Phoenix Rising

by Ryk E. Spoor

  What the . . . he’s not even here and he’s expecting me to answer him? Tobimar searched desperately through the hundreds of hours of instruction Konstantin Khoros had given him, in history, meditation, the power of the mind, the theory of magic, the interaction of the powers . . . “You taught a lot of lessons, Master Khoros.”

  For a moment he was convinced that—despite the earlier warning—Khoros was, indeed, present, because at his response the old wizard shook his head as dolefully as ever he had in life. “You need to be quicker, Tobimar. A lesson does no good if it is filed away somewhere in your head only to be drawn out by being told to you again.” He sighed. “Never mind. I am as much at fault; I tell only that which I dare, and it is never enough.

  “I mentioned that over the past several centuries, the number of gods seen intervening in direct and spectacular fashion had decreased. I have spent many of those years trying to determine if this was a pattern that indicated a change in need—if, in fact, the gods simply were not being called upon to act as much as in years past—or a change in behavior, or merely what might be termed an artifact of chance.” Despite himself, Tobimar nodded. He remembered this very clearly, now that Khoros had reminded him of it. Which echoes what he said; it does no good if I have to wait for someone else to remind me.

  “It has, however, become clear to me that this was in fact no coincidence, nor was it a matter of decreased need,” Khoros continued. “Indeed, in some cases, the lack of intervention where it would have before been expected has led to terrible disasters.” Khoros’ deep, sonorous voice was grim. “And now I understand why.

  “Twelve thousand years ago, the last of the Chaoswars was fought—a world-enveloping series of conflicts which seemed to erupt almost at once, triggering mystical cataclysms of tremendous force and lingering effect. It is of course known that there have been many such wars in the history of Zarathan; what is not known, however, is how they come to happen, and how often.” The sorcerer’s image leaned closer. “But I know. Every twelve thousand years, more or less.”

  “Terian’s Light . . . but that means . . .”

  “Exactly so. The next Chaoswar is nearly upon us, and I believe it is much, much closer than merely sometime in the next few centuries. I believe it is within the next few years.”

  “But what have the—”

  “And now you ask what the gods’ behavior has to do with this.”

  If this is truly a message recorded months ago, his ability to be annoyingly correct is even more impressive than I thought.

  “I have sources close to the gods, when I dare use them, and in this case I felt it necessary. They confirmed what I feared. There is a pact, now, between virtually all of the gods, an agreement that they shall not intervene directly in events on Zarathan, save only for those gods who have an undeniable and inescapable physical presence on this world. How exactly this pact was arranged . . . I have yet to determine, for even I dare not tread too far into their realm unless I am willing to confront them. Something which,” he smiled wryly, “I would prefer not to do at this time. But its existence convinces me that I am right about my timing. Even though the power unleashed in a Chaoswar can, and does, affect even the gods, without them to assist, the results could be even worse. Even the gods of evil, in general, are not in favor of the complete and total disruption of a Chaoswar, and the few that are would normally be kept under control by the others.”

  Khoros rotated his hat absently in the ritual manner Tobimar had seen so many times, with the five points of Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit following in turn. “You must find that which was lost, Tobimar. It is not that it is your destiny, although you may choose to make it so, for destiny is choice, not choicelessness. It is that the powers of destruction gain strength in such times, and those things which failed to utterly destroy your people in their flight will once more walk the world. Your people have kept traditions, yet forgotten the truths. You were deprived of your homes, your power, your freedom, and your allies—and they, of you, so that all are now but feeble shadows of what they once were, and where you once ruled is now darkness. That must not be allowed to happen again—for it shall.”

  “You know where—”

  “You must find these things on your own.” Once more it seemed as though Khoros knew already what would be said, long months after he had left. “I can only tell you this: that you must learn what you once were before you can decide what you will become; that you must pursue lies to discover truth; and that the only route to your triumph is to serve both justice and vengeance, for both are your people’s due. All else is but your choice—to trust or not, to lead or follow, to have faith or lose all. But when all else fails, you may find strength in childhood prayer, for there were, indeed, the true words of Terian himself, as given to your forefathers in the first days of their strength.”

  That old prayer? Tobimar felt vaguely embarrassed, and yet he remembered the words as though he had never stopped saying them, and they still carried the echoes of his childhood faith as he found himself repeating them with Khoros:

  “Seven Stars and a Single Sun

  Hold the Starlight that I do Own;

  These Eight combine and form the One

  Form the Sign by which I’m known.

  The Good in heart can Light wield;

  The Length of Space shall be thy shield.”

  “Two Chaoswars past, your people rose to the heights. In the last, they were felled; in this, Tobimar, they shall either reattain all that was lost and more . . . or they shall cease to be.” The ancient mage bowed deeply. “My hopes and blessings go with you. May the Five and the Seven and the One be ever with you.”

  And he was gone, the leaf dispersing like the last of the crystalline light that had surrounded him, the echoing chime of his staff fading into the sounds of the surrounding ocean.

  4

  This was absolutely not in my plans today, he thought as he gazed down into the cavern, yellow-gray stone tinted orange and red by unnatural fire burning in the center of the cave. Figures moved around the fire in an orderly, menacing progression, muttering in a language he didn’t understand.

  But he didn’t need to understand much; he’d only dabbled a little in magic so far, but what he saw now . . . a huge five-pointed star, carven into the bedrock of the cavern, inlaid with metal and dark gemstones and—at each point of the star—a pathetically twisted body impaled straight through the chest as though by a spear that penetrated the living rock below . . . that pretty much tells me all I need to know about what kind of magic this is. He grimaced and closed his eyes, setting his jaw and feeling his hands grip the hilt of his new sword tightly, but he couldn’t shut away the sight of those five murdered people. Rushsong, Shapeclay, Foamcloak, Divedeep, Tipstone . . . I knew them all. Five disappeared. Five dead.

  It had all seemed so simple this morning; he’d gone to the temple to pray, as were most of the others with five of their own gone. Everyone had been offering help, planning to assist in the searches; as usual, almost no one had noticed him. That happened a lot when you were that small, a runt who had to literally climb onto the prayer stones instead of squat down like most of the others.

  So he’d had to wait until everyone else left to catch old Barkboat’s attention. “Hey! Hey! Priest!”

  The old priest made a great show of looking around in puzzlement. “What? Are the prayer stones talking now? Oh, it’s you, little one.”

  “Five of us gone. One of them my first teacher. No one hunts us. We do not hunt our own. This is . . . very strange, very bad. This isn’t a time for being silly, Barkboat.”

  “Tsk, tsk. We are taught that even the darkest times may call for the light of laughter. What brings you here?”

  “I want to help.”

  Somewhat to his surprise, the priest had not laughed, but gravely considered the offer. “Were the times normal, young one, I would have told you to simply stay close and stay out of trouble—hard though the latter would be for y
ou. Yet . . . your elders and your larger peers have searched far and wide. They have probed the Burning Waters and the Evermists, searched beyond the Rainbow Mountain. Perhaps . . . perhaps you could see what they cannot.” He rocked back and forth, a sign of uncertainty. “It’s true that you have much more of the adventurous spirit than most of us; you have even spoken of leaving the village.” The priest still seemed uncertain.

  “Please, let me try!”

  In the end, the priest had agreed, and had even dug around in the castoff and donated odds and ends until they found a suitable weapon—barely a dagger to anyone else, but a mighty blade for someone his size. He had trained with small sticks before; he hoped he wouldn’t embarrass his teachers.

  Looking down at the scene before him now, he realized that embarrassment was the very last of his worries. I could turn around. I found this tunnel myself, and I don’t think anyone else has used it. But . . . he looked again. Mazakh, snake-demon men. And . . . other things I don’t know, look like bug-spider monsters. Smoke and fog, can’t see whatever’s leading this clearly.

  But, his thoughts repeated again, what would I do? The others aren’t really fighters any more than I am. No adventurers in town. If I go back, the others who come here . . . will get killed off.

  It really began to sink in then, as he watched the creatures continuing a ritual which surely meant something far worse. If I leave, no one’s going to do anything. At best we’ll have to send someone to the Suntree, or Zarathanton, and that’ll take . . . way too long, that’s for sure. Then Foamcloak, Divedeep, all of them, they’ll have been abandoned. It’s really up to me, Duckweed. A one-name runt with a tiny sword.

  He studied the cavern more carefully now. Two doors in the walls. They’ve been here a while. Maybe a LONG while. Now that he thought about it in those terms, he seemed to remember there being a few other disappearances in this general area of the woods not far from the Evermist.

  That might explain why he didn’t see any guards near the doors. Everyone in the room was in this ritual-thing. They’d been here a long time and never been found. So maybe I can at least get in and do something.

  Climbing down from this point probably wouldn’t work. The wall was pretty sheer, and while he was good at climbing, it was a long way down for someone his size. Might not really hurt me . . . or might, but the fall might draw attention. Don’t want to draw attention. Those guys stand like eight times taller than I do even if I stretch up on my tippytoes. So let’s go check out that branch tunnel.

  The “branch tunnel” was a side passage which he’d ignored because he could see a faint light down the main passage he was following—a light that had led him here. But the side passage, if he was lucky, might lead him to some other part of these caverns.

  It was pitch black in the tunnels, and he really wished he could have some light, but even if he’d carried a torch or something with him, he would’ve needed a way to carry the sword at the same time . . . and using a light in here might call attention to anyone at the other end. No, just squirm along and let my skin and my sword guide me.

  After several minutes of scuttling and wriggling through the dark side passage, he began to see a dim light. A few moments more and he was at a small opening in the side of a much larger tunnel. Sniffing, he could catch the smell of heated rock, snake musk, the undefinable spicy aroma he associated with large insectoids. Same caverns! He peeked cautiously up and down the cave; nothing in sight except greenish lightglobes stuck to the walls at intervals. He moved out and chose to move to the left; that was the direction he thought the main ritual chamber was in.

  He moved very cautiously, sword out, even though he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he were caught. A swing with any of their weapons will cut me in half. I need to do this sneakily. He remembered that wandering mage giving him some general pointers on magic, and one fact stuck in his mind: the crucial importance of the array or symbol used for a ritual or summoning. That gives me a real strategy. Sort of. Well, it’s really more of an idea for what I want to get done. Is that strategy? No, I have to get those monsters out of the room, or at least confused and moving around to get away with it. And I have to do it without them seeing. Now . . . how am I . . .

  Suddenly he became aware of multiple footfalls behind him. Duckweed glanced around in panic. Can’t get back to the hole! The cavern was rough but there were no rocks to hide behind, no open doorways (two closed ones, but the latches were far above him and the fit of the doors far too tight to squeeze under).

  Only one chance. He pushed up against the wall and squatted down, seeing vague shadows just starting to come around the gentle bend. Oh, drought and dust, my sword . . .

  There was no time to do any thing fancy; he stuck the sword underneath him and sat on it. Please don’t look down, don’t look down . . . or if you do, just see nothing unusual . . .

  Three figures moved down the rough corridor. One was a mazakh, said to be a cross between snake and demon, a venomous reptilian creature on two legs that moved like a striking snake, a long, flexible tail trailing behind it. The other two were ant-headed, with savage cutting mandibles, and armored black-and-red chitinous bodies that also stood on two legs, but had no tails, but did have hard-polished wingcases.

  The three were talking quietly and moving purposefully towards the far end of the corridor—where, he suspected, the ritual was taking place—when one of the insectoids’ glittering compound eyes swept the area lower down. With a sudden chittering hiss it shrank away from Duckweed, causing its companions to instantly draw weapons and look around for the cause of the panic.

  Duckweed resisted the almost overwhelming urge to pull out the sword. Not a chance. If they just don’t notice the hilt . . .

  The mazakh hissed something and then smacked the insectoid that had seen Duckweed with the flat of his blade. “Idiot. That’s the third one I’ve seen here this week. Not like the ones we’ve been capturing. Of course, if you want to waste your time . . .”

  The insectoid chirp-rattled something which somehow sounded sheepishly apologetic, and the three went on, having decided that he was just another harmless native of the cavern.

  Which, Duckweed thought as he was slowly allowing himself to breathe again, isn’t all that unusual.

  After all . . . I’m just a Toad.

  5

  Once his heart slowed to normal, Duckweed looked up at the doors. Have to get through the one . . . or the other, maybe. Wonder what’s through there? He’d seen that the door at the end of the corridor was, as he’d suspected, one of the two into the big cavern. He moved off his sword and hooked it in the little loop of leather tied around his body; if he was going to make a habit of this, he needed to figure out a better way of doing that.

  The mazakh were going to be the real problem. The big bug thingies apparently had the instinctive fear of his people that many insects—giant and otherwise—did. He could startle them, make them do stupid things if he worked at it. The mazakh, however, would just as soon eat him as look at him. And at my size, I’m barely a mouthful.

  The side door looked like the better bet right now. He still wasn’t sure exactly how he was going to accomplish his first goal, which was to either get the monsters doing the ritual in the big room to come out, or at least throw them into a lot of confusion and panic so he could get in unnoticed. And in not too long a time, either; no telling what they were trying to do with that ritual, but he’d bet his tongue it was something really bad.

  Focus. You’re a Toad, you can handle this. We survive. We always have, even before the Great Dragons, before the Demons, we were here. I can deal with these newcomer scalies and their bug-eyed friends.

  Of course, he had to admit as he scuttled over to the side door, we survive as a group and by usually not getting involved. Adventuring has a way of getting people killed. Why was it I wanted to do this again?

  The handle was about three and a half feet from the floor. The one at the end of the corridor had opened wit
hout noise, so hopefully it was kept well-oiled. He judged the distance and leaped.

  It wasn’t the highest leap he’d ever done, or the longest, but it was a hard jump to judge, and he was a little low. He managed to just catch the handle with his slightly webbed hands and pull himself on top of it. As he did, his tiny sword-blade rapped against the metal of the handle with a clear, if low, chiming noise.

  He froze.

  Movement inside! I can hear it! What do I do—

  The handle began to turn, tilting downward on his side. He scrabbled desperately, then gave up and dropped down. As soon as the door opens . . .

  The heavy metal-bound door was yanked open and a mazakh glared out, hissing, a jagged-edged sword in its clawed hand. But it was looking out into the corridor, not just by its own feet, and the little Toad took the chance to gingerly ease by the creature’s front foot. He froze again as he noticed the contents of the room.

  Three other figures were near a moderate sized table in the center of the room. One, another mazakh, had risen and half-drawn his weapon; the other two—one an insectoid like the others Duckweed had seen, the other apparently human—were still seated, looking at the snake-man near the door with bemused expressions.

  Duckweed was partially hidden from the group by the mazakh’s three-toed rear foot. If he moved out from that, he’d be visible. Maybe they wouldn’t notice . . . but at that range, mazakh were usually very, very good at sensing motion, even if the others weren’t. He held still, watching, controlling panic. If I lose control for even a moment, they’ll catch me in seconds . . . and then I’ll be lucky to just get eaten.

  “Well, Lassish? Anything?” the human asked in a bored tone.

  “There seems to be nothing.” The mazakh named Lassish still stood immobile, looking up and down the corridor, sniffing suspiciously. “But I know I heard something. Metal, sounded like, striking the door, like someone was trying to slide the latch.”