Phoenix Ascendant - eARC

by Ryk E. Spoor

  Instantly two massive, demonic forms materialized, one at each end of the room; vaguely humanoid, scaled, with heads of an insectoid aspect.

  At the same time, the sound of armored feet came from the doorway, feet running as to a summons, and through the doorway came three figures. Poplock heard himself give a stunned croak, and both Tobimar and Kyri took a step back, pale and disbelieving.

  Before them, grim in their shining raiments, were Shrike, Mist Owl, and Silver Eagle.

  Chapter 36

  For an instant, the tableau was frozen. Aran felt as though the room was swaying under his feet even as everything else was motionless, as he recognized the face of his father, the man who had raised him…a face unmarked, as though a piece of his own axe had not impaled him through the skull—a piece of the axe that Shrike now held, whole and raised and ready.

  He could bring us back from the dead? He said nothing of that! He never brought any of the others back! Why? How?

  With a tremendous effort he threw off his paralysis and started forward, just as the frozen scene dissolved into chaos.

  Kyri lunged, engaging their patron, the Great Wolf, no longer using the power of the Phoenix but just her great glittering blade that sang and rang as it spun and whirled and dipped in geometries of death, parried by crystal claws that appeared and vanished on the false Watchland’s hands. Tobimar charged one of the two summoned demons, even as Bolthawk and Skyharrier began circling the other three false Justiciars.

  Where Poplock was, Aran had no idea. The little Toad excelled at disappearing.

  The Watchland glanced at him. “Aran, we must engage the other demon!”

  The fact that the Watchland said this without the slightest hesitation—showing him the trust of a companion, the trust he had lost long ago—brought him back fully to himself. “Yes!”

  But as they started towards the huge thing, which looked something like a bilarel crossed with a warrior ant—he noticed something. “Sir…your sword?”

  “On the far side of the room, I am afraid. I would never reach it.” A dueling sword and a dagger appeared in his hands in a flash of light. “But a wise man is never completely unarmed. What of you? Your sword was destroyed, and weapons without magical virtue will avail little against that monster.”

  The demon loomed over them now, as Aran allowed himself to give a hunter’s smile. Ducking beneath taloned arms, he delivered two mighty blows to the thing’s midsection, staggering it backwards. “I still wear the Raiment of Condor,” he said, as the thing snarled in pain and anger. “And that is magic enough for any demon!”

  “Ha! Well struck, Aran, and well said!”

  The room shuddered, then, as Kyri smashed the Great Wolf headlong through one of the walls; the Justiciar of Myrionar charged after her adversary. Tobimar was holding the other demon off well enough, and the other false Justiciars were trading halfhearted blows while arguing at the top of their lungs.

  As Aran managed to catch and hold the demon’s massive arms for an instant, Kyri flew back through the hole, crashing to the ground and skidding fifty feet across the smooth polished stone. Aran did not allow this to distract him, and the Watchland used the demon’s momentary immobility to run it through with his narrow rapier. It roared and staggered, but the wound was starting to close already. Won’t be that easy.

  The Great Wolf leapt after Kyri, now transformed to a nightmare shape of claws and fur, crystal-death smile and blank, glowing eyes of green malice. Her blade Flamewing met it in mid-leap, carving a red valley across its chest, but it rolled and weaved enough to evade the killing strike.

  I would give a great deal for the Demonshard back, he admitted to himself as he used a leaping kick to drive back the insectoid monster. Perhaps it would be no use against him, but these demons? They would be nothing.

  Blue-white fire blazed out behind him, and the demon staggered back, shielding its eyes, calling out in furious pain. Aran wasn’t sure what that was, but the demon of Voorith was vulnerable now; together he and the Watchland drove it back, smashed it in a dozen places, and rammed blade and fist through its head. It spasmed and then lay still, wounds no longer closing. Aran looked around quickly.

  The other false Justiciars had been staring in horror at the Great Wolf, now alternately snarling and laughing as it traded earthshaking blows with the Phoenix. Across the room, Aran’s gaze met Shrike’s.

  For a moment it was as though they stood alone, not a part of the battle; just seeing each other as they had many times before, father and son, allies and friends. Shrike glanced down at the weapon in his hands, then back to Aran, and without warning the pain and doubt and anger faded away, replaced with a certainty.

  Shrike spun and charged, axe drawn back, heading straight for the Wolf.

  Their patron sensed his approach—as the source of their power, Aran doubted it was possible for them to truly surprise it. But it was hampered by the fact that it was already facing a powerful foe indeed, and though it struck Phoenix aside and began to turn, it could not quite be fast enough.

  Windclaw caught the Great Wolf full on the side of its mighty chest, plunging haft-deep into the monster. Its roar of pain shook the entire Retreat, and it staggered.

  Kyri fairly flew from the floor and Flamewing impaled their patron completely, a foot and a half of cold-glittering metal emerging from its back. At the same moment a backhand from an immense hand armed with glittering claws sent Shrike careening across the floor, trailing blood. Aran heard himself scream his father’s name, dove to catch him, even as the monster sagged to its knees, grasping at Kyri’s sword to prevent her from withdrawing it.

  Shrike looked up. “Good…t’ see ye again…lad…”

  Aran couldn’t say anything, saw the whole scene wavering through tears.

  “Finally…got to hit…the arrogant bastard,” he said, but there was red froth on his lips, the Raiment of Shrike was carved across in three places, and blood was pooling on the ground. “Mayhap…I helped end it.”

  Then the creature began to laugh.

  Aran’s head snapped up, even as it rose to its feet, hurling Phoenix and her blade aside like straws. “What a heroic thing to do, Shrike,” it said, grinning with its mouth of crystal blades, blades that shrank and grew and moved as it spoke. “To try to expiate your crimes by such a courageous act! And such timing! You truly were a fine warrior, Shrike, that you could so assure that both your strike, and hers, went true!” Its tone shifted to a cloying sympathy. “What a shame that I had already so much power from the Phoenix’s first assault that even those strikes meant nothing to me!”

  Tobimar Silverun came into view, shimmering with the blue-white radiance that had blinded the demon, and his sharp features seemed cast of dark stone. “Yet they struck you, monster, and something of you must have been hurt. Kyri is not harmed, and your reinforcements have died or become ours.”

  Even through his grief at a second parting from his father, Aran found a proud wonder in his heart as he saw the others—Bolthawk, Skyharrier, Mist Owl, and even the old Silver Eagle—forming into a line facing their Patron, weapons drawn, faces grim but somehow with a simple joy beneath—the joy of doing, for once, the right thing.

  “And so it ends, monster,” Kyri said, once more standing with Flamewing in her hand. “Great Werewolves are fearsome indeed. But my grandfather once killed one, and others have fallen before other heroes. We know you now, know what you are, and we have weapons to harm you, for all things the Spiritsmith wrought have included that touch of silver you fear. Some of us may fall…but you shall fall before the last.”

  It looked at her and the others, its wounds already gone, and suddenly it chuckled again. “You know me? Oh, child, you have not yet asked my name.”

  Aran felt a knife of ice impaling his heart, and saw understanding belatedly flare in Kyri’s suddenly horrified gaze, as the monster drew itself up, towering nine feet and more, laughing loudly enough make the air itself shake with fear. “I am no mere ‘Gr
eat Wolf,’ little Justiciar. Who do you think could direct the actions of other Wolves, send one of them to infiltrate and assassinate the Sauran King, to whisper poison words of advice in the guise of the friends and advisors of a dozen countries, could himself live and walk within the court of Kerlamion himself and none suspect a thing?”

  Tobimar’s blades dropped lower, his blue-white power fading, and the false Justiciars were ashen.

  “Only I command my people, little Kyri Victoria Vantage. Only I, the Slayer of Gods, the Hunger without End, that whom the Saurans and Demons name Lurlonimbagas, the Lightslayer, the King of Wolves.” The monster’s smile filled the world with glittering death. “Only I…Virigar.”

  Chapter 37

  Even as the truth was revealed, part of Poplock’s mind was simply saying Of course. He remembered how they’d mentioned—and dismissed—the Great Wolves as the suspects, because they worked with none and for none other than their King, and there were many others—demons and otherwise—involved. He remembered the spectral shape that had surrounded Thornfalcon when he had drawn on the power given him, and saw how perfectly it compared with the fearsome glowing-eyed, shaggy nightmare before them. He remembered Kelsley having suffered wounds to his soul, and Kyri’s tale of how her brother’s had been shredded. Of course.

  So their King was the mastermind, and his people his tools, as he manipulated even the King of All Hells, set Miri and Shae dancing like puppets! Poplock found he could do nothing but stare, sitting all the way across the room from the monster where he’d been making sure that the demon Tobimar had chopped to pieces stayed that way.

  “And as for your weapons?” Virigar continued, that smile impossibly wider. “Do you believe you will ever touch me with them again?”

  He spread taloned arms wide and roared again…but this time a subliminal ripple of…something rolled out from him.

  Kyri fell to her knees immediately, trying to rise and failing. Tobimar’s remaining blue-white fire guttered and went out, the last traces streaming towards the towering, dark figure of Virigar. Aran Condor collapsed over his father’s bleeding body; the Watchland and the other False Justiciars sagged to the ground.

  Even from his distance, Poplock felt a faint tug on his very soul, a chill hunger that sought to take all energy and spirit from him. What? Blackwart’s Chosen, he can drain energy from distance? Not by touch, not by being within an arm’s reach, or by you stupidly throwing the energy at him so he can get a hold of it, but just by wanting to take it?

  The legends hadn’t said anything about that. The ability to appear to be anyone, so perfect that no magic or god could sense the truth behind the mask, and to slay anything with those crystal claws, that was more than enough. But now Virigar was killing Poplock’s friends without even touching them!

  I’ve got to do something!

  He thought of his clockwork crossbow. But even if he could get good aim at a range of over a hundred feet, he doubted a silver needle would be more than a slight annoyance. It sure wouldn’t stop Virigar from killing all of them. Maybe he’d stop on his own—the monster had certainly shown he liked to play deep games—but Poplock couldn’t afford to wait and see!

  He cast about desperately. I can’t get closer to him. I can’t throw a spell or a Gemcall at him, he’ll just eat them. The demon nearby had nothing useful; it wasn’t silver-coated and it didn’t use weapons.

  Wait. What’s that?

  Against the wall was a long, slightly curved sword, glittering whitely in the lightglobes; the far side of the room, by contrast, was going dark as even the lightglobes there lost the magic within them.

  A sword. He bounced over in three great jumps and looked at it. That workmanship…it might be…no, it has to be the Spiritsmith!

  And if that’s true…

  Poplock concentrated, summoned up the magic, wove a spell of levitation, of movement, of flight. The blade stirred, then rose into the air, swiveled around to point directly at the massive shaggy haired figure standing over Kyri as she started to drop from her knees towards the ground.

  Gotta do it right the first time…

  He concentrated, reached deep within himself to encompass the magic that he’d learned to wield. Blackwart, I’m probably going to have to use it all. Hope this works.

  He threw all his strength into the spell, willing the sword to fly through the air as fast as it could.

  As the sword sped through the air, closer and closer, keeping it aloft took more and more power, the energy draining out of Poplock like water pouring from a slashed waterskin, but he paid no attention, just pushed as hard as he could, pushed with will and magic until suddenly there was nothing left.

  But while the magic was gone, the mundane power of momentum still ruled, and the little Toad’s spell had accelerated the Watchland’s blade to a tremendous velocity. Point-first it slammed into Virigar just below his left shoulder and drove completely through the Werewolf King.

  Virigar gave a startled roar of pain and shock, staggering, nearly falling. At the same moment the oppressive Hunger lifted, the others rose to their feet and scrambled away, backing off; those like Skyharrier who had ranged weapons kept them drawn.

  The Werewolf King was suddenly facing Poplock, without turning; somehow his back had become his front. A taloned hand reached up, yanked out the sword, threw it aside. “I…confess, that did rather sting. And it’s now clear that none of you will allow Phoenix and myself to complete our personal business without interruption unless I give you something to really keep your attention.” He was back in human guise, and bowed ironically in Poplock’s direction. “So I think I should let you talk to an old friend—one who’s really been quite looking forward to the opportunity.”

  “Oh, this isn’t a good thing,” Poplock muttered.

  The King of Wolves bent and touched an inlaid circle in the floor. “By my name and power I complete the summoning. Abide by the pact—Voorith!”

  A column of inky black smoke erupted from the ground, spread, grew wider, became more solid. A nightmarish head, like that of a praying mantis the size of a castle tower, emerged, followed by a semi-humanoid body armored with chitin and scales, forelegs for ripping and crushing yet also with armored, powerful hands, one of them gripping a staff that seethed with energies more than merely magical. The glittering eyes sought and found him, and Poplock felt himself shudder.

  “Poplock Duckweed,” the Mazolishta chittered. “I have been waiting for you.”

  Chapter 38

  Tobimar had barely recovered from the shock of learning their true enemy’s identity, and then having his power snuffed out like a small candle in a breeze. But the name Voorith brought him to his feet immediately. Terian’s Name…that Mazolishta Demonlord has a direct and personal grudge against Poplock!

  “Now, Voorith, I want you to keep them all busy,” Virigar said cheerfully, waiting as Kyri forced herself to stand. “The Phoenix and I have a private little war here, and I want it to stay private.”

  “By ‘busy’ I hope you mean ‘dead,’” the nightmarish head buzzed.

  “Dead is perfectly fine, if that’s what you wish. Just keep my guests entertained.”

  Voorith nodded, and with a single gesture, a cloud of biting, stinging insects appeared about him. They flew towards the others, driving them back, ignoring blows, curses, even a few abortive attempts to use fire merely redoubling the attack. Tobimar realized that the whole purpose of this assault was to get them out of the room. He sprinted across the floor, forcing more strength to rise up from his mind, and caught up Poplock. A buzzing rattle warned him that the swarm was after him, too.

  “Drought, this is bad!” Poplock said as he grabbed tightly onto Tobimar’s shoulder.

  “Bad enough.”

  And getting worse, he realized; they were heading for a solid wall, and behind the rising sound of the swarm were swift, inhumanly hard and sharp strides. Voorith’s after Poplock above everything else. He’ll get us too, but he wants my fri
end first!

  “Don’t slow down!” Poplock snapped. The Toad threw a crystal sphere ahead of them, calling out “Come forth!” The sphere shattered into a prismatic cloud and a small, stocky, reptilian form entirely composed of rock materialized just before the wall.

  “Open the way!” Poplock shouted.

  The creature…melded with the wall, and the wall abruptly parted like water, a gap just large enough for Tobimar to dive through. Scarcely was he through than the wall was whole again.

  “That was…a Light-good trick, Poplock!” he said; finding one of the corridors he thought led out of the complex, he kept running; he was under no illusions as to how long that would balk a Mazolishta.

  “Got good connections with nature, we Toads,” Poplock said, without quite his usual self-satisfied tone. “Lucky I had one that was Earth; I’d been arguing with myself that I should drop that one and get another Salamander. I—look out!”

  The very air before them had coalesced into the figure of Voorith, crouching low to fit in even these high corridors. Rather than slackening his pace, Tobimar dove forward, swords extended, and slid right between the reptile-scaled insect legs, his weapons forcing his opponent to jump away—behind them—or be impaled in a very delicate location. With a swift roll, Tobimar was back on his feet. Got to keep my senses tuned to their highest pitch. He needed to get to a position where he could focus for a moment.

  A howling, whining swarm of black bees with the heads of giant warrior ants screamed out of nowhere. Poplock answered this attack with a fan of orange flame that momentarily parted the hungry curtain. Is that a door? Please let it be to the outside!

  Bursting through the door, he found that it did…in a sense. They were in a pleasant, green courtyard, probably one of several spaced around the core of the Retreat. High above them, the Balanced Sword stood, an ironic witness to the unholy below it. Grasses and bushes dotted the enclosure, with three trees planted at the corners of the generally triangular space.