by Ryk E. Spoor
She evaded the next strike, and the next, reading his movements, looking for an opening to flee. He was too methodical, too well guarded to give her an easy strike to stun. Any cut or jab she tried had to be serious, had to be driven home as if she truly meant to kill him, or it would never get through at all. She offered Myrionar another prayer, pulled speed and strength from the Balanced Sword, and matched the older man strike for strike, her new-forged Flamewing catching the metal Claw and holding back the shimmering magical ones at the same time. No. I’m not getting away from him. I’m better than he is, I think, despite age and experience . . . but not enough better to just dump him and run.
She straightened then, bringing her sword up higher, and she saw Shrike come on full guard. He’s seen it.
“So, lass. You’re ready to kill me?” he said, and his mouth quirked up in a bitter smile. “Then prove to me you’re a better woman than your mother, or Windclaw’ll take your head to lay next t’ hers!”
Decision made, she suddenly felt the fury flare up within her. You killed Mommy and Daddy! You left us alone, and then you came into my house, spoke as a friend while knowing all along—
And Flamewing suddenly blazed, flaming with red-gold fire, as she swung it again, and again, and again, three blows so fast that not even Shrike’s speed was enough to parry all of them, and she felt Flamewing bite deep into the false Justiciar’s armor, shearing off the shoulder-guard as though it were thick bread before a flaming knife, and Shrike gave a low snarl of pain at the burning cut in his shoulder.
But it was far from a disabling blow, and the return stroke of the axe rebounded from her armor only after delivering such impact that she felt a rib crack and every breath was suddenly fixed and circumscribed with agony. Now it was her turn to back up, on the defensive, as she tried to concentrate enough to heal, or at least drive back the pain, without losing the concentration on the fight that was allowing her to keep her head.
Shrike was hammering her now, a rhythmic controlled cycle of swift, hard strokes jolting her body, ramming pain through her arms with every impact. He knows I might beat him if I recover. So he’s not giving me a chance.
But Shrike wasn’t Mist Owl; he was stronger than the Artan warrior, but not stronger than she was, and not as skilled. Lythos’ training, plus whatever instincts and blessings were in the Vantage family, and perhaps whatever gifts Myrionar had seen fit to offer—these outmatched Shrike in every way. She felt the pain in her chest ebb—a bit, a tiny bit, but enough to ease the tightness of sympathetic contractions in her arms, the instinct to curl in and shield, loosen her stance just that critical bit. Her sword caught the next blow, turned it, and she struck, driving Shrike back a step, struck again, two steps, and as Flamewing awakened again, burning brighter, Shrike was backpedaling furiously, trying to get enough distance, had it, bracing himself, and a howling arose from his axe, the Wind backing his swing as the Fire drove hers, and the two weapons met in pure and complete opposition.
The concussion blew her off her feet, nearly ripped Flamewing from her grasp, left her dazed, not even sure of direction, just knowing she had to get up, up!
But when she was up, wavering but with her sword on guard, she saw nothing moving, just drifting smoke and mist from the meeting of Wind and Fire. Where is he?
The haze cleared, and now she saw Shrike, lying on his back, unmoving. She edged closer, and as a light breeze blew the last of the smoke away, realized that the false Justiciar would never move again.
Windclaw had failed against the newest blade of the Spiritsmith, against a true Justiciar’s weapon, and shattered in the conflict. One great edged shard had plunged full-length through Shrike’s throat; his own axe had finished him.
She felt, for a moment, vaguely cheated. By the end, she’d wanted to take Shrike’s head herself.
But . . . maybe Shrike’s own words had had some truth in them, after all. Maybe I can’t completely judge him when I don’t know what he feared. He was fighting to protect . . . his son, I guess.
She rested a moment, let Myrionar’s power heal her in a flow of star-touched light. Now to find Condor!
But almost as she thought that, she realized it was the wrong idea. How was I just feeling about Shrike? If Aran . . . Condor . . . was anything like he seemed, Shrike was his father. I can’t go to him fresh from killing Shrike and act as though I might be his friend. That would make me just like them.
She put the conundrum of Condor aside. Still, I have to try a different way. On another Justiciar. Both of these I’ve killed, but maybe . . . maybe I did this wrongly. Perhaps the ones who have some trace of good, some hope in them, perhaps they need to first see a friendly face, not start out facing a stern and unknown figure that fills them with guilt that pushes them to fight.
She thought about that as she made her way carefully through the woods. But who? Four left of the false Justiciars, if they haven’t replaced Eagle yet—and I haven’t heard that they have. I can’t go to Condor yet. She pictured the others: the overly loud, boisterous Bolthawk, now here, now there, as erratic as the flight of his namesake; Skyharrier, with his cool white wings and gentle even temper. And Thornfalcon . . .
As soon as she thought of his name, she felt a smile. Of course. If any of them can be reached, it has to be Thornfalcon—the half-clown, the would-be bard and minstrel.
The smile broadened. I’ll find him. I’ll have to be careful, find out which patrol area he has, figure out how to approach him . . . but I’ll find him.
And maybe . . . just maybe . . . I’ll find one I can save.
42
“Oooh, that doesn’t look good.”
The comment was involuntary, and probably not very respectful of the scene. But on reflection, Poplock felt it pretty much covered the ground.
Rather like Shrike.
“Gods be damned . . . too late.” He heard the frustration in the Skysand Prince’s voice, and Poplock gripped tighter as Tobimar raced to the body that lay in the clearing and dropped to one knee, hoping against hope that . . . but one good look at the body, even in the moonlit dark, sent that hope to nothingness. “Stars and sand . . . not a chance. But what in the Dragons’ Names is this that killed him?”
Poplock looked around. It was clear that the jagged shard of metal sticking out of the now-dead Justiciar’s throat was a piece of something. As Tobimar continued his cautious examination of the body, Poplock’s eyes focused on the heavy, ornate metal shaft not far away, and, on one end . . . “I revise my opinion. It’s worse than not good, it’s really, really bad. Tobimar, it’s a piece of his axe.”
The head with its long black hair came up and the startling blue eyes followed his own gold gaze. “By Terian’s Light . . . but you’re right.” He looked down at the body. “And look, his armor’s cut through at the shoulder.”
For the first time, Poplock really felt uncertain. “Those Justiciar armors and weapons . . . they’re magical.”
“More than just ordinary magic. I heard it said they were made by the Spiritsmith, which means they use whatever techniques he knew, and maybe were also infused with some of the god’s power in their creation as well. To break that . . .” Tobimar’s face reflected the same indecision.
“You want to back out?” Poplock asked quietly, after a moment of silence.
Tobimar didn’t answer immediately; he continued walking cautiously around the clearing. “Poplock, can you help me figure out the battle here?”
“Sure.”
For the next hour, the two companions worked on reconstructing the way Shrike had been killed. More than once Poplock found himself wishing Willowwind was there; he would probably have figured it all out in minutes. But eventually they came to fairly close agreement.
“First . . . um, we weren’t the first here,” Poplock said.
“No. Someone else. Either that, or the survivor came back.”
“Hm. Hadn’t thought of that. Could be. Boots are about the same size . . . anyway, how do you r
ead it?”
“Shrike actually made the first move; came up and wrestled the Phoenix—we assume it was Phoenix—to the ground. Then somehow Phoenix got free—hard to imagine, given how well-trained the Justiciars are—and the two of them talked for a while, moving a bit to get in position for attack.”
“Maybe.” Poplock said. “But these marks here are the Phoenix’s, and it looks to me like he or she was trying to leave. Over there, Shrike suddenly charges, as though to stop him from getting away.”
Tobimar squinted. “I guess I can see that. But judging by the way the battle goes . . . it wasn’t because Phoenix was afraid of Shrike. Shrike seems to have gotten in maybe one or two good shots, but most of the time the battle was going to Phoenix—and there’s no trace of pieces of either the Phoenix’s weapon or armor.”
Then Tobimar looked at him. “Part of me wants to back out. But . . . no, I can’t. Not just pride—although there’s a lot of that involved. He hasn’t been dead more than a day. If we’d just been a little faster, he wouldn’t be dead now.”
“Or maybe he would, and we’d be dead with him,” Poplock pointed out.
“I don’t think so. If we’re right about the battle, Shrike wasn’t quite this Phoenix’s equal, but it wasn’t completely one-sided, either. Adding the two of us into the fray—especially when one of us would probably not be noticed until the right minute—would almost certainly have either defeated Phoenix, or forced him to retreat.” He studied the ground again, paced out a few of the moves. “Tall indeed. I’m guessing six foot three, maybe six foot four.”
“You know, that would argue for a woman as this Phoenix.”
“What? Most women are shorter than that.”
“True,” Poplock agreed, “but if this Phoenix is over six feet tall, he still didn’t weigh as much as Shrike, who’s a lot shorter. Look at the footprint depth in similar soil. Total burdened weight—because this Phoenix is travelling light, not leaving possessions behind—around two hundred ten, two-twenty.”
Tobimar shrugged. “I bow to your superior expertise at this sort of thing. But it still doesn’t make much difference.
“The real point is still that this almost has to be part of the whole . . . tapestry of events, the battlesquares game that Khoros is trying to direct through us and those other five . . . and maybe others. And it’s right where my quest takes me. I can’t back out. This is . . . what he trained me for.”
Poplock bounced a subdued nod. “And what I’m already mixed up in. We’re only a day or so behind this Phoenix. I think we can get a read on his direction pretty quick and then figure out who his next target is.”
“The number of choices is getting narrowed fast, Poplock.”
“Don’t I know it. Seven Justiciars total, one died a while back, now two more, there’s four possibilities left.” Poplock scuttled along the forest floor. “C’mon, Tobimar, carry the lightglobe over here. I need to read our quarry’s footsteps.” As they moved along, he checked each impression. Okay, after that last clash, both of ’em were knocked down—Shrike permanently. Phoenix gets up . . . looks like he was still a little shaken, staggers a bit here, trying to get his bearings, probably not sure if Shrike’s finished or about to finish him. Moves in carefully, sees his target’s down for good. Kneels beside him, maybe just to make sure. Doesn’t touch him as far as I can tell. Then . . . sits there for a minute or two.
Something about what Tobimar said struck a chord. “You know, Tobimar . . . I just had a thought.”
“That’s a dangerous thing for a Toad,” his friend said, trying to keep some humor. “What have you thought up this time?”
“Well . . . look at the picture we have of this guy now. He—or she—is really familiar with this area.” Gets up, moves away a bit . . . hmm, much much steadier now—healing concoction? Meditation? Actual healing gifts?—but no clear direction . . . “He’s calling himself a Justiciar; he either has similar powers or he’s good at faking them. The god’s not telling them what’s going on.” Hmm. Takes two, three steps in this direction with force, made a decision . . . stops . . . thinks again . . . starts moving off again. “He knows the area—and the people—well enough to get where he wants, how he wants, and for them not to question him. He fits in.”
“And? We know this.”
“Well, try this mud out for feel: ever hear the term ‘inside job’?”
Tobimar stopped in his tracks, and stared at Poplock so long that he started to get uncomfortable. Finally he let out his breath in a whoosh. “You have a nasty imagination, my amphibious friend.”
“And by that you mean it makes sense.”
“A lot of sense in some ways. No need to fake the powers if they are your powers. You’ll know where the Justiciars are going to search . . . because you are one. Maybe the first victim of the Phoenix wasn’t Mist Owl; might’ve been Silver Eagle himself. That armor isn’t in use now, is it?”
“Oooo. That’s one I hadn’t looked at. You’d need some really good armor to fake up being a Justiciar, and if you made something with a design that silly—I mean, silly if you weren’t a Justiciar or God-Warrior or other type where the armor’s a symbol, anyway—people’d remember it.” Walking in this direction, quickens pace a bit. Yes, he’s made a decision. Shifts course here, I’m betting to throw off pursuit. Need to track a little farther. “But what if you could just, oh, dress up one of the real Justiciar armors a little? Using your own, there’s risks with that, but if you had another Raiment set . . . why, you could put a real glamour on that, make it permanent . . . no, better, you make it conditional, so it’s only going to look like this Phoenix when you wear it.”
“Might be. And it explains how you can also be good enough to kill these Justiciars. You’ve worked with them. You’ve fought and sparred with them. You could have figured out a strategy against each one.” A thought seemed to strike Tobimar now. “You know, that makes sense. You’d also know what you could use against them—with words—to confuse them, throw them off. That’s how Shrike lost his grip on Phoenix.”
“And now we know who our likely culprit is,” Poplock said. Yes, he’s changed direction a couple of times . . . but this time he’s got a line and he’s holding to it. It’s definitely this way. “Six foot four, said to be one of the strongest of the Justiciars.”
“Condor.” Tobimar nodded slowly. “And it explains that little circling, talking bit. Shrike and Condor are direct partners; from what I’ve heard around they’re very close. So Shrike’s trying to figure out what’s going on, and maybe Condor’s trying to explain it to him. But that doesn’t work out, and Condor finishes it.”
“Our Phoenix was definitely flying off in that direction. If I haven’t gotten all turned around, that’s the Gharis region?”
“I think so.” Tobimar put the lightglobe in a nearby tree fork so he could riffle through their notes.
Poplock was still thinking. “Of course, none of this gives us a reason for what he’s doing, if we’re right. Unless . . .” That’s it!
“Unless what?” Tobimar supplied the obvious question, while still searching.
“Unless Silver Eagle wasn’t his victim, but someone else’s. Maybe it’s . . . a power play, a, a, what do you call it, a schism, a conflict in the faith itself, being played out inside the Justiciars!”
Tobimar winced. “Terian and Chromaias, you like to think of the worst possible . . . But it explains why Myrionar can’t answer. The motivations are internal; justice can’t be served either way, and both sides need or want vengeance.” He looked down at the paper in his hand. “And our next target is . . . probably Thornfalcon. I hear he’s the most popular of the Justiciars—and the one most people suspect is the weakest, though he’s got tales of unlikely heroism to amuse at any moment.” He shook his head. “If we don’t get to him before Phoenix does, it’s going to be ugly.”
“Twice as bad,” Poplock observed with grim humor as he bounced back to his accustomed position, “if this theory’s r
ight. Nothing’s so ugly as getting involved in a family fight.”
43
Kyri let out her breath in a silent sigh of relief. Through the window of the Southern View (which mysteriously faced north) she could see the soft brown hair and long profile of Thornfalcon, nodding with a faint smile on his face to the rhythm of the entertainer of the evening, a girl about her own age who was singing and playing the winged harp. He’s there, and—for the moment—alone. With his reputation, that’s some luck right there.
It had taken her longer than she’d hoped—almost two days; she’d found the right region after realizing that the first town she was in was Skyharrier’s patrol area, and remembering that Thornfalcon was supposed to have a house just a little farther to the west.
She pulled the cloak up over her head to make her hair unnoticeable and hide her face from casual recognition; the heavy mist of this evening, from chill air coming off the Khalals, made this ploy reasonable. The Phoenix Raiment and Flamewing were packed away for now in the neverfull pack; she now wore the same armor and weapons she’d worn when she began her quest.
Myrionar and Terian, I hope I’m doing the right thing. On the one hand, she knew she had to give the Justiciars every chance, and her prior approach had been confrontational—almost calculated to bring things to a bladed end. But on the other hand, this was far more risky in that it inherently revealed her identity, and might leave enough clues for the other Justiciars and their unseen master to figure it out ahead of time, even if she killed Thornfalcon (and what a horrid thought that was).
She took a deep breath and moved, pushed the door and entered the inn.
The air was not that much warmer than outdoors—having experienced real cold now in faraway climes, she found this night much less chilling than she would have before—but the warmth was filled with the smell of baking rolls and bread, cooked meat and roasting vegetables, beers and wines and juices of a dozen types, a welcoming smell echoed by the double-chiming ring of the winged harp and the light songs of the entertainer.
