by Ryk E. Spoor
“Don’t apologize, Majesty.” Tobimar said. “I wanted to help.”
“And you have. And you still shall, I feel certain.” He looked back to Xavier Ross. “Son of Zahralandar, you may stay and rest here for a few days, for I can see it has cost you much to maintain that incomprehensible invisibility of yours. But then you have a great journey ahead of you, for I can think of only two beings who would both have the knowledge of where the key weakness of the greatest magical barrier ever wrought might be, and who—unlike most of the gods—are not sealed away from this world and sworn not to interfere. One is the Wanderer, the Unbound and Unborn, wizard, sage, trickster of a thousand faces . . . if he still exists. But if he does not, only one choice remains: the Archmage, the greatest of magic-wielders to ever live upon this world, the God-Emperor of the Empire of the Mountain, Idinus of Scimitar.”
“Terian’s Light, Majesty!” Tobimar heard himself say, before he could stop.
“I know, Tobimar Silverun. Yet if he and his companions are to have any chance, they must have powers and capabilities beyond easy imagining, and perhaps they can seek the Wanderer’s Fortress and pierce its veil of confusion and enchantment, or even, like Khoros himself, be able to reach the highest mountaintop and stand face to face with the Archmage himself.”
“Okay, go find some guy who might not be there, and then climb a mountain and talk to the wise man at the top. Works for me.” Xavier grinned at Tobimar’s half-stunned, half-scandalized expression. “Relax, people, I know it won’t be that easy, but if these are the best wizards in this whacko world, then the King’s probably right; they’re the only ones who’ll be able to tell us where to go. And with what my sensei taught me . . .” he was suddenly deadly serious and terribly proud, “well, if I can’t get right up to their faces, through anything they’ve got in the way, then there isn’t any one of us that’s got a chance in hell. I could walk around your castle for weeks without anyone knowing I was here. You,” he nodded towards Tobimar, “were the only one who even sometimes seemed to get an idea I was around . . . and who trained you?”
Tobimar laughed, and bowed. “You’re right. So,” he turned to King Toron, “where would you send me?”
“I thought upon the story of your people long and well, in the past few weeks; it was a sad story, but a distant one, and less filled with pain than the reality we must face each day.” Toron went to the main viewmirror table and gestured; instead of showing the Star Cell, a great map of Zarathan materialized on the centermost crystal.
“Here, of course, is Mount Scimitar, your second destination, Xavier Ross, the heart of the Empire. Far to the south and west are we, here, in Fanalam’ T’ ameris’ a’ u’ Zahr-a-Thana T’ikon, Zarathanton. Many are the lands, large and small, which have had their being on this great continent and those islands nearby. Yet as I thought upon all of them, one stood out in my mind as perhaps holding your answers—one that has recently had other reasons to be called to my attention.” He pointed to the opposite end of the Khalal mountains, to a tiny country outlined in pale green, so far to the west of Mount Scimitar that it lay outside of the reach of the Empire, so far to the north that even conquered Dalthunia lay hundreds of miles below it, beyond the Kerla—the Black River. “Evanwyl, once wealthy and famed for its position before the only pass through the Khalal Mountains; now the lone and weakened guard sealing off that pass, for their ally beyond that pass became enemy in the past Chaoswar.”
That would fit! Tobimar studied the little country closely; the image suddenly swelled and he could see more detail, rivers and hills and towns and fortresses. “What else? Is there anything else important about Evanwyl?”
Toron seemed to be weighing exactly what to say. “Evanwyl is perhaps the last place where the god Myrionar, whose attributes are Justice and Vengeance, has a stronghold, and from which its Justiciars have—”
“Yes!” he shouted suddenly. “That’s it! The oldest stories often began, ‘Long ago, when justice and vengeance lay just beyond the mountains . . . ’ I always wondered why they started that way!” He felt a burst of joy that washed like cool water from his heart through his veins. “Thank you, Majesty!”
“It is only what I owe you—a small part indeed of what you are owed. But I will add one other final point. You see, here would be your first destination, Xavier Ross, for it is said that the Wanderer’s Fortress lies within the Broken Hills, near their very center.”
Xavier looked, as did Tobimar, and the two suddenly glanced at each other and grinned. “Not so far apart, are they?” Xavier said.
“No, not much at all.”
Xavier yawned, showing his exhaustion, but looked back at him seriously. “If you’d be willing to wait a couple days . . . I’d really appreciate it if we could take part of this trip together. I still haven’t seen much of this place, and having someone around who knows the ropes . . .”
“Consider it done. I’d be glad of the additional company. It is a long, long trip.”
“Great! Then, I think . . .” he yawned again. “Yeah. I need to get some rest now.”
Toron’s chuckle echoed around the room. “Follow me, Xavier Ross; I shall see to your having a room where you need not spend the night invisible.” The two left, Xavier’s feet obviously dragging slightly.
Tobimar picked up Poplock and held the little Toad up before him. “So, Poplock—you want to go on a long trip north?”
The Toad bounced on his hand. “I suppose I’d better.” He chewed on one of the large spiky beetles that seemed to be a favorite, then gave an exaggerated expression of resignation. “Someone has to keep you two out of trouble.”
31
A faint vibration and movement beneath her boot was the only warning Kyri had as the tiny ledge she’d thought a secure foothold crumbled. Pebbles and gravel chattered down the gray cliff-face, bouncing in miniature foreshadowing of what would happen if her handholds failed as well. Hanging desperately on, she found her gaze drawn involuntarily down along with the debris, forbidding basalt cliffs below her vanishing into swirling clouds that concealed another three thousand feet of terrible steep stone slopes.
Above her, another layer of cloud, a few hundred feet above, streamed by like an insubstantial river, dark and threatening, the motion giving Kyri momentary vertigo. She closed her eyes, took a breath, looked slightly down. Left and right. Up and down, but only short distances. There. That’s another foothold. I can make it.
Her right hand loosened its grip the tiniest bit, then flicked over to another slight knob of rock. Her dangling foot moved a few inches closer. She slid her foot over, closer, stretching . . .
Her toe touched the ledge. She put more pressure on it; Myrionar, please, no more repeats of that scare.
This time the stone held. She sidled over, inches at a time, upward and sideways towards the point where the mountain peaks began to converge. There’s a flat spot there, a real ledge, something I might even be able to lie down on.
Finally she had one hand on real flat stone. The other. Then she was up and over the side.
Chromaias and Terian, that was hard. Her hands and arms and shoulders, her back—truth, my whole body!—ached. Lifting her own weight wasn’t all that hard. Once. Twice. Even ten times. She’d carried those stonesculpt hangings herself, and they weighed more than twice what she did. But this was something of a completely different scale. Lythos had forced her and Rion to climb trees, hills, small cliffs during their training, but nothing like this.
I must be almost a mile up . . . and I’ve got a long way to go.
The clouds had descended as she had climbed, and now they dropped the last hundred feet and she was enveloped in clinging, chill grayness. Drizzle, rain, and then a rumble of thunder, and suddenly the winds rose to a howl.
Myrionar’s BALANCE! She fought to find a safe position on the ledge, pushing herself back against the cliff face on the narrow stone shelf—barely three feet wide—as the storm lashed the mountain with a random, drunken ga
le that nearly lifted her from the ground, tore at her clothing from every side. By the Four, even below!
Kyri focused, remembering the training and discipline Lythos had instilled into her, and the legends of the Justiciars. I’ve been given Myrionar’s blessing. If I can only find my own center, I can pray for balance about me.
The driven rain was now mingled with sleet, something Kyri had never encountered before; truth be told, she had hardly even imagined such cold as this. She’d heard of places where water froze naturally, but she’d never been to one before. Focus! Only the calm of balance can save me! She was aware that water was starting to stream down the cliff face; in a few minutes—or less—the flow might be enough to unseat her, wash her down to a bone-shattering death as she tumbled down a mile of jagged stone slopes.
But that thought was directly counter to the calmness she needed. Despite the increasing stream of icy water, she took a deep breath, concentrated, tried to blot out the storm, the sleet, the wind, everything, and remember the calmness of home, of herself and Rion sitting side by side . . . breathing . . . breathing . . .
For a moment it felt like Rion was next to her, and that almost made her lose the chance; but at the same time it added a warmth she desperately needed. She balanced for that instant between fear and peace, between warmth of heart and chill of air, between terror of failure and determination to survive. And in that moment she was able to shape her desire to a prayer. Myrionar, please, as you are balance in all things, bring balance to this point, a place of calm and peace and safety.
The winds faded to a distant howl; the water, which had become a small waterfall pushing against her, began to diminish. She opened her eyes, hardly able to believe her prayer had been granted, even though Myrionar had called her a Justiciar.
But there was no denying the faint-shimmering barrier that now surrounded her, visible by the futile battering rain and sleet, by the rippling of the thundering freshet that divided around her, leaving the water draining slowly away from her ledge. The air, too, was warmer, still and comforting. She leaned back, smiling in sheer relief. Thank you, Myrionar! Thank you!
There was no reply, but she needed none. Perhaps It would never speak to her directly again, but by answering such prayers in the time and place they were needed, Myrionar was saying all that needed to be said.
In relief, with the howling wind now a more distant moan, Kyri closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then another. Somewhere between the second and the third, she fell asleep.
Morning sun blazing into her eyes awakened her. By the Balance, I’ve slept the whole night!
Every muscle in her body screamed at her as soon as she attempted to move. Stiff! Move slowly! She knew that if she wasn’t careful, the stiffness could lead to a very fatal misstep. So she focused on carefully stretching and loosening her limbs and back, then getting out some of the pressed fruit and dried meat and eating that for breakfast. And I was too busy staying alive last night to remember to refill my water. Still probably have enough, but how ironic that I almost got killed by too much water last night.
Finally she was ready to move on. The place where the peaks divide. She was nearly to the great, deep seam where both mountains met; that would be somewhat easier to climb, but she couldn’t see what lay nearer the top.
No point wondering. Let’s get moving.
She became aware, some hours later, that even breathing was harder. That’s right . . . air becomes thinner, that’s what Father said. I’ll be able to breathe . . . but I’ll have to take things slower.
The clouds fully enveloped this part of the mountains, making everything more than a few dozen yards away fade to indistinct gray. Kyri squinted. Both mountains seemed to be looming more steeply above her. She took a few more breaths and advanced upward. One step at a time. One hand up, one foot up. Just keep going.
The V-shaped seam she’d been following abruptly darkened above, just as it seemed the mountains were closing in. A few more feet and she could see what lay beyond: the seam between the mountains became a chimney-like tunnel continuing upward. At least I’ll be out of the wind . . . but a storm like last night’s would turn this into nothing but a giant drain.
But there wasn’t any alternative. The cliffs rose up completely sheer around her. Into darkness, I bring light. Light reveals truth. Truth and Justice, Myrionar.
Light shimmered just above her, a gentle light that revealed without dazzling. She could see into the chimney, rough rocks with a coating of drying mud that would make them fatally slick if she was not careful. So I’ll be careful.
Some way inside it wasn’t so bad. Wind rose up through the chimney-tunnel, drying the stones, which were—mostly—solid enough to climb on. Having learned her lesson earlier, Kyri did not come near to falling again. How long that climb through darkness lasted, though, she could not say. Finally she looked up and saw a pale circle of light silhouetted against the dark stone. With a burst of energy she clambered up the final twenty feet and emerged at one side of a small plateau, a few hundred yards across, with the twin peaks looming above. There were no structures visible, and almost no sign of life . . . but then she spotted the smoke, issuing from somewhere amidst a tumble of rocks near the midpoint of the plateau. Cautiously, on slightly wobbly legs, she approached. As she got nearer, she could see a large tunnel at the edge of the rocky pile, the smoke she had seen apparently coming from some hole farther back. The tunnel was over ten feet high and slanted sharply down into the heart of the mountains.
“Halt, seeker, and speak your name and purpose.”
The voice echoed across the plateau and drummed in the mountains, deep as the ocean, powerful as thunder. Kyri was brought up short by the sheer force of that voice. She took another deep breath, both out of habit and to clear her head, and answered. “I am Kyri Victoria Vantage, and I seek the Spiritsmith.”
A rumble of laughter like an approaching avalanche. “Of course you seek the Spiritsmith,” the unseen creature said, moderating its voice so it was no longer deafening, merely deep and rumbling, resonant from within the earth, and—somehow—almost familiar. “None come here but that they seek me; and so I say again, speak to me your purpose.”
So be it. “I seek armor that none but you can forge, a sword the like of which no other would even attempt, for only you have ever done so. I come to you to ask that you make for me the armor of a Justiciar of Myrionar.”
The great voice was silent, but now she heard movement, a scraping and a stirring below. “The Raiment of a Justiciar?” it said finally, slowly. “Long ago was I charged with that task, by the God Itself, and I completed that work, and it is done. Who are you to ask me to take up again the work of the gods?”
“The Justiciars who wear that which you forged have turned, have become false; I alone remain, I who have no armor have been chosen to be the last and only Justiciar of Myrionar.” Though she had thought these words many times, speaking them to this unknown being brought the truth back full force, and her voice trembled and nearly broke. “I must drive back the falsehoods with the strength of a Justiciar, with the power of truth, that there be justice for the betrayed and vengeance against the betrayers. Will you help me? You are the Spiritsmith, are you not?”
“Help you?” The movement was louder now, something walking with ponderous steps, a massive, vague shadow becoming visible. “If you can prove yourself I shall help you, little would-be Justiciar, yes, for it is not to be tolerated that the Armor that I forged, the Condor and the Shrike, the Thornfalcon and the Silver Eagle, Mist Owl and Bolthawk, the swift Skyharrier, be worn in defiance of their purpose and true nature. It is an insult never to be borne. For indeed I am T’anavhioroniath’Tela’k’Helianatalacalabal, the Spiritsmith, and my work is my soul, and the souls of its wielders, and the steel of my soul is not to be sullied by treachery.”
As the Spiritsmith spoke, he emerged fully into view, and even before then Kyri realized with awe and dismay what sort of a being the Spiritsmith mu
st be, for that impossible name left no doubt: towering nearly nine feet from scale-crested head to taloned feet, eyes glinting with power and incalculable age, lashing behind him a massive armored tail, the Spiritsmith was an Ancient Sauran, larger than Toron, with an aura of ancient wisdom and strength almost beyond belief.
The Spiritsmith brandished a sword of his own, a blade nearly as wide as Kyri’s body and longer still, and with a fearsome flourish pointed it directly at her. “And so now you will prove with your blade and your body that you are worthy of the name of Justiciar . . . or never will you leave this mountain alive.”
32
Kyri stood openmouthed, unable for a moment to accept this. To fight one of the Children of the Dragons was something almost unthinkable; to duel one so ancient that he had forged the armor that was eternal legend in Evanwyl?
But at the same time she felt her spirit rising, even to this impossible challenge. I would face a power that could undo Myrionar Itself. I go to throw lies in the faces of false Justiciars who killed my brother, took from us our mother and father in our own home. It is little enough that the Spiritsmith asks, that I prove to him that I am what I claim to be, that I have the strength and the will and the power of a Justiciar.
That I am a Vantage, child of my mother and my father, descended of those who have stood sentry on Rivendream Pass since the last Chaoswar.
She reached back and drew her sword, the two-handed blade looking slender yet sharp as a rapier before the immense weapon of the Spiritsmith. “So I will, then. For I shall leave this mountain alive, armed and arrayed as a Justiciar of Myrionar. This I have sworn to the Balanced Sword, to Terian of the Infinite, to Chromaias and the Four.” Despite the pounding in her heart, she extended her arm and lowered the blade to point at the Spiritsmith, all five feet of the sword as rigid as her purpose. “So I have sworn to the memory of my mother and my father, to the spirit of my brother, and to those who yet live. Come.”
