—the young, the old, the men, and the women alike. Blood flowed through the halls like a river. Lucia scowled as she bounded over corpses. Beside her, General Ramses bit his lip as he stepped between the bodies of his own troops.
“What brutality...” he whispered, bitter tears flowing down his cheeks. “These were not soldiers!”
Lucia shot him a cold glance. “Is Nameless in the throne room?”
“That I can’t tell you. We haven’t met for some time.”
“Then first, we ought to ensure the High King is safe.”
Lucia dashed past the entrance to the throne room and into the corridor that led to the royal chambers. This hallway was filled with hidden doors to foil assassins. There was one visible door, but it was a trap. The true entrance was elsewhere.
“Here.” She stopped in front of a bare patch of wall and struck it with her fist. A low rumbling came from inside, and a door emerged from the stone.
“How do you know of this place?” Ramses asked.
“Anguis is as storied a house as any of the rest. We have secret knowledge of our own, passed down from generation to generation. Is it such a surprise that some of it should concern the High King?” She grasped the handle and the door fell open. Her brow creased. “Already unlocked, hm?”
Puzzling over that now would be a waste of time. She stepped inside. Ramses followed. Both froze at what they saw, their breath caught in their throats.
“’Twould seem we are too late,” Lucia said finally.
“His Majesty... It cannot be...”
One clapped a hand over her mouth, frowning. The other slumped to the floor. Upon the bed in the center of the chamber lay the corpse of the High King, blood streaming from his eyes and a dagger protruding from his chest. A foul stench filled the air.
To fall to one’s knees and weep like Ramses was a natural reaction to such a horrific sight. No doubt anyone with normal sensibilities would have done the same. But Lucia’s face filled with a fierce delight.
“A fine opportunity.”
She stared down for a moment at the High King’s unmoving corpse, then closed her fingers around the handle of the dagger.
“Have you lost your mind?! You would defile your king’s body?!”
“Have you lost yours, General Ramses? Would you leave your king with a murder weapon lodged in his chest?”
“I...suppose I would not...”
Sensing Ramses drawing closer, Lucia wrenched the dagger free—then turned it sideways and spun with fearsome speed. The blade flashed in the gloom.
“Agh!”
She felt it bite and then tear free. Ramses stared at her goggle-eyed, hands clasped to his neck. Blood flowed from between his fingers to spatter on the floor. He staggered backward one step, two steps, then collapsed on his rump.
Lucia approached him, her eyes gleaming wickedly. A heated breath spilled from her throat as she exulted in the stench of blood, like a serpent staring down its weakening prey.
“I fear, General, you have become an inconvenience.”
“Why...? You...” Ramses’s face turned red, but he could not speak through his slashed throat, and he was struggling to breathe.
“The High King fell victim to Nameless’s machinations, while you fell in his defense. I shall ensure the people remember you as a model general.”
Ramses began to thrash but eventually lost his strength and curled up, face to the floor.
“I shall see this through. Rest assured, I shall reclaim Six Kingdoms for humankind. This I swear.”
Lucia flicked open her fan and looked up at the ceiling. The general’s head struck the floor as the last drop of strength left his body. With one last cold glance at his lifeless form, she snapped her fan shut again.
“How long I have waited...but at last, the hour has come.”
Her tongue snaked out to wet her lips as she gazed up at the wooden sky.
＊＊＊＊＊
The air grew foul and stagnant, and not because of any change in weather. The stench of death created an eerie otherworld around the palace gate. Three men faced each other in silence, two hooded figures staring down a masked boy. He met their gaze, white mantle billowing as he gripped his black blade.
Hydra was the first to speak. “It has been far too long, Mars. Or should I call you Surtr?”
Every syllable dripped with loathing. The air around him was a curdled miasma. Yet Hiro addressed him as nonchalantly as he might an old friend.
“Call me whichever one you like. I have to say, though, I’m impressed you found me.”
“You hid your scent for a long time. But at long last, we caught it again.”
It had been healing Scáthach that gave him away, no doubt. He had made use of both Gandiva’s and the Black Camellia’s powers. For as long as they were unveiled, those who knew what to look for could have sensed the War God.
“A skillful deception you achieved when you fought Six Kingdoms.”
“Anything less wouldn’t have lured you out. And I’d gotten tired of you scurrying about behind the scenes.”
That was the truth of Hiro’s ploy. He had used Igel’s dharmastone to suppress the Black Camellia’s power, throwing his enemies off the scent. Once Orcus believed he was dead, they felt secure in emerging into the light. His plan had succeeded, and they had revealed themselves with their raid on the imperial palace.
“And yet you concealed yourself just the same,” Hydra remarked.
“Don’t worry. I’m nowhere near as underhanded as you.” With a goading smile, Hiro rested his black blade on his shoulder and pointed at the primozlosta. “Still, no eyes to see with, no manastone to sense with... How awful it must have been to know I was alive but have no idea where I was.”
The earth cracked beneath Hydra’s feet, but he suppressed the urge to pounce. With ragged breaths and trembling hands, the primozlosta cast back his hood. His dry lips split in a ghastly smile, revealing his teeth.
“Do you recall the marks you left on us? These scars that will never heal?” He pressed a finger into a gaping eye socket, gnashing his teeth in loathing.
“Of course. And those holes in your forehead too. All my handiwork.” Hiro showed no sign of remorse. If anything, he scoffed. The dismissive sound carried to his foes on the wind.
Hydra began to tremble with rage. “At long last, we will have our vengeance. Have you made your peace?”
With those words and the mistaken meaning they implied, something changed in the air. The smile slid from Hiro’s face.
“I’m the one who deserves vengeance.”
His expression froze over, revealing an empty void. Power swelled around him. The air thrummed, crying out in terror. The wind fled his presence, and the plants at his feet began to wilt.
“So let me ask you...have you made your peace?”
A gust blew over them. Hydra stared, momentarily uncomprehending, but his rage swelled as understanding dawned. “You dare?!” he howled. “Pretender!”
Fury began to cloud his reason as he stared Hiro down, but Ladon held him in check.
“Calm, Hydra. You permit your enemy to lead you by the nose.”
“I know... Oh, I know! But look at him!” Hydra’s outrage would not be denied. Mana surged within him as he stamped his feet in fury, filling him with power that begged for release.
Hiro crooked his finger in provocation. “Hydra, did you say? I look forward to making you beg for death a second time.”
“You cur!”
“Bark all you like. I promise you, this time will be worse than the last.”
No sooner did the words leave Hiro’s mouth than he vanished in a burst of speed. Ladon jumped back, sensing danger, but Hydra let his rage carry him into a forward sprint.
Hiro reappeared in front of him, stance low. “You’re letting anger blind you. Don’t forget...I’ve already beaten you once.”
The heel of a palm sank into Hydra’s stomach with devastating force. As he grunted and doubled over, Hiro grasped him by the lapels and pulled him closer.
“I’ll deal with you later.”
He swung Hydra over his back and slammed him into the earth. The breath exploded from the primozlosta’s lungs. Hiro followed up with a heel to the sternum, then cast his gaze about for Ladon. Spotting his foe, he surged forward.
Seeing Hiro close in, Ladon drew a dagger and slashed. The blade whistled as it cut the air, but he had anticipated that the attack would miss and shifted a half step to the side, harnessing his own momentum to twist around and catch Hiro’s attempt to evade. Hiro caught his elbow, and the second strike did not hit home either. As the two combatants came to a standstill, Hiro produced a clouded dharmastone.
“Let me try something.”
He plunged his hand into Ladon’s chest, wielding his fingers like a blade. A fountain of blood sprayed forth as he pulled his arm free, his hand dyed crimson and the dharmastone nowhere to be seen.
“Gah!”
Ladon slumped to his knees, confusion written across his face. He tried to force himself to his feet again, only to collapse back down onto his rump.
“You... What did you do?!”
“Infused a dharmastone with magick. And it seems to be having the intended effect.” Hiro wiped the blood from his arm with Ladon’s hood. “Now, sit quietly and watch while I deal with your comrade.”
Indifferent to Ladon’s spiteful glare, Hiro reached out into empty air. Space split apart, disgorging a blade that shone with a brilliant light.
There had once been a time when the blade was renowned as the sword of a hero. No matter how many men it slaughtered, no flesh would dull its edge nor blood sully its brilliance. It was the weapon of a king who saved his nation from ruin and brought the surrounding lands to heel. A thousand years of history had turned it to myth; even its name lay buried beneath the sands of time, leaving only the legend of a sword long lost. Yet in the legend of Held Rey Schwartz von Grantz, second emperor of the Grantzian Empire, it was written: “To the king blessed with twinned black, commander of all creation, there came a mighty sword, and it knew no defeat, bringing only victory assured.”
Its hilt and crossguard were purest white; they might have been dusted with powder snow, so pure and unblemished was their shine. Its blade trailed a thousand dazzling stars as its razor edge parted the air. It was the most beautiful of the Spiritblade Sovereigns: the Heavenly Sovereign, Excalibur.
For three years, it had lain neglected. Now, its searing light sang for joy at finding use again. Power surged forth, racing across the ground before soaring skyward, proclaiming its return to all of creation. A change came over Hiro’s garb too. With the dharmastone extracted, the Black Camellia began to revert to its original color.
With Excalibur in his right hand and Dáinsleif in his left, Hiro looked solemnly down at Ladon. “Hate me all you like. Wish me dead if you want. But let me be your enemy. Come for me and only me.”
He looked sideways. Hydra was watching, astounded. Hiro stepped forward. Another step, and Hydra backed away, unable to bear the weight of his might. The strength he exuded scorched the air.
“We have quite an audience today, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint. So allow me to demonstrate the true power of the Spiritblade Sovereigns.”
Hydra said nothing. It was all he could do to look on, slack-jawed.
“Legend tells that the Spiritblade Sovereigns are five, yet one.” Hiro took another step forward. Innumerable rents appeared in the air behind him. “Excalibur, the Blade of the Beginning, forms the vessel.”
Forth from the tears came weapons, each and every one suffused with the power of the spirits. Their forging required a vanishingly rare ore that only spirits could produce. Spirits were drawn to the banks of pure water sources, where they sometimes left behind crystals imbued with their own essence. These crystals, which shone with a luster to rival any gemstone, were called spirit stones. They were exceedingly rare; even the imperial territories, vast as they were, only harvested somewhere between three and seven per year. As such, they commanded a high price, and their value only increased by the year. No one but the royal family and their closest allies were likely to ever see one in their lifetimes—and yet countless such armaments now hovered in the air behind Hiro. Anybody would have taken the sight for a dream.
“Mjölnir, the Blade of Might, lends its strength.”
A loud thrum set the air vibrating. The two blades in Hiro’s hands began to shudder, shining with fierce glory. Vast quantities of power poured into the spirit weapons hanging in the air. Several shattered under the strain. Their shards scattered like snow, swirling around Hiro to paint the world silver as they glinted in the sun.
“Gandiva, the Blade of Vitality, amplifies their power.”
A gale raged, catching the swords in its grip. Hydra dove for his life as spirit weapons rained down around him.
“Curse you!” he cried. “What sorcery is this?!”
The blades laid open his arm, his leg, his cheek. Still, he managed to fend off severe injury. His dagger licked out prudently to deflect lethal blows. Yet before spirit weapons imbued with the power of the Spiritblade Sovereigns, it was little better than a child’s toy, and it soon snapped at the hilt.
The storm of tyranny was unrelenting. Blades rained down, seeking to snuff out Hydra’s life. The primozlosta darted through the merciless assault, dodging for all he was worth. He jackknifed out of the way with bursts of mana or summoned walls of earth to shield him, but the threat pursued him still.
“Gáe Bolg, the Blade of Forbearance, levies the seal.”
A biting chill spilled from the spirit weapons embedded in the ground, sheathing the earth in ice. Everywhere they fell was Hiro’s domain; as long as his foe remained in sight, his arsenal would hound its prey relentlessly. And in time, that prey understood his fate. His desperate flight ended in a standstill, and he realized it had all been for nothing. Such was the true terror of the Spiritblade Sovereigns. A single moment of hesitation would claim his life.
Gáe Bolg’s chill snared Hydra’s feet. In a heartbeat, he was encased in ice below the waist. He struggled to free his legs, but he would not have the time.
Hiro leaped high. “And Lævateinn, the Blade of the End, lays all to waste.”
He crossed his arms before Hydra, the Heavenly Sovereign in one, the Abyssal Sovereign in the other. The blades swept apart with blinding speed.
“Pretender!” Hydra growled. “My spawn will avenge me!”
“I look forward to it.”
Two razor edges parted Hydra’s head from his body. It flew high, trailing a ribbon of blood through the air. Hiro narrowed his eyes as he watched it go.
“Just like I thought. They can’t unveil their true power unless they’re all present.”
The Spiritblade Sovereigns only revealed their true power when all five were assembled. One, two, three, or even four were worthless in isolation. So Artheus had taught him one thousand years ago. The spirits had loved no one more than he, but even so, four Spiritblades had not been enough to slay a god.
“You were a worthy foe, Hydra.”
He snatched the head out of the air as it fell. Blood sprayed across the ground, dyeing the flowers red.
“And as for you... I see you’ve run away with my dharmastone.”
He turned to where Ladon had lain. Only a pool of blood remained where the primozlosta had once been. Hiro nodded to himself and looked skyward again. It was a fine day. A flock of birds swam lazily across the blue.
“Now, then,” he murmured. “I do hope you were watching.”
At that moment, the gate of Fierte Palace blasted off its hinges. The partially melted metal bounced across the ground, plowing up clods of earth, before crashing clean through the palace wall. White smoke rose from the rubble. A charred stench pricked at Hiro’s nostrils as the temperature began to rise.
The Greif troops were in uproar. Wails and cries of surprise filled the air. The Black Camellia, now fully restored to its former hue, rustled warily. Hiro thrust Dáinsleif into the earth, removed his mask with his free left hand, and turned his eyes—now both fully gold—to the ruined gate. There stood a crimson-haired girl, wreathed in blue flame, radiating divine might.
“It’s been too long, Liz.”
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