Phoenix in Shadow Page 2

Something about that bothered him. After a moment, he recalled what that was. Zarathanton . . . the five young people who had been, as they might have said, “framed” for the assassination of the Sauran King . . . his agent had been emphatic that they claimed to come from Earth. It would be ludicrous to suppose that another such traveler could have come so soon, so this must be one of those five—one who has either escaped the inescapable, or been released.

  There was also some other energy, a sense, that sent a tingle of warning and anticipation throughout the creature. Traces of something ancient, ancient indeed. Yet I cannot quite make it out.

  But that was not all. There was another trace of presence, another spirit-scent . . . And this, too, something hinting of the familiar. It allowed itself another good-natured internal complaint about the limitations it was currently saddled with. Necessary for the way things must be done, yes, but there are times I am tempted . . .

  Too many feet—humanoid and otherwise—had trampled these grounds in that combat, especially in that endgame against a tide of unnatural monstrosities. And that was very well-done, Thornfalcon. I have a suspicion as to the source of these things, but for you to have found it, been able to make the appropriate bargains . . . it truly is a shame you are dead. It quickened its pace, criss-crossing the entire clearing, walking, sensing, sniffing . . .

  A very faint scent caught at its senses now, and it glanced around and down, found itself looking at a tiny thing that glittered on the ground. Changing shape back to human, it reached down and gingerly picked up the little metal shaft. Pointed. Notched at the other end. It sniffed carefully. Alchemical bolt. But how tiny. Now what could . . .

  For a moment it was no longer smiling. Now that is too far for coincidence; first the child of Zaralandar finds his way here and is working with the last Justiciar, and now this? From the center of the Great Forest to here? With the Phoenix and whoever these others are? Voorith had no visible connections here, so what would have led this one hence?

  Its eyes narrowed and it looked around, suspicious. And if that is the case, other aspects of the plan may be in more danger than it appears. It sniffed again at the ground, and now, with its senses fully alerted, it caught the faintest hint, a chime and a flicker in the background.

  That it recognized instantly, and it grinned savagely, realizing that all of their plans were in more jeopardy than it had imagined . . . and it was glad of it, in truth. My oldest mortal enemy . . . is it truly you again, Khoros? Have you dared to try your hand once more? I must discover if it is so!

  It was even more glad, now, that its true goals were still buried layers deep, hidden behind the dozen other plots in which it was involved. Kerlamion, o King, your plans proceed apace . . . yet they may be doomed to failure.

  As might be true of the other three branches of the conspiracy. It nodded. I must find a way to have this possible connection discovered, brought to their attention. It would not do to make it easy on our adversaries, yet the King of Demons and our other . . . allies do not have any need to know how I have learned these things.

  It glanced up at the sky. Time to leave; I have learned what I could here.

  More importantly, it guessed what the Phoenix was about to do, and if it was right, there was little to be done to stop her now. However, if it moved very swiftly, it should be able to arrive at Justiciar’s Retreat just ahead of someone else who must be even now approaching. That should be very entertaining . . . and useful, if his performance is as expected.

  It strode into the jungle, chuckling, shape becoming something swift and terrible, arrowing towards the once-holy sanctum.

  CHAPTER 1

  Aran felt cold, cold inside, so cold that he was able to ignore his fear entirely. There is nothing to fear here, not now. For what I want and what It wants, they must be the same now.

  Even so, he had to steel himself to knock at the great stone and metal portal which was the Hall of Balance, the innermost area of the Justiciar’s Retreat . . . and the chosen quarters of their leader. He remembered the last time he had entered there, practically dragged by Shrike . . .

  “Enter, Condor.”

  The voice sent a new bolt of fear through Condor’s heart. I’d expected Thornfalcon. Expected that I’d have to argue with him to reach . . . It.

  But in a way, this was better. He had no idea why Thornfalcon’s patron would be here now, and even less as to why Thornfalcon would not be present, but at least now there would be no impediments to his purpose. He shoved the fear away, replaced it with the cold-burning rage, and entered.

  The room was dimly lit, as it nearly always was. Part of him wanted to believe it was because the creature feared light, but he’d watched It in the sunlight too many times. “You must know by now.”

  It raised an entirely human-looking eyebrow over a pure-blue eye. “How bold a beginning; not even a hint of the courtesies. But yes, I know, Condor; Shrike has fallen. A terrible loss for you.” The last words carried an almost sincere note of sympathy, that nearness to human feeling making it even more jarring.

  He gritted his teeth. I cannot get into a duel of words with It. It will enrage me if It so pleases, and then humiliate me, and I will still need to ask this of It. “I apologize for my failure in diplomacy; I am empty of thanks or courtesy this day, for he was my father in all but blood.”

  “Of course.” There was little irony in the voice now. “And I will tolerate . . . for the moment . . . a certain amount of personal clumsiness, Condor. But you did not come here to speak of the dead, I think, but of the living.”

  He knows, or guesses. Of course. Aran, the Condor, laughed suddenly. “Yes. Of those living who must soon die. This . . . this Phoenix,” he spat the name out as though it burned his tongue, “killed Shrike, left his body lying in the woods, didn’t even burn it or bury it, like you’d leave some animal in the woods, no ceremony, nothing.” Even as he said it, he heard his voice rising, and suddenly felt no inclination to restrain himself. “Well, I’ll do the same to him!”

  “Or her,” the other responded with maddening equanimity. “And really, why the rage? You know perfectly well that in all likelihood this is the true Justiciar of Myrionar. You’re the traitors and monsters. Didn’t you say something like that . . . perhaps even here in this room?”

  “Do not patronize me, monster! I’m beyond fear of anyone, even you!”

  Its eyes narrowed, and the blue was like frozen sea. “Have a care, Condor.”

  “I have no care at all, for all that I had left to care for—once you and Shrike had done with me—is gone. I will at the least follow, for once, the true path of my name, for I want vengeance.”

  It raised an eyebrow. “As do we all, in our own way. I have hardly barred you—any of you—from hunting down this Phoenix. Indeed, I urge you all to the hunt frequently, and have begun . . . my own little investigations as well.”

  “NO!”

  Actual surprise showed in the falsely-human eyes when it found Skyvault at its throat, and Condor continued. “I don’t want you involved at all! Phoenix is mine!”

  It stood still, studying him.

  “But I’m not stupid. This Phoenix killed Mist Owl, killed . . . killed my sirza.”

  “And Thornfalcon, but hours agone,” the creature said, its voice unaffected by the threat of the blade.

  Aran paused in his rage, momentary shock forcing him to re-evaluate the situation. He knew—none better—just what a monster Thornfalcon had been.

  But this only reinforced his current point. “So, he killed your favorite, too. Phoenix broke Shrike’s axe, carved up one . . . no, two other Raiments now. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

  It reached up and gently pushed the blade down with irresistible force. “Interesting. If I choose not to take your soul for daring to draw sword on me, what then is it you want?”

  “You know perfectly well. I want power to match Phoenix’s, to outmatch anything that Myrionar can give its last servant. I want to face Phoen
ix down, myself, and kill him or her and spit on their grave. I want to rip out their guts and let them die slowly and rot on some forgotten hillside the way Phoenix would have let my father rot.” He had to force the words out through tears and a snarl of gritted teeth.

  Their leader suddenly burst out in laughter, a sound so warm and human that Aran shuddered despite his rage and determination. No wonder that no one suspects a thing.

  “And you think I can give you that power, Condor? Do you realize what Thornfalcon was? That I had already given him much power the rest of you lacked, and still he was finished—and rather handily too, or so it would seem—by this Phoenix?” It was smiling in a way that sent shivers down his spine, and a distant part of him was screaming that he should back down, change his mind, run. But in the front of his mind he saw a beloved face in a death grimace, black-caked blood around a shattered piece of metal, and flies hovering for the feast.

  “If you can’t, then you are finished too, because the Phoenix will find this place—and you—eventually, even if they don’t catch you outside when you’re fooling the rest of the world! You’ve openly mocked the Balanced Sword enough—are you going to back down? Tell me that Myrionar is, after all, more powerful than us, and we’re all doomed?”

  For a moment It regarded him, still with that gentle smile that seemed to imply terror beyond imagining. “No . . . no, I would not say that. Myrionar’s power is vastly diminished, for in these centuries at my work it has been eroded, slowly, surely, but nigh-completely. This is a final desperation move, the only one left to a deity in Myrionar’s position. But just as a cornered animal, even wounded, can be surprisingly dangerous, so it is with a near-ended god. All they have left will be devoted to this final Champion. I have many things to devote my own attention to, for—as you learned some time ago—this is but one small part of the grand design. I have such power, perhaps, but I cannot give it to you—especially since, alas, I have seen you are less than dedicated to our ideals, unlike Thornfalcon.”

  Condor wanted to lash out again at the urbanely-smiling mask in front of him, but he knew that would end any hope of revenge by ending his life. “So you’re saying there’s nothing you can do?”

  “I am afraid . . .” It stopped, tilted its head, and the smile suddenly widened. “Perhaps. Perhaps there is. Not something that I can do, no, but . . .”

  “What . . . what do you mean?”

  The figure turned slowly and considered the polished mirror-scroll set on the desk at the center of the room, and Condor felt as though his guts were going to freeze. It looked back at him with that same smile. “Normally I would not call . . . but it is true that this Phoenix could be a significant hindrance to our cause, given time. He has the power you seek, do not doubt it.”

  “But . . .” He shuddered, but shook his head. “He has the power, but how could he give it to me?”

  “We can but ask.” Before Aran could object, the human-seeming figure passed a hand over the mirror. “Great Kerlamion, your servant begs your attention.”

  The shining surface blackened, became a room of darkness with something darker than any darkness seated upon a throne, the only light from eyes of screaming blue-white. “Viedraverion.” The eyes shifted. “Why is this one before us again?”

  “A . . . small problem has emerged in Evanwyl, oh Blackstar.”

  The eyes narrowed. “You begin with circumlocutions we expect from others such as Balgoltha. Do not follow that path, for we have no patience for it, even for one with such a record as your own.”

  Viedraverion—if that is its real name—shrugged and smiled. “You are of course right, King of Demons. As I had expected, the Balanced Sword is forced to make its final move, and has produced a true Champion. Now, while I believe I can maintain all as we desire it, this is certainly a crisis of minor but perhaps significant import.”

  The barely-visible head of blackness nodded. “Go on.”

  “I have many other duties you wish me to attend to, of course. There are so many . . . details involved across the world.” He gestured to Condor, who flinched as the alien, deadly gaze turned back to him. “The champion, called Phoenix, has slain three of my false Justiciars. One of them was, in essence, the father of Condor.” It smiled more broadly. “We can, of course, appreciate the strong bond between father and son.”

  The laugh from Kerlamion Blackstar was the sound of the very rending of air, and the smile a blue-white void of pain, and Condor very nearly did run then. “In our own way, yes, we can.” It leaned forward, and though the mirror-scroll did not change at all, Condor felt as though something immense was looming over him. “And so from us you seek the power to avenge yourself, to counter the final throes of a failing god? Answer us!”

  Condor swallowed. “Y-yes, mighty Kerlamion.” I am already damned, my soul must already be his as a false Justiciar. “Something that will give me the strength to face the Phoenix, to shatter his or her power, their new-forged Raiment, break their sword and . . . and tear their soul apart.” If my sirza will find no rest in the afterlife, no more will Phoenix—no salvation by Myrionar or by its allies in death.

  “And this is the one who thought to abandon us, that was drawn by the Light?” Kerlamion spoke to its servant.

  “Even so. By a noble and courageous girl, even.” It smiled.

  Kerlamion chuckled again. “Then we are pleased, and we see that, though you tremble, Condor, you stand firm. Veidraverion sees that the time is nigh, and he is right. Come, then, to us, and we shall give to you the power you desire.” The mirror went blank.

  Elation warred with terror and confusion. “I . . . thank you, mighty King . . .” But there is no way to Kerlamion’s Throne that the living and human can travel!

  “Fear not, Aran,” their leader said, with a smile even more chilling, and answered the unspoken words with a darker mystery. “You shall walk there on your own living feet, and stand alive before the Throne of All Hells itself.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “Down!” Kyri shouted.

  Tobimar reacted just in time; the huge serpent’s venom sprayed above his head, striking the grass and bushes behind them, almost instantly turning them gray and brittle. “Terian and Chromaias!”

  If that struck him, he could be killed! Not that getting hit by the thing’s immense teeth or caught by coils the thickness of a strong man’s thigh would be any better, but the virulence of the poison stunned her.

  Also somewhat stunning was the pain in her heart at the thought of Tobimar dying. She was aware that this was something she should think about, should understand—but this was not the time.

  The green-black monster’s head swayed back uncannily fast, evading Flamewing’s strike, then lunged forward; its teeth, in turn, rebounded from the Raiment of the Phoenix, and drops of venom dribbled harmlessly down and away. Still, the impact sent her tumbling away, a shock of pain echoing through her frame. It’s even stronger than I thought. And I thought a fifty-foot snake would be awfully strong.

  Tobimar took a twin cut at the creature, distracting it from Kyri momentarily, but the monster’s scales rippled and deflected most of the force of the blow; what should have been crippling wounds became mere scratches. It slewed around and sprayed more venom at him, but the Skysand Prince anticipated the move and leapt over the downward-slanting spray.

  Then the gray, dead bush reached out and grasped Tobimar.

  Kyri charged forward, even as part of her stared in disbelief. The bush became its servant upon death? What monstrous thing is this?

  The monster was forced to turn away from Tobimar at the last moment or have Flamewing’s blazing blade take its head, but now Tobimar was struggling in earnest. The hideous corruption in Rivendream Pass is worse than I imagined. I never thought of anything such as this. Poplock, where are you?

  “Come forth, Son of Fire, and consume our enemies!” shouted a voice from somewhere in the greenery.

  A glittering little red crystal flew out and shattered, exp
anding into a low, squat, four-legged sinuous form that was formed of pure white flame. “Ssssooo it sssshall be,” it hissed, a voice of water striking white-hot steel, and lunged at the huge serpent.

  Astonishingly, the monster’s scales were at least partially proof against fire as well, for though it let loose a steamkettle whistle of pain and rage at the salamander’s attack, it did not appear terribly burned.

  But it had reflexively turned towards the source of pain, and that gave Kyri the opening she had sought. Flamewing streaked out and around, a meteor and lightning bolt in one, and with a terrific impact the titanic greatsword sheared clean through the serpent. She leapt back to clear the thing’s death throes, and the salamander scrambled up and down the twisting coils, directing its flames and reducing the corpse to ash. It then bobbed in her direction and in the direction of the voice from the bushes, and vanished in a puff of smoke.

  “Well, drought, Kyri!” the little toad said plaintively as he emerged from the bushes. “If I’d known you were going to kill it that fast I might have saved him for another time.”

  She shook her head with a grin. “It was that distraction that permitted the blow, o most cautious of Toads.” She looked to Tobimar, who was now standing; the gray bush had fallen apart once its master was slain. “Are you all right, Tobimar?”

  “Not . . . entirely.”

  She saw grayish trails across his cheeks and hands; fortunately the thing’s tendrils had not reached the eyes. “Hold still.”

  She called upon Myrionar’s power as she touched her friend. The power came, golden light that erased gray, eased pain, restored strength and health.

  But she felt resistance this time—both from the dead grayness, a pushing and denial that tried to shunt the power of the God of Justice and Vengeance away, prevent it from touching the parts of Tobimar it had claimed, and from outside, as though Myrionar were more distant. She set her jaw and drove her will against the grayness, and it shattered, passing into darkness like that which she sensed all around, and then dispersing.