by Ryk E. Spoor
Tobimar sat still for a moment, and then a slow smile crossed his face. “So that is what he meant. ‘All else is but your choice.’ It was his way of telling me that at the same time he was giving me directions . . . I still had to make the moves. That’s why he needs people, the right people, not just automatons—because we can make decisions, choices, take actions when we see it’s needed. We aren’t simply inert pieces on the game board. We’re players—beginners, amateurs, but we can play.”
“And sometimes a beginner can make a move that no one expects.”
Tobimar nodded. “If there’s a lot of big players—like Khoros, like the Demons, the Gods—they’ll all be mostly against each other. They need us because we make the difference. That’s why the gods care. And why we’re important.”
“Good!” Poplock bounced twice. “And tomorrow we’ll get back into the game!”
“And on the side of Justice and Vengeance,” Tobimar confirmed. “Which sounds like the right side to be on for what’s happening right now.”
Poplock agreed, and settled back under the bed; he could tell his friend was now ready to go to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll see if we can help find out what nasty thing is killing off Justiciars!
40
“A false Justiciar?” Tobimar was appalled.
Arbiter Kelsley nodded, his expression showing he understood. “So it would appear, sir.”
“Tobimar will do, I’m not here for the formality. How’s that possible?”
Kelsley shook his head. “I have prayed for enlightenment, as have others—some, not even of the Faith, but of other faiths allied to ours—and no clear answers have we gained.”
Tobimar could feel Poplock shifting slightly on his shoulder; the revelation was so stunning that his little friend had nearly broken his cover, and clearly wanted to say something. I’ll have to hope I ask all the right questions; otherwise he’ll make me come back here and ask them later as though I’d thought of them afterwards, which would look terribly sloppy, especially for a Prince of Skysand. “It would have to be another god, wouldn’t it?”
“I cannot think of another force that could reasonably do this without Myrionar being able to speak directly and tell us all that is passing. But even so . . . I am mystified. A few words only and we would know the answer to this mystery. Something of terrible, of overarching importance, must be involved to prevent the Balanced Sword from revealing unto me the truth behind this, something which—if It were to speak now—would result in a terrible miscarriage of Justice and Vengeance.” The Arbiter looked across the hall of the Temple at the Balanced Sword, glittering in the morning light, with pained confusion.
Time to get to business. “Well, obviously the point of such a thing must be to confuse the people in Evanwyl—which is the seat of Myrionar’s faith—and perhaps cast doubt on the true Justiciars.”
“That is our presumption, yes,” said Skyharrier. Tobimar had studied the silver-and-green armored Justiciar with what he suspected was very poorly disguised curiosity, because Skyharrier was the first of the Saelar—the Winged Folk, often called Valkyrnen by the Children of Odin and something unpronounceable by the Dragons—he had ever seen up close, and Skyharrier’s armor allowed his wings to be extended outward; they were currently pulled in a tight pair of arches behind him as he stood nearby. “If we are slain and our killer claims to be a Justiciar, then we appear at the least to be weak and, by extension, Myrionar is weak as well.”
He looked undecided, glanced at Kelsley; the priest nodded after a moment, and Skyharrier bit his lip, gaze flicking from Tobimar to the priest to the Balance like a bird watching its surroundings, before finally taking a breath and continuing. “We . . . we have looked over much of the past, sir—Tobimar—and at this time we have begun to wonder . . .” He shook his head. “Downdraft! That wasn’t the way to start. Let me approach again. Have you seen the Temple of the Balanced Sword in Zarathanton?”
“Well . . .” Tobimar hesitated, but realized that the truth could hardly be unknown here. “I did pass it, but it seems to be no longer a temple; it is empty, and there are those seeking to have another building built there.”
The Justiciar’s startlingly crimson eyes, contrasting with the brown of his feathery hair and complexion, looked at him sadly. “And that is a tale told far too often. Once, you could alight in any city across the continent and find the Balanced Sword awaiting your need; now, only here in Evanwyl and a few small cities and towns immediately beyond our borders. We now wonder . . . is this not mere accident, but instead a campaign on the scale of the gods, hundreds of years spent whittling away at the very foundations of the Faith? And then this false Justiciar would be the beginning of the end, the final attack upon the Sword that Balances Justice and Vengeance.”
Poplock’s little feet dug hard into his shoulder, and Tobimar guessed they’d both had the same thought. Hundreds of years of planning to bring something down . . . coordinated attacks . . . “The rumors of this false Justiciar—does he have a name?”
“He—or, to be fair, she, for there have been reports of both—calls himself Phoenix.”
Another bird, but a mystical one, where all the real Justiciars are named after ordinary birds. Appropriately confusing. “The rumors, did they start about five months ago?”
Arbiter Kelsley glanced in surprise at Skyharrier. “I . . . I believe that could be, yes.”
Skyharrier frowned. “It might have been a few weeks later . . . but the so-called Phoenix may have been present before then, simply watching. Why?”
“Just a thought.” Near the same time as all the rest of this. Coincidence seems . . . unlikely. He felt Poplock scuttle down his back; he had no idea what the little Toad was up to, but didn’t dare look. “I will need all the information you have on this Phoenix—where he or she or it has been seen, what they’ve been said to do, how often he’s sighted, full description, weapons, anything else. If I’m going to try to track him down and he’s dangerous enough to have killed a Justiciar—”
“Not merely a Justiciar.” Skyharrier looked grim and worried. “Mist Owl, the oldest and wisest of us, an Artan warrior.”
Tobimar winced. Artan could live for many hundreds, maybe thousands of years (they were close-mouthed about that, and of course it was hard to be absolutely sure that the Artan you met yesterday was the same one mentioned in ancient texts and not just someone named after him or her). Artan weren’t generally warlike—that was their sundered clansmen, the Rohila—but those that did take up the sword had a very long time to master it. This could be . . . interesting.
For a moment he considered backing out. Smart Adventurers lived longer lives because they were good at figuring out which jobs would get them killed before they actually took the jobs. But his research had pointed him to this country and this was exactly the kind of problem that might—that almost had to—have a connection with his own goals. “Anyway, if I’m going after this killer, I need all the information I can get.”
“Quite so, sir.” Kelsley looked relieved; Tobimar guessed that his indecision might have been visible. “I have here a package summarizing everything we know, locations, people, all that you will need.”
Tobimar noticed they had several such packages nearby; at least the local Symbolist is getting something from this disaster; making packets like this in duplicate isn’t cheap. He took the package and stood, feeling Poplock scurrying up his back and back into place. He bowed, then looked at Skyharrier. “This must be very hard for you and the other Justiciars.”
The Saelar Justiciar understood what he meant. “Obviously we would like to take care of this problem ourselves—and we are trying, do not doubt that! But between the Arbiter and our own discussions, we have had to—with great reluctance—accept that any being playing a false Justiciar may well have studied us long and well, and knows every feather of our wings; he may well know how to defeat us all. A Guild Adventurer . . .” He smiled faintly. “Well, even the gods recognize that worlds can
be changed by such heroes.”
“You do me far too much honor, but by the Sands and the Sea, I will do what I can to resolve this for you.” He bowed again and left the Temple.
Back in their room at the Balanced Meal, Tobimar checked again to make sure they were in privacy before nodding to Poplock.
“Mud and drought that was hard to keep quiet for!” the Toad burst out, bouncing around the room to work off frustrated energy.
“You did a good job.” He broke the seal on the packet and started going through it. “It looks like a terrible situation.”
“Very bad. But maybe connected.” Poplock hopped to the table and from there to his shoulder so he could read along.
“Hm,” the little Toad said about a half hour later, now sitting on the table on top of some of the papers, shuffling them back and forth. “This Phoenix has been pretty sneaky. Even the description’s kind of vague.”
“We know he’s tall—almost certainly taller than me—but probably human.”
“You say ‘he,’ but some of the witnesses think it’s a woman.”
“True, but more say they thought it was a man. Plus, there are no female Justiciars, haven’t been for at least a few centuries, and if you were trying to fake up a Justiciar, wouldn’t you avoid doing something that completely clashed with the truth?”
“Good point.” Several more minutes went by in silence. “You know, Tobimar, this stuff bothers me.”
He glanced over and saw the reports Poplock was indicating. “Oh, those. You mean because he’s doing all the heroic work? But wouldn’t that be necessary to manage the whole confusion trick?”
“Maybe, but . . . oh, drought, I can’t figure out what it is. Part of it’s that it’s so . . . random. As though he’s just moving around the area . . .” The little Toad suddenly straightened, then bounced. “I just thought of something. Here, look at this.” He dragged out the map of the surrounding area.
“First he showed up here,” a little foot poked at one spot on the map. “Then he went over there. Next time he was sighted, he’d moved all the way over here, but then popped up in this little town just a half-day later . . . you see what I mean?”
Tobimar studied the pattern. “He’s all over Evanwyl. It’s like he deliberately moves all the way across the country in between most of his appearances. He’s trying to make himself look ubiquitous? But he’s missing some areas where he could have been needed, if he’s trying to play the part of a true Justiciar.”
“That’s only part of it. It’s the timing. No one’s mentioned a sithigorn, riding wolf, horse, or any other mount, Tobimar, so he’s almost certainly on foot. He’s making it to these places just about as fast as you possibly could on foot—and faster, if like us you didn’t know which routes to take. Look, there isn’t a single road indicated between any of those three routes—from the Twilight House he’d have to go up here, then take this road south for at least ten miles before he started going in the direction he wanted.”
Light dawned. “By Terian’s Stars. You’re saying he’s familiar with this area.”
“He’s not an outsider, he’s a home-grown problem, Tobimar. He didn’t just get here six months ago, or even a year or two. This is the way a native would work. He knows this place like the back of his hand.”
That makes sense. “If the enemy’s smart, that’s what they’d choose. Someone who knows the territory as well as their enemy.” He ran a hand through his hair. “That does make it a little harder, though. If he knows the area that much better, he’s going to be hard for us to catch.”
“If we play the game his way.” The little Toad looked smug. “But we know what he’s up to . . .”
“And maybe if we can predict his next move, we’ll be able to be there before he is. What’s your little secret?”
“I thought I’d take a look around the Temple’s back room. There was a chart on the wall showing the general search areas the Justiciars are using.”
Tobimar instantly caught on. “Since he’s directly opposed to the Justiciars, he has to keep confronting them. Looking at how he usually shifts a long distance, we’ll be able to tell the next attack by checking which Justiciar or Justiciars will be in the likely areas.”
A few minutes were spent going over the schedule and comparing it with the map. “I think that’s pretty conclusive.”
“But,” Poplock pointed out, even as Tobimar began to pack his things, “it’s already been quite a while since his last appearance. He might already be there.”
“He might not, too. Plus he might take a bit longer scoping out each victim.” He let his twin swords settle into place, then lifted the Toad to his shoulder. “Besides, we need to try if it’s at all possible. Sure, the Justiciars can take care of themselves, but one of them is dead already. At the very least,” he said as he packed the information away with a last glance at the entry, “we can make sure that Shrike is warned in time.”
41
The sound of a footstep behind her had been just a split second too late to warn her as a tremendous blow struck her back, sent her sprawling, and before she could recover something very heavy was on her back, and a sharp, cold metal edge resting on her neck below the helm. “Now, you Balance-cursed imposter,” the deep, Shipton-accented voice growled, “I give you a few minutes to explain yourself, not that it be likely any explanation will save your body and soul from the Justiciars’ judgment.”
Outflanked. I thought I was stalking Shrike, but somehow he caught on. She knew she wasn’t the best at this sort of thing, though she wasn’t bad. Still, the older Justiciar was clearly a lot better. She thought fast. He’s got the advantage. I have to find a way to get the upper hand. “And which imposter was it that hewed the head from Kyril Vantage—Shrike or Condor?”
The edge on her neck shifted the tiniest bit as her question struck home, and she heaved upward and to the side, escaping the squat Justiciar’s trap. Shrike, realizing this as soon as she moved, rolled to his feet even as she did, raising his axe to find her sword already clearing its sheath.
For a moment they stood, staring at each other, and then Shrike’s eyes narrowed, widened, and he gave a grunted sigh. “I know that voice, disguised though it is. That was my axe, lass. And your mother’s neck was mine, too, though Condor fought both well; I struck the last blow to both.”
“And how was it that you could manage to walk into our house and still be able to look yourself in the mirror, traitor?”
The mouth behind the gray-streaked mustache tightened and the eyes narrowed. “You understand nothing, girl, or you’d be a lot less quick with your judgment. Me, I learned to take what good I could get; better that than what waits for any who try to turn their back on him.”
“Quick with judgment?” She barely kept herself from starting the fight then and there. I need to understand. Killing Shrike . . . part of me screams at me to do it now. He killed Mother. He killed Father.
And somewhere inside there was a tiny sigh of relief that, somehow, though he had been there, it was not Condor who had slain either of them.
But I can’t kill Shrike if I can get him to talk. “You dare call me ‘quick to judgment’? You killed my parents! You orphaned us, all three, and your false Justiciars killed Rion too, and you have the undiluted poisonous arrogance to say I am quick to judge you?”
The axehead made an abortive twitch, but stopped. He wants to get information from me just as much. “I suppose you’d see it that way. Can’t argue that, not much, but you’re wrong about one thing. We didn’t kill your brother. Truth be told? None of us were sure we could kill him. No, Silver Eagle, he got the direct treatment. And maybe, if you remember that, you’ll be a little less certain about what a man should be doing in our position.”
The soul-wounding. That’s the doing of whatever they’re working for. She’d suspected that, of course, but it was a great deal different to actually have those suspicions confirmed. “You could have just left, even if you didn’t have the
courage to right the Balance.”
“Hellfire and curses, girl, you sound just like the damn boy. He almost—” Shrike stopped himself, but maybe too late.
Condor? Wanted to leave? “And why didn’t he leave?” She let her sword drop a tiny bit. “Because he couldn’t leave you?”
Shrike spat on the ground. “He didn’t want to, no, but believe me, he would have if he’d thought there were any way to talk to you. Damn near got us both killed, mooning over you and your justice-ridden family—I finally had to drag him in, make him see the real truth, before he gave it up.”
Condor almost left . . . because of me? She grappled with the thought, then pushed it aside. Later. Later. I’ve spent so much time brooding on their treachery I don’t know what to feel. But this means that Condor might not be beyond reason. Whatever Shrike did, whatever he showed Condor, it scared Condor into following their shadow. Maybe I can reach him . . . somehow.
It wasn’t the time for a duel. If she could catch up with Condor, who was patrolling the Varheyn area—just a little ways over—if she could catch up with him, it might even be worth Shrike knowing who she was. He spoke gruffly, hard and cold, but somehow she thought there was still some sense of decency, or at least old guilt, in him.
She started to back away, towards the thickets of the jungle that she knew well from years of rambling through every part of Evanwyl.
Shrike’s eyes widened, and he suddenly lunged for her, axe held high. “You’ll not get to him, you Dragon-spelled witch!”
As she parried, her heart sank. It wasn’t an act. He really cares about Condor—maybe the only thing he does care about—and this thing that’s behind them, he’s so afraid of it . . .
The copper-colored axe whipped around again, and she saw a shimmer of sharp claws in the air. Just in time she ducked aside; the axe cleaved air where she had been, but not one, but THREE deep furrows scored the ground, one no more than three inches from her foot. Claws of the Shrike . . .
