by Ryk E. Spoor
She saw others backing away, the children in the ritual taking cover, looking for shelter, but to do that never occurred to her. Instead she looked desperately around. A weapon! I don’t have armor, but I need something to fight with—
And it was so obvious, really, the great sword which was a part of the Balanced Sword at the altar. She leapt up and wrenched it free, whispering a prayer for forgiveness as she did so. Well, I wasn’t blasted to ash, so I guess Myrionar thinks I’m doing the right thing. The greatsword was solid and well-balanced, which was a relief; she’d been afraid that it was merely a show-blade, but apparently the main Temple of the Balanced Sword had felt real weapons were in order.
She sprinted out the door, following the sound. The Watchland was vaguely visible ahead, and suddenly he stopped his run, his sword was up and something—several somethings—were slashing at him. Closer now, and the things were twisted creatures, something like caterpillars grown monstrously huge, but with a humanoid torso, massive arms gripping clubs or maces. The heads were worse, with flowing hair and high foreheads and calm blue eyes . . . and the mouth of a lamprey below. From Rivendream Pass. They must be.
She saw the Watchland’s blade dancing back and forth even as she approached, and one of the things fell.
She was stumbling to a halt, frozen now, realizing that this was no sparring match, no fantasy of heroism, no practice, no dream. This was real. Those monstrous . . . things were attacking her friends, her neighbors, and she was going to have to face them with weapon and speed—and die if she wasn’t good enough.
She tried to make herself move forward, but the fear dragged at her. Did Rion have to face this? Or was he already prepared, able to face it as soon as he knew the fight was real?
With a tremendous effort she forced discipline upon her trembling limbs, made her gut steady, repeated the calm and focus of the Way of the Eight Winds to herself: Speed of East, Guidance of Spring, Light of South, Circle of Summer, Wisdom of West, Flow of Fall, Hardness of North, Cleansing of Winter. Her heart still hammered, she still felt sweat under the ceremonial robe even in the cool of evening . . . but she could move, and the sword of Myrionar’s temple was in her hands. More screams from ahead—I have to hope Jeridan can handle these creatures!
She ran past the Watchland, who saw her and gave a quick nod, as if to say yes, I’m all right, keep going!
She passed near one of the things and felt a crawling on her flesh—both from the wrongness of its presence and the realization that she would have to fight such a thing and kill it. She still wasn’t sure . . .
But then she realized where the screams were coming from. It was the Monn farm, and she felt a surge of horror, remembering little Gallire and Lehi, the twins who had been Vengeance and Truth in the ritual just a few moments before.
Two children, hiding in fear in the Temple.
Two children away from their homes, while their parents screamed.
Fury surged up in her, fury and memory of her own loss. No! I won’t let them be orphaned! I won’t let that happen to anyone!
The anger sped her feet, and she hurdled a three-and-a-half-foot-tall post fence. The night was dim, only a sliver of a moon showing, but she could see the nightmare shapes ahead, one already grasping a man’s shadowy form, bending the head down . . .
A desperate leap and she slammed into the creature, impaling it completely through with the sword of Myrionar. It shrieked and gurgled, as blue-white light shone from the wound. She felt a surge of momentary nausea and revulsion as the semi-human torso and arms twitched and shuddered, forced it down. Turning, she ripped the sword clear, seeing two more of the monsters rippling towards her on shuffling pseudofeet, even as she saw Phenre Monn staggering into the farmhouse, helped by his wife Ballu. They’ll be safe there for now. If I can—
And then she heard another cry of pain and horror, but this cry she recognized, the sound piercing her to the heart, sending a wave of cold through her body.
Rion!
“Rion, hold on!” she shouted, and with a pirouette spun past the caterpillar-centaur monstrosities, decapitating one and flowing past the other’s grasping hands. They’re slower than me . . . but if they try to chase, I’m at least leading them away . . .
But her main focus was on the beloved voice somewhere in the thin forest ahead past the edge of the farm, now cursing, and a clash of steel that showed her brother was fighting something in earnest.
She wasted no more breath on calling, just ran, ran with the horrors of the years before shouting at her heels, a terrible forboding making the run seem slow, mired in oil and tar, as in a nightmare.
Ahead there was a flash of silver light . . . and the light seemed to vanish, even as she heard a choked, bubbling cry.
For a moment—the slightest of moments—she thought she saw . . . something standing there, something darker than the darkest shadows, with sparks of venomous yellow where there should be eyes, and a monstrous, phantom smile like moonlight through ice. But even as the terror of that vision jabbed like ice through her chest, it was gone—if it had ever been—and she heard and sensed, rather than saw, someone or something else running away, running at a pace that made her own sprint seem slow and lazy.
But she didn’t care about that, because on the ground ahead was something else, something silver with black smeared across it. No, no, no, not again, please, not again . . .
She could not see, and surely there were still things following her, not far behind, and still with prayers in her heart she spoke the words they had all been taught and the flare-light went up, blazed out, turning what had been black to red, bright, horrible blood-red, and she knew her prayers were in vain, for her brother lay there, the Armor of Eagle rent asunder, blood pooled about him, and the last traces of life were fleeing. She dropped to her knees, taking his hand, saw his eyes flicker open for a moment to catch her gaze with wide-eyed horror, trying to speak—but the terrible wounds gasped with his movement and she knew he was getting no air.
“ARBITER!” she screamed, and leapt to her feet, hearing scuttling movement coming up fast. “No, no you will not take him, no!” she heard herself saying, voice trembling, tears starting from her eyes, blurring her vision; but she didn’t really need to see the misshapen thing, just swing, block, swing again, and it gave a screaming hiss and tried to back away—but she gave it no chance. More coming, she thought with fresh horror, hearing more movement from three sides.
She refused to give up. Her brother was not going to die undefended and alone, not now, not ever. A club whipped out, grazing her unarmored shoulder, and even that slight contact felt like it broke her arm. She gritted her teeth, refused the pain, focused past the terror and the fear and ducked under the next attack; her blade slid in blue-shining perfection through the lamprey-fanged mouth.
But there were more—not two, three, four, half a dozen, more—and she realized that there was no chance for her or Rion now. They were more cautious, not stupid, perhaps even intelligent, and they recognized how dangerous she was. They were maneuvering, ringing her in, and then . . .
One suddenly fell, convulsing as its head flew from its body, even as the one next to it shrieked, a slender blade flickering through its body from one side to the other, and Lythos continued, jumping over the falling body, blocking two strikes in a single motion and impaling the next creature, a flowing dance of death that showed her just how very little she had yet learned, and why Lythos was called Sho-ka-taida, Master Of Weapons.
That was a far and distant thought, though, for now she looked down and her brother’s gaze was beginning to glaze, horror still in those eyes and desperation and in his wheezing futile attempts to breathe she heard him trying to form words.
“Let me through!”
It was the voice she had most wanted to hear in that moment, and she moved aside, praying that the Arbiter was in time, taking Rion’s hand in hers. “He’s here, Rion, the Arbiter’s here,” she said. “It’s okay . . .”
&n
bsp; But Rion’s gaze did not shift, even as the Arbiter placed hands upon his wounds and one of the Seekers came to assist; she saw Rion’s eyes widen, as though to try to tell her something from the sheer intensity of that look . . . and then roll and fall shut, the hand spasming and then going limp.
“He’s fading!” the Arbiter snapped. He gripped the symbol of the Balance tighter and she felt, suddenly, that presence, strong and certain, and blue light radiated from the priest’s other hand, forcing wounds to close, knitting them with power channeled from a god directly into the mortal body of Rion Vantage.
But Kelsley’s face was pale, and vaguely, at the edge of her shock and denial she realized there were more shouts of consternation now . . . other victims . . . She should rise, she should go to them.
Rion’s hand twitched, and for a moment she felt a spark of hope. But that was dashed as she heard Kelsley gasp. “I . . . I cannot hold him.” Seeker Reed—one of the students of the Temple—caught his shoulder. “I will help you, Arbiter . . . By the Balance, what is this?”
They were gazing at things Kyri could not see, and their faces showed utter horror. “Arbiter, what can we do?” Reed gasped.
“I . . . I do not know. I have never . . .” Kelsley swallowed, then leaned forward. “Soul injury. It is spoken of in the texts, but so rare . . .”
“What is wrong?” Kyri demanded.
Even as Kelsley answered, he was busy, focusing more power, pale agony clear now on his face. “His soul itself is injured, cuts across his very essence in parallel with his bodily injuries. Those injuries . . . were mortal. If I cannot bind . . . his soul back together . . . it does not matter if his body is completely whole.”
Sweat trickled down his cheeks and Kyri was suddenly aware that the pain he showed was much more real and immediate than the pain of failure. “What are you . . .”
“Arbiter! Stop!” Reed shouted.
“Reed . . . I cannot let him . . .” The Arbiter’s voice was weak, but iron-hard in determination, and suddenly Kyri understood. Only pieces of another soul . . . could bind together a soul so injured. Kelsley is ripping his own spirit into pieces, into bandages of his own essence . . . to save my brother—
“Arbiter . . . others are injured. And he . . .”
Kyri looked up at Reed, wanting to rage at him, but seeing only tormented sympathy that struck her silent.
Kelsley’s hand dropped to his side and he crumpled. Kyri realized with another dull shock that Kelsley was near death himself.
And in that moment she knew.
Rion . . . Silver Eagle . . . Her brother . . . was gone.
15
Watchland Velion was down off his horse almost before it stopped. “You are still here. Thank the Balance. I was afraid . . . I had missed you.”
Kyri took a breath, watching the Justiciars hard at work loading the coach. They had refused to allow any others to help with that—it was their way of mourning her brother, who was also theirs, she knew. I must answer, she thought, and turned to face the Watchland. Another farewell. This is harder than I thought it would be. But staying . . . staying would be even harder.
It seemed as though everyone in Evanwyl had come at some point in the last few days. And every one of them so hard to say goodbye to. She knew them all, every one—one of the Eyes of the Watchland was supposed to know them all, and she’d tried. The farmers like the Monns, who had come to offer both sympathies and their thanks; Kochiss the butcher and his wife Minuzi the apothecary, he with huge hands and gentle eyes and she with a dissecting gaze and sympathetic voice; Kell from the Balanced Meal, carrying a load of cookies along with his grief; the Eyes like Zan’Tak and Hightower and Thalinde, almost all twenty-five of the families of the Arms . . . all so much, all so very much sympathy and support, and yet I know we have to leave . . . and now this, one of the hardest of all.
She looked up into the Watchland’s eyes, lighter, more piercing blue than Rion’s, but at this range filled with the same concern. He was so . . . remote, seemed so cold right afterwards. So hard to see as he rode from one side of the country to the other on the hunt. Some say he rode into Rivendream Pass itself, seeking whatever it was that killed Rion.
“I wasn’t sure it would matter,” she heard herself say before she could catch herself. What in the name of the Black City is wrong with me? I know courtesy!
Victoria, barely in earshot, stiffened, and she heard Justiciar Condor give a grunt of consternation.
To her surprise, the Watchland smiled sadly. “Yes . . . I am unsurprised. Such terrible events . . . for many of the last few days I have felt almost outside myself, watching what I have been doing, seeking to make it all right, yet . . . not able to let myself . . . truly reach those who needed me most.” He took her hand and pressed it between both of his. “We had all too few chances to speak in the last few years, Kyri. So many things to do, for us both. I regret that.”
She saw, from the corner of her eye, Condor looking narrowly at the Watchland. It might almost be funny, if things were different. “Watchland . . . Jeridan—”
He laughed. “I am not about to become terribly melodramatic with you, Kyri Vantage, for I have not quite so abysmal a sense of timing nor an overinflated belief in my personal influence. Still I would ask if there is no way we could convince you to stay? Evanwyl will be much lessened without your family.”
Kyri looked over at the longcoach; inside, the faint dark shadow of Urelle was visible, unmoving, sitting still and quiet, even as Skyharrier directed Bolthawk in placing one of the wrapped portraits to one side of the coach’s cargo area. “There are too many painful memories here right now, Jeridan. For myself . . . for myself it might be I could remain, overcome them, but I have to think of Urelle.” She looked back at him more directly. “And in all honesty, I have to be worried that Rion did not die because he was a Justiciar, but because he was a Vantage.”
The handsome face hardened. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you must. It would be unwise to not suspect that as a possibility.”
“But,” Thornfalcon put in, carrying a long crate of what was probably fishing gear, “does that mean you will return, Lady Kyri?”
She saw Condor glance up again as he headed back into the Vantage mansion for another box, “Possibly.” She managed a painful smile. “Even, I suppose, probably. I won’t want to give it all up forever. But I have to get Urelle somewhere far away . . .”
“. . . Somewhere safer than here,” Victoria said, joining them. “Somewhere the poor girl can recover. Kyri’s holding up remarkably well, I think you’ll agree, but Urelle’s devastated.”
“You will return, of course, Lady Victoria.” It was a statement more than a question.
“Sooner rather than later, but the journey to Zarathanton is not a short one, and not entirely safe even along the Great Road.”
The Watchland nodded. “But where is your Master of Arms?”
Victoria’s lips tightened and her eyes were sad. “Lythos . . . blamed himself, felt he failed as a Sho-ka-taida of the Way of the Eight Winds. Oh, it’s foolish, and I tried to tell him so, but he felt that he could have arrived a few moments faster, or perhaps have trained Rion or Kyri so that Rion would have lasted a few moments longer. He begged to be allowed to return to his home—I presume to heal his own heart, which I hope he shall, and join us again perhaps.”
Kyri could see the look of concern in Jeridan Velion’s eyes. “But without Lythos . . . Lady Victoria, I know of course your reputation and skill, and Kyri proved herself full well, but still, you have now none of your guards to spare and you shall be travelling dangerous places, especially as you pass through Dalthunia, which is no longer our friend and ally. Will you require an escort?”
“I’ve hired a pair of Guild Adventurers to guard us,” Victoria answered. “Over there.” She indicated the front of the horse team hitched to the longcoach. “And neither I nor Kyri are entirely unable to defend ourselves, as you have already mentioned.”
Shrike gla
nced in that direction. “The Iriistik—Gray Warrior, even! Not a bad choice, but that lavender-haired little boy? Looks t’ be not old enough t’ leave his mommy!”
Victoria smiled thinly. “That, Shrike, is Ingram Camp-Bel. Of Aegeia.”
Shrike’s eyebrows rose up so high they disappeared beneath the beak of his helm; the Watchland’s rose as well. “Dedicated to the task of bodyguarding nobility, from the Incarnate Goddess on down,” Watchland Velion murmured. “And trained in the arts of war from the time they can walk.”
“Savagely enough that many of the chosen children die in the process,” Mist Owl put in, looking at the slender boy, who in truth did look as though he should just be starting an apprenticeship, with a strange long bladed staff slung across one shoulder and armor of peculiar squarish blocks covered with green fabric. “Then you are fortunate in his presence.”
“Yes. He was quite insistent on taking the job once I began the queries, insistent enough that I considered him seriously . . . and he passed my tests extremely well.” Victoria nodded in a satisfied manner.
“What . . . in the name of Myrionar . . . is in this thing?” Condor’s voice was strained. “Sirza, give me a hand here before I rupture myself!”
Shrike, seeing the younger Justiciar wrestling with a squarish crate, sighed and walked over. “Young’uns like you always lookin’ fer an excuse. Now, let a man take over—” he reached down, grasped the case, and gave a heave—nearly tipping himself onto his face. “Demons an’ dragons, girl, are you tryin’ t’ kill us?”
Kyri felt her first real laugh since that terrible day two weeks ago come rippling up. “Those are my mother’s stonesculpt hangings.”
Watchland Velion smiled. “Ah, yes, she was famous for her hobby. I have one of her pieces—the radiant sun relief in my dining hall, in fact.”
Between them, Shrike and Condor managed to lift the crate and stagger with it to the rear of the longcoach. “Doesn’t want to go in . . .” grunted Condor.
