Phoenix Rising

by Ryk E. Spoor

  46

  The room was now empty except for Kyri and waiting horror. This is my only chance.

  Kyri looked at the bindings; they were light, wide straps of some soft, pearlescent material, but the softness did not mean lack of strength. When she tried to pull, they gave hardly at all. Might be shadespider silk. I could break about half that much. Maybe. On a good day. The material was ideal for bindings; wouldn’t cut into the person’s arms or legs—or head, now that I notice—or cut off circulation as long as they didn’t struggle, and it was very hard to hurt yourself struggling against it . . . but it was also stronger than the best ordinary rope by a great deal.

  I will not fail. I will not! I will find some way out of this.

  She cast desperately around, her glance falling on the open keepsake box. The blades glittered back at her.

  He’s not here controlling everything. Maybe . . .

  She stretched her body, threw it to one side as far as she could flex.

  The floating platform moved slightly, tilted a bit.

  Yes! She tried to gauge the way the unseen, immaterial supports shifted. Meant to allow him to position his victim in any way he wants, and do it easily. He can probably lock it down if he likes, but he didn’t before he left. The keepsake chest was near her head. Have to tilt and spin so my one hand can reach into the chest.

  She raised her chest, arching her back slowly, then slammed down and to the right. There! The platform shifted, tilted just a little more. Again. And again!

  Suddenly, through the partially open door, she heard a shout, and a clash of blades. Whoever it is might have found out too much. Maybe they’re good enough . . . but maybe not. Got to get out of . . . here!

  The last slam of her body forced the strange suspended structure past a minor tipping point, and it revolved sideways and down, perfectly lined up. Kyri felt a savage grin starting across her face as she saw the chest getting closer, and stretched her fingers out, out. I just need one thing, anything, with a sharp edge—

  But as her fingers were within an inch of the chest and still dropping, the glittering trays of blades and needles retreated, the elaborate carven lid slid shut, and her fingers struck only solid wood.

  “No!” For a moment she wanted to curse and cry at the same time. Of course he’d spelled it against anyone else touching his toybox.

  A tremendous shattering crash echoed from below, and she realized someone or something had gone through one of Thornfalcon’s huge picture windows. She wanted to believe it was the false Justiciar, but she remembered Rion’s description of fighting Thornfalcon and her hope faded. Whoever that is, they’re fighting my battle . . . and they’re about to get killed for it.

  A terrible cold fury rose up, but she controlled it, balanced it. Myrionar, give me strength. Give me all the strength my mortal body may handle. I have sought Justice, offered Mercy, tried to follow Wisdom.

  Now there is only Vengeance.

  Smoke suddenly rose from the floor, but the spell-wards of Thornfalcon—though they must have been strong—were not equal to stopping the blessing of a god. She felt strength flowing into her, filling her with power, and she threw her entire body against the bindings that held her.

  The elaborate frame itself creaked and seemed to bend slightly under the strain. The webbing tightened, pulled in soft yet imperative resistance, stretched perhaps . . . but did not break.

  No good, she thought, horror starting to return. Even twice my strength isn’t enough to break those bonds. He knew I was a Justiciar. He knows how much I can hope to gain from Myrionar, so he’s made the bindings that much stronger.

  But even in incipient despair, something hovered, nagged at her. Made the bindings stronger . . .

  Creaked . . . seemed to bend . . .

  Made the bindings stronger . . .

  And despair was gone in a rising tide of furious hope. “There’s two things you didn’t think of, Thornfalcon,” she said as she took deep breaths, preparing herself.

  “The bindings are stronger . . . but did you make this prisoning frame stronger?

  “And do you really know everything Lythos taught us?”

  First the meditations. I can’t afford mistakes. She ran through the Winds of Direction and Winds of Seasons, the Eight Winds, and she felt her mind becoming focused, calm, certain; behind that, the strength of Myrionar waited, patient, eternal, for her to call it forth again.

  Her whole body tensed once more, but this time in a smooth, controlled, focused effort, building, building, the power of the Living Will, not merely the Claw of Stone, the Body of Stone. For a moment she thought she could see Lythos, with that single tiny smile, nodding to her, as she pit her strength, and the strength of Myrionar, and finally the strength of the human soul, of her living and unbreakable will, against the silken-steel prison of abomination she was bound within.

  Thornfalcon’s bindings of shadespider silk held softly firm, but the structure itself creaked again, seemed to bend . . . and now there was no seeming about it, a bend, a screeching of metal, and suddenly something broke, and the framework fell, no longer intact, no longer supported. She grunted in pain as she hit the ground, but now the structure was weakened. Pull and bend again. And again!

  With abruptness that startled her, one arm came entirely free, remnants of metal and wood suspension still bound to her. She rolled, added that arm’s pull to the other, and that one came free, and she sat up, the remaining pieces of that grisly horrific trap falling away as the structure’s integrity completely failed. Trailing the sound of the pathetic remnants, she leapt to her pack and yanked it open. Flamewing first, and the huge blade made short work of the shadespider bindings.

  And then she reached in again, and pulled forth the Raiment of the Phoenix.

  47

  Tobimar’s twin blades flickered back and forth, following the sense of motion, flick of eye and intent, and even with two weapons it was all he could do to keep that terrible rapier from impaling him or cutting him to ribbons with its double-edged blade. The exiled prince leapt backwards, a midair reversed somersault barely clearing another stroke of Thornfalcon’s weapon, landing with a skid atop a display table.

  “You’ve marred a near-priceless Imperial table, you barbarian,” Thornfalcon said, still smiling, showing none of the tension Tobimar felt. “I’m tempted to take that price out in pain, but I also,” the smile widened, “hate to keep a lady waiting.”

  He unleashed a flurry of blows that backed Tobimar up a step, and suddenly cut lower, much lower.

  The slender rapier cut through the solid silverwood legs of the table as though they had been reeds, and Tobimar leapt up and over the false Justiciar as the table collapsed, parrying a weak and surprised stroke in midair, taking a cut at Thornfalcon’s back with the other blade; unfortunately it rebounded from the Raiment armor.

  “You complain about me marring your table?” he said, as his senses and mind tried desperately to figure out a way to finish this without dying. Poplock was nowhere to be seen, at least not at a sideways casual glance, but then, he was very, very good at hiding.

  “My compliments on your agility; you have already evaded Lightning longer than many. As to my table, once marred, the value is gone. No point in trying to repair perfection; finish its destruction when the time is right.” The long face which made him a perfect choice to play the sad and lost also stretched other expressions, emphasized Thornfalcon’s malice.

  And that must be the way he views everything. All or nothing, his to keep or throw away. Terian’s Light, what sort of a monster is he? Tobimar focused, reaching for what Master Khoros had once called the High Center, where he could touch again the web of possibility and certainty. The focus cost him in accuracy and speed, perhaps lethally, but he had little choice. He could not win against the Justiciar as things stood.

  The rapier smashed against his defending blades like a bludgeon. One part of Tobimar registered this, was astounded by the force. This weapon . . . it give
s up nothing against heavier blades. He has all the speed and maneuverability of a rapier, but none of its weaknesses. I must separate him from that blade.

  The other part of him was rising higher, extending outward, touching the essence of the world around him again. The course of the world was now his course . . . if only he could chart it.

  The next strike of Lightning he met with a perfect cross-parry and twist—and the lethal blade flew from Thornfalcon’s grasp.

  To Tobimar’s shock and dismay, the slender Thornfalcon stepped forward as dark possibility and darker power enveloped him, blocking Tobimar’s own swords with his armored forearms and then hammering a blow into Tobimar’s gut that staggered him, only the realization that to yield to pain would mean death keeping him from doubling over.

  “Where,” an elbow smashed across his face, bringing a flare of pain and salt-iron taste of blood, “are all,” a kick to the ribs that tumbled him over the wreckage of the table, “these overtalented children coming from?”

  He felt himself lifted up by completely inhuman strength and hurled through one of the great windows. Must not . . . let the pain distract me.

  He rolled over and over on the grass, absorbing the force of that tremendous throw. This . . . false Justiciar has powers like nothing I’ve fought before. He’s at least two, three times as strong as anything his size ought to be.

  Even as Tobimar dragged himself upright, Thornfalcon appeared, silhouetted against the shattered window, the rapier Lightning back in his hand. “First it was Rion Vantage, then his lovely sister, and now you, and somehow I feel this is but the beginning.”

  The same desperation and pride that had come upon him in the mazakh stronghold rose up, even as he brought up his swords again. “I know not that family, but I am a Silverun of the Silverun, Seventh Prince of Skysand.”

  For just a moment Thornfalcon halted. “Of Skysand . . . Ah, now there is a piece of information most useful.”

  That halt was crucial; Tobimar had those few seconds to reach deep within and draw forth the reserves that waited there. Though the night was dark, now he could sense all that lay about him. He did not doubt that the vicious false Justiciar was able to see as well, but perhaps his opponent would think him half-blind in the dark. With the vision, he gained also the strength and speed. It might not be enough . . . but it’s what I have.

  But now Thornfalcon came on, and it was clear that what he had was not enough. The deadly blade was slipping its way through his defenses, a nick here, a trickling cut there, and suddenly Tobimar sensed a stone, too late, stumbling, and Thornfalcon’s smile widening, the arm drawn back for that shattering thunderous strike—

  And Thornfalcon screamed in shock and pain, stumbling himself as something lanced straight through his calf. “What in Blackstar’s name—?”

  Some inhuman sense must have warned him just in time, because something leaped from another direction even as Tobimar rose and started his own charge, but Thornfalcon whipped Lightning around with speed to match its name and batted away Poplock like a pebble from a stick. Even limping, the false Justiciar was able to block and parry most of Tobimar’s attack, but not all; a brilliant red streak was laid open on the long cheek, and his right arm’s defenses were pierced, as was the flesh below.

  Thornfalcon switched Lightning to his left hand and a small shield grew from the armor of his right. “So you had an ally, one of those mud-hopping lazy creatures that actually gained enough of a spirit to leave his home puddle. How very interesting.” Pale light flickered, and with dismay Tobimar saw the cut on the false Justiciar’s cheek just . . . fade away. “Still, that could be somewhat awkward; if my little strike there hasn’t killed him, he will be quite hard to keep track of and might interfere at a crucial moment.”

  “What a shame that would be,” Tobimar said, drawing once more on his reserves.

  Thornfalcon chuckled, circling somewhat more cautiously now. “And I see you have found something within yourself . . . a strength and speed that you did not have earlier. And it is still growing.” He drew himself up. “So I believe it is time to stop the play.”

  That dark power Tobimar had sensed . . . came forward. Thornfalcon’s eyes glowed; for a moment, they seemed to have no pupils at all, just glowing soulless yellow light, and a huge looming shape was all about him, obscuring the human Thornfalcon in a cloak of malice and hunger.

  And then it moved.

  Tobimar parried, and the blow nearly knocked the blade from his grasp, even held as carefully and well as it was. Another massive strike, and another, each one so powerful that it felt like blocking the strikes of a mountain. The exiled Prince tried to return blows, riposte in a way that would make the monstrous Thornfalcon back off, but none of his blows went home.

  Lightning flicked out and touched his cheek with cold fire again; but this time the coldness spread, and for a moment he weakened before he could call up his strength again. Terian and Chromaias . . . he’s somehow able to drain my very soul’s power!

  “And so you now sense the way of your ending, little Prince.” Even Thornfalcon’s voice was different, more powerful, less light and ironic. “I will cut from you what you are, and leave nothing but an empty husk.”

  Is this the moment Master Khoros spoke of? To pit a child’s prayer against . . . that?

  Tobimar felt his knees trembling, knew Thornfalcon’s power was still at work, and began to draw his breath for that last, forlorn hope.

  And then another voice spoke, the voice of a woman, a voice of cold purpose and yet burning with fury.

  “THORNFALCON.”

  48

  The False Justiciar whirled, stepping back and to the side so as to keep Tobimar in his field of view, but even in the darkness Tobimar had seen the sudden shock and—perhaps—even a trace of fear when that clear, cold voice had spoken.

  Just beyond stood . . . the Phoenix.

  She had the hawk-beak visor pushed back, and in the brilliant light of Sathan, the Moon, he could see the sharp planes of her face, beautiful, not pretty, the glint of iron-chilled eyes that warmed for just a moment as they met his; that gaze said, as clearly as if she had said it, Thank you. Her armor shone red-gold, perhaps not merely from reflection but from its own power.

  Framing her face was a tumble of dark hair with a pure white flash at the precise center, and Tobimar realized: I’ve seen that before, somewhere.

  But Thornfalcon had already recovered from his shock. “Phoenix. What a . . . surprise. How did you . . . ?”

  “No answers for you, monster. But,” she continued with a humorous smile, “I’ll give you my thanks.”

  Thornfalcon’s eyes narrowed, still trying to watch them both. As far as I’m concerned, they can both wait a moment longer. I’m recovering . . . but not quite ready for a fight like that, not against that power. “Thanks? For . . . what, precisely, my Lady?”

  The smile turned icy, and she reached over her shoulder, drawing a blade that was long, longer, just kept coming out of its sheath until Tobimar realized with awe that it was a teracabal, Great Sword, like none he’d seen any man or woman wield, and she was holding it now in one hand as though it weighed nothing. “For finally giving me a target worthy of all of Myrionar’s Vengeance, as I found no joy in the deaths of Mist Owl or, even, Shrike. You, murderer, betrayer, liar and false friend, I will most certainly enjoy killing.”

  “Always happy to please a lady,” Thornfalcon said thinly; his tone was less than pleased, and Tobimar found himself wondering if the false Justiciar’s rapier would fare so well against what he now realized must be a true Justiciar of Myrionar.

  “He’s a soul-cutter, Phoenix!” Tobimar said in warning, as both Justiciars—true and false—came to a ritual guard pose.

  “Is he?” If anything, this made her smile more widely. “Oh, now I will have no regrets except that you were not what you seemed, Thornfalcon.”

  “I regret only that we were not able to continue our . . . conversation, Kyri.” The d
arkness about him gathered itself.

  The Phoenix moved first, and Tobimar was once more astounded. That monster blade whipped down and around as though it were no heavier that Tobimar’s own twin weapons, blazing a path of red-silver-gold through the night air. Thornfalcon’s parry was quicker, but—Tobimar thought—not so smooth, not so easy, and the jolt that went through the false Justiciar’s slender frame showed that the Phoenix’s weapon had striking power that even Thornfalcon could feel.

  I had thought myself well-equipped, some of the finest weapons of Skysand in my hands, yet these Justiciars wield weapons and powers far greater.

  Lightning flashed its namesake power and a nimbus of blue-white surrounded the blade, only to be met by a flare of golden fire around the Phoenix’s, and for several moments the two traded blows nearly too fast to be seen, with thunderbolts and flame splashing from each impact like water.

  Tobimar, now fully and firmly in the High Center, could sense the course of possibility, perceive the inhuman power within Thornfalcon brushing the edges of the Phoenix’s soul, blunting the force of her fire, eating away at her defenses in subtle and nigh-indetectable ways, like wood-borers eating away the center of a beam. He grasped both blades tightly, pulled the sense of combat about him like a net woven of instinct and prophecy, reached out as well as in for strength and speed to match Thornfalcon’s. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny movement across the clearing. Good. I think Poplock’s still alive. We might need him.

  Striking a foe from behind would normally be pretty dishonorable, but as a bounty hunter—even one with strict limits on what he’d do and not do—he’d somewhat gotten over that. And Thornfalcon had proven he didn’t deserve the honor of a Prince. So Tobimar waited a few more desperate seconds, as Kyri Vantage, the Phoenix, began to slowly give way before her adversary, and then lunged, twin-swords extending at the final moment like the fangs of a great snake.