by Ryk E. Spoor
That pall of darkness about Thornfalcon warned him at the last possible second, and he leapt away with immense strength and speed. But even so, he was neither so quick nor so skilled that he could afford such a sudden change of tactics, and that fiery sword cut across his side even as he evaded Tobimar’s attack.
Thornfalcon staggered as he landed, dropped and rolled to get even greater distance, and Tobimar’s glance met Kyri’s. She nodded, and together they charged.
It was the false Justiciar’s turn to back up, even the combination of the shield growing from his Raiment and his terrible sword not quite sufficient to holding off both the grim Phoenix and the flashing, slashing blades of Tobimar Silverun, Seventh of Seven. Tobimar’s will and the strength of his spirit warded off the crackling, sparking lightnings from Thornfalcon’s weapon, and the flame of Phoenix’s sword simply consumed the other’s power. Even the dark hunger that clawed at their spirits was weaker, unable to mount a clear offense in the face of two diverging assaults.
But Thornfalcon was far from finished, and he proved it with his next evading leap. In the moment he was in the air, he produced from within his armor a small sphere and flung it down.
Black-and-gray vapor billowed from the ground, enveloping both attackers and vanishing. Tobimar felt his limbs slowing down, paralysis beginning to set in. No! If I can’t move—I’ll be dead!
Phoenix merely laughed. “You think the same formula will work on me twice, Thornfalcon? Myrionar is not so weak as you believe. And as this man has tilted the balance for me, so shall I for him.” One of her hands released the sword and tapped Tobimar’s shoulder, and the red-gold light raced along his form, banishing both paralysis and weakness, with a distant sound like the call of the trumpets at dawn in Skysand.
The false Justiciar did not laugh, but he did not look afraid, either. “It was worth a try. Do you believe that is the end of my arsenal? We have only begun this little dance, girl, and I have danced it many times before.”
“Were you the one who slew my brother, Thornfalcon? You who cut his soul so it could not be saved, so Arbiter Kelsley nearly died trying to do so?”
Thornfalcon did laugh this time. “Ah, hoping for some truly poetic justice, I see.” He circled slowly sideways, and Tobimar and Kyri followeed suit. “Let it not be said I would disappoint a lady. Yes, it was my hand that took your brother’s life, who saw him running in terror when he realized I was no longer the mere human he had thought me.” The dark power rose again, and once more that terrible shape half-appeared, of glowing eyes and hulking, shaggy hunger, a smile of ice-crystal death.
The young woman smiled herself, more broadly than before. “Oh, that makes me so much happier, Thornfalcon.” She whirled her sword around, a fiery wheel in the night. “Because now I know you speak the truth, for I saw you that night, saw this inhuman shadow you wear.” Thornfalcon’s eyes widened momentarily at the realization he had been seen, had been that close to discovery. But Kyri was continuing, “And because you should know this, as well.” The greatsword suddenly arced upward, a mighty comet reaching nearly thirteen feet. “By the power of all the gods—” The blazing blade came down, and a shockwave of golden fire streaked out, carving ground and air alike. “—Myrionar promised me Vengeance!”
Thornfalcon cursed in surprise and shock; too late for him to jump aside, he tried to parry the flamestrike with Lightning; there was an explosion of thunder and flame and Thornfalcon disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
That won’t have finished him . . . where . . .
And possibilities narrowed to a tension, something touching the web of intuition, above!
The twin swords of Skysand intercepted Lightning perfectly, and had Thornfalcon not kept a deathgrip on his weapon he would have been disarmed for a second time. As it was, Tobimar’s crystal-flawless parry stopped the false Justiciar despite his inhuman strength and speed, held him for one tiny fraction of a second. Phoenix’s mighty sword was already coming and the arrogant look was gone, gone from Thornfalcon’s eyes as he twisted aside in desperation, disengaging his blade from Tobimar’s, trying to parry the Phoenix Justiciar’s strike, unable to entirely evade either the fiery strike or Tobimar’s own dual-sword riposte. He was sent tumbling, blood now visible on two sides, and—it seemed to Tobimar—the abominable power about him weakened, no longer as hungry and terrible.
He found himself charging step-for-step with Kyri Vantage, the two in perfect rhythmic accord as they tried to follow up on that strike. Fire now blazing in half a dozen places lit the clearing almost as though it were day, and Tobimar saw Thornfalcon white with pain, fear, and fury as he saw his two opponents nearly upon him again.
He sprang up and away, into the branches of a nearby tree, then lunged across a gap to the next. Kyri startled Tobimar by following suit. While Tobimar thought he could probably do the same, he chose to charge flat out across the clearing, keeping parallel with and below the false Justiciar. He could see in Thornfalcon’s narrowed gaze that his adversary understood perfectly. There was no refuge in either direction, no place to flee.
He might, of course, try to fly away—it was said that at least some of the Justiciars could do so—but it was almost certain that the Phoenix could follow, were that the case, and in some ways that would make him more vulnerable.
If he could fly, apparently he didn’t dare risk it. Thornfalcon, closely pursued by the Phoenix, suddenly stopped and dove upon Tobimar; the passing exchange of cuts left a temporarily cold-aching slash on his arm, but not so bad as the last, and he thought he might even have cut Thornfalcon again. Thornfalcon’s other wounds did seem to be healing . . . but not so fast as before.
The Phoenix followed the battle to the ground, rejoining with Tobimar as Thornfalcon recovered, and the two charged again, separating slightly to force the false Justiciar to have to deal with more than one direction of facing.
But now the narrow gaze became a sneer, and Thornfalcon abruptly plunged Lightning into the ground, so hard that the false Justiciar was lifted from the earth, balancing for a moment on the hilt of his weapon.
Bolts of lightning snaked out across and through the grass, covering the ground, clawing at the sky. There was no time or way to evade the wave of electricity, and Tobimar heard Phoenix’s scream echo his own as they both convulsed and collapsed, muscles twitching, weapons skittering from their hands. Another blast of thunder through the ground and Tobimar grunted, holding desperately onto consciousness but unable to regain control of his body.
“Perhaps . . . this . . . will quiet you unruly children.” Thornfalcon returned to his feet, pulled Lightning from the ground and strode forward. “Not the honorable ending for a Justiciar, no, but not quite as bad as you feared, Lady, for I will not risk another escape. Just death, first for your would-be savior and then for—”
The same inhuman senses warned him at the last minute, and as he had before, Thornfalcon whipped Lightning around in a flat arc to stop an incoming attack.
But this time it was not Poplock coming through the air. Thornfalcon’s blade struck one of two incoming missiles the size of sewing needles, and actinic white fire suddenly burned across the blade. The second bolt struck his armor and the same intense white flame was hissing, clinging, trying to eat its way through the Raiment of Thornfalcon.
“Beetle-eating kloq!” Thornfalcon cursed, trying desperately to beat out the hungry flames with one hand and moving in the direction of his assailant.
But Poplock wasn’t waiting quietly. The miniature clockwork crossbow was rewinding itself and spitting out more of the vicious alchemical bolts, clinging fire, acid, poison, shock, as the tiny Toad bounced from one clump of weed to another, racing away and ahead of Thornfalcon. Many bolts missed, but others hit, and the false Justiciar could not afford to ignore any of them.
Tobimar clung to High Center and remembered Khoros’ words: “It is a part of becoming one with the universe around us—or, more truthfully, of making the universe attuned and one with
us.”
If I am a part of the world, and the world a part of me, I have the strength of the world. This should not stop me. It cannot stop me.
His hand stopped twitching. The leaden weight still seemed to sit upon his limbs, but it was weight, not uncontrollable movement, and he forced himself upward. There is no pain. Pain is merely a warning, and for now I have no need of it. Pain receded, and stiffly, but quickly, he stooped and picked up his twin blades. He thought he also heard movement from the Phoenix’s direction, but dared not look.
The miniature crossbow ran down, but now the hopping Toad was scattering things behind him, caltrops, exploding balls, oil-slick spheres, and Thornfalcon was still unable to catch him. Hold on, Poplock!
Tobimar forced his body into motion, charged.
Thornfalcon whirled as he approached, parried the slightly clumsy attack, but his riposte was spoiled as a small jar of pickled beetles burst on his forehead, spilling acidic preservative into his eyes. “Kerlamion take you all!”
Tobimar didn’t waste time talking, just pressed his attack, driving his arms beyond their limits in speed and hammering, driving power.
Thornfalcon was still managing a defense in his desperation, a defense that was starting to solidify. If I can’t get him in the next few seconds . . .
But another sound, more footsteps, Thornfalcon turning, one last parry, a diving lunge with the point of Lightning as Phoenix charged, Tobimar’s lefthand sword smashing the lunge down, out of line—
And the great sword of the Phoenix impaled false Justiciar Thornfalcon clean through his chest.
The brown eyes went wide in shock; Lightning dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers, and Thornfalcon went to his knees as Kyri withdrew the sword. He looked down in disbelief, futilely trying to staunch the blood, and looked up. “You . . . have not won, girl,” he managed to say, a faint hiss and bubble showing how the sword of the Phoenix must have pierced his lungs. “I am . . . not alone . . . and you will not escape . . .”
“Perhaps not. But for myself, and the Justiciars, all the women you have killed, and my brother—I at least will have Vengeance.”
The sword flamed gold again, and Thornfalcon’s head flew from his body, rolling over and over and disappearing in the tall grass.
Tobimar could sense the dark presence trying to cling to the body, perhaps somehow bring life back even after such terrible damage . . . but it was a futile effort, one that echoed desperation, like a man caught on a crumbling cliff, scrabbling at something, anything to hold onto, and coming away with nothing. It twisted and grasped and faded, like mist before the sun, fading, fading, gone save for the faintest lingering echo, like the smoke of a fire a dozen years past.
The Phoenix turned to him, sheathing her sword as the fire burned away the last trace of blood and dirt. She bowed deeply, spreading her arms so that for a moment he wondered if she was planning to do the Armed Bow.
And it was that thought that triggered a memory. Before he could stop himself, he said, “Why, that’s where I saw you! You were with Toron!”
49
Kyri had been about to thank the strange young man, but his exclamation drove all her manners out of her head. She pushed back the helm and stared. “You know Toron?”
He nodded, long black hair falling over his face for a moment. “Quite well now, I should say.” He blinked suddenly. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I haven’t introduced myself.”
“Neither have I,” she pointed out with a faint, tired smile. The strain and horrors of the day were starting to close in on her, and a part of her just wanted to sit down and cry, or fall unconscious. The other part of her, though, was actually eager to talk to someone who would understand.
He gave an elaborate bow, a flourish of arms and a knee to the ground. “Tobimar Silverun of the Silverun, Prince of Skysand in exile—and,” he indicated his shoulder with a grin “Guild Adventurer.” She could see the exhaustion in his eyes—and the same eagerness to understand. His face had the same darkness of some of her own family—like Urelle—and features not all that dissimilar, but with eyes a piercing, startling blue contrasting with the midnight hair.
He then bent down and picked up . . . a Toad. “And this,” he continued, proudly, “is Poplock Duckweed, who probably saved both our lives. He’s saved mine more than once.”
The little Toad gave a hop-bow that made her giggle—a sound that she would have blushed at, except it was so light that it made the whole grim scene feel better. “Pleased to meet you, Phoenix. And he’s saved my life a few times too, so I’m sure we’ll even things up.”
“Well, I am very pleased to meet you both,” she said, and did her best bow. “Kyri Victoria Vantage, the one true living Justiciar of Myrionar, the Phoenix . . . and,” she gave the same gesture as Tobimar, “Guild Adventurer.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” the Toad observed dryly.
She smiled again, but noticed how Poplock seemed to favor one side, and Tobimar showed multiple cuts, bleeding from his face, arms, and was not moving smoothly. “Here, let me help you.”
She touched both of her new-found companions. Myrionar, these two saved my life, perhaps my soul, and helped me on the path to Justice and Vengeance. Grant them back their full strength and health.
The golden light that sang now always within her somewhere emerged, sparkled along the little Toad and his Skysand friend, wiping away injury and pain in a way she remembered well . . . and one she now felt again, as Myrionar added the same blessing to her, for accomplishing one of the greater parts of her task.
Tobimar looked at her with respect and perhaps a touch of awe that made her uncomfortable. “My thanks, Lady Phoenix.”
She shook her head with a smile. “Please, just Kyri. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead, or much worse.”
“And if you hadn’t somehow got free from where he’d left you,” Poplock said, “we would’ve been buried right next to you, so we’re all even there. Why don’t we go inside? There’s lots to talk about, and looked to me like Thorny there had lots of valuable stuff.”
“You’re going to loot his . . .” Kyri trailed off, not sure what to think. Initially the idea was repellent, but given the prior owner . . .
But at that moment, she saw Tobimar stiffen.
“What is it?”
The twin blades whispered back out of their sheaths. “Something’s wrong.”
She turned, looking, listening.
Rustling. Sounds of movement. Vibrations in the ground.
The little Toad had bounced down, poking around the leaves, looking for something on his own; he suddenly scrambled back up Tobimar. “Back! Back now!”
Kyri didn’t hesitate, but leapt backwards, backpedaling away—
And the ground where they had been standing suddenly collapsed down, sickly yellowish light emerging from below.
That wasn’t a cave-in, she realized, even as she saw shadows moving against the light, moving closer, That was something deliberate, something designed to happen. Even as she thought that, she was reaching over her shoulder, drawing Flamewing again, and remembering Thornfalcon’s last words: I am not alone . . . and you will not escape. She had thought he was referring to the other Justiciars, but . . .
A movement in the guttering fire-lit clearing, and something emerged from the hole, climbing up what must be a ramp leading down into the ground. Something that seemed humanoid in silhouette, but there was something wrong, wrong with the way it moved, wrong and very familiar, something that sent an instant chill down her back.
And then it emerged fully, with other shapes crowding up behind it, and she understood, seeing the high forehead, the caterpillar-like body, the lamprey mouth. Of course. The attack on Evanwyl could not have been an accident. He arranged it all. He controlled these things!
The monster charged, three more behind it; she saw Poplock, holding a tiny glittering blade in one hand, drop to the ground, disappearing into the underbrush. Good luck, little Toad,
she thought, and then braced herself and swung.
Flamewing sheared through the entire upper torso of the creature charging her as though it were a tuft of grass and not something the size and toughness of a man. She felt a spurt of triumph and confidence. I’m not the scared girl that faced these things the first time. I’m the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar, wielding the weapon of the Spiritsmith, and these things are no more a threat to me than they would have been to Rion.
Tobimar Silverun’s blades flashed twice, and the next creature fell; the Skysand Prince leapt high, cut low; another collapsed, bleeding.
But there were more coming, a scuttling tide of hunger and death, and there were other things mixed with them. A hissing, chittering squeal came from a face of working mandibles and six glittering eyes, and the doomlock spider lashed out with metallic-edged talons the length of longswords on jointed, powerful forelegs. The claws rebounded from the Raiment of the Phoenix, but staggered her backwards, even as she cut and severed one claw from the body.
A bilarel suddenly loomed up over Tobimar, eight feet of gray-skinned humanoid rage made solid, club upraised to crush, but it roared and dropped the bludgeon, clutching at one of its lower legs; Tobimar thrust one sword through its eye, and a flicker of motion dashed away from the falling ogre, rippling grass the only trace of Poplock’s presence.
Too many! Myrionar—I call upon the power that is mine by right. She whirled her blade again. “FLAMEWING!”
The red-gold flame flared outward in a deadly arc, flowing around and past Tobimar but washing in fearsome waves over the mob of monsters, who writhed, screamed, and died.
It was a momentary pause, but only momentary, for already she heard other sounds from below. Tobimar looked up at her. “Thanks for the assist. Shouldn’t we be running about now?”
