Phoenix Ascendant - eARC

by Ryk E. Spoor

  Focus. The problem was that he could not show himself in Evanwyl. He was a known traitor, a False Justiciar, and he would find no allies below. None to give him advice or aid. He considered disguising himself, asking around for the true Justiciar, but that was terribly risky. If any of his former comrades were still around, they could have assisted, but of course none of them were…

  He stopped, wondering. It just might be possible.

  Stealth was the ally of a Justiciar—or a false one—and once night was falling he called upon all of it to conceal him as he made his way farther into Evanwyl, towards one of the border towns. I visited there more than once. Now that I know…

  Approaching the clearing, he could see the mansion still standing. Good. They didn’t burn it; needed to keep it intact for searchers.

  The question was how much had been looted, destroyed, or left intact. Revulsion at what Thornfalcon had done had undoubtedly given a lot of people the impulse to destroy everything he’d made, but it was a valuable estate, and searching burned ruins was a pain.

  The grounds were a mess: dozens of holes had torn up the lawns, and a huge black scar stretched from near the house to the very edge of the jungle. But the front door was mostly intact, and had been mended where it was broken. No lights showed; no one had laid claim to the place or chosen to live here, then, unless they were an early sleeper. Aran opened the door, paused, listened. Cautiously, he made his way into the foyer, stopping every few steps to listen.

  It took half an hour or more to make his way through enough of the house to be convinced that there was no one here. Knowing that the house itself couldn’t be seen from any other location, he conjured a light and started searching.

  The first and most obvious place was Thornfalcon’s bedroom, but that had been stripped bare and, by the looks of the symbols placed on various of the walls, purified by everything but fire. If they ever do sell this house, I must wonder if anyone will ever use this room again. The runic pattern the False Justiciar had placed in the floor had been ripped out; whatever powers it had once had were now gone.

  What Condor was looking for, fortunately, could be concealed in several places, and might be overlooked by searchers. It wasn’t in the basement—which had been cleansed by fire, at least to a large extent. Possibly the Phoenix’s doing, since our leader said she’d killed Thornfalcon. If so…incredible control. Such power, yet the entire building remained intact.

  He almost missed it. He had actually entered and searched the room and was about to leave when he suddenly froze, then turned to look across the room. And there it was, in plain sight on the wall of Thornfalcon’s ground-floor salon and study. What incredible arrogance. But then…he almost never had visitors he intended to let live, other than us, so perhaps it simply was his preferred location.

  Aran took the gold and silver scroll and concentrated on it. “I am here.”

  Minutes passed, and he repeated the call. He may be busy. I may have to be quite patient.

  Three more repetitions. But Aran had indeed learned a lot about patience, and despite the distant mental chafing of the Demonshard, he simply sat in one of Thornfalcon’s remaining undamaged chairs and tried again.

  Suddenly the silvery surface cleared, and their Patron gazed out at him. “Why, Condor! I had not realized you had…ahh, of course. One of Thornfalcon’s mirror scrolls. Clever. What can I do for you?”

  “How can I locate the Phoenix?”

  A broad smile. “Yes, I see. That is a challenge for one who cannot question the locals. Small though it is, Evanwyl’s very large for one man to search on foot. However, you happen to have the answer to hand.”

  “I do?”

  “The Demonshard, of course. While your so-called Justiciar powers are, ultimately, false, they are quite deliberately made to seem in virtually all ways identical to those of the real Justiciars. The Demonshard can sense other powers—”

  Aran felt like hitting his head. Now that their Patron pointed it out, it was obvious. The Demonshard had not only been able to sense the power of the Elderwyrm tens of miles away, but instantly recognized what that power was. If Aran’s power was even reasonably close to that of a true Justiciar, surely the Demonshard could look for similar power sources…and there would be only those at the retreat, and the Phoenix. “Thank you.”

  “It is all in accordance with the plan we discussed. I look forward to seeing you.” The scroll went blank.

  That simple statement firmed Aran’s new resolve. He’s too confident. He’s got a plan to deal with the Phoenix.

  And in all honesty…I don’t want him in on it. Not him, not Bolthawk, not any one but me. This is my vengeance, my father’s honor.

  Decision made, he drew his sword. “Demonshard, you know the touch of my own powers, those that I claim to come from the god Myrionar, yes?”

  The cold, arrogant thought was instant. Yes. And that it is a false claim, that too I can see, not only from your mind but from the power itself—though that is a subtle trick indeed.

  “Never mind that. What I want to know is whether you could sense the true power of Myrionar at a distance, tell me in which direction I might—”

  The sword laughed, an eager and malicious sound that echoed through Condor, resonated with the part of him that realized his long hunt was nearly over. That I can do, yes, for some leagues, even.

  He leapt to his feet. “Then show me. There is but one true Justiciar living, and she is not far from here—a mile, ten, perhaps twice that, but I think no more.”

  Yes. Yes, I sense a power very like the one you pretend to. It is quiescent, inactive, but I have been with you for long enough that I am certain this is what you seek.

  “How far? Where?”

  The Demonshard stretched out before him, pointing to the south and a bit west. “There…twelve miles in that direction.”

  Twelve miles. Twelve miles to finish my quest!

  “Then we will do those twelve miles tonight,” he said, and sheathed the sword.

  Darkness meant little to him. To see through the night was something natural to a Justiciar, and to one who carried a piece of the King of All Hells’ sword, it was even less an impediment. He strode through the jungle, shoving aside brush, occasionally using the Demonshard’s power to obliterate more stubborn obstacles, and calling on the nigh-infinite power of the blade to support him, to banish weariness.

  Even as his heart pounded with eagerness, another part of him acknowledged how hollow the victory might be. In his travels, Aran knew he had played the part of a Justiciar of Myrionar far too well; he’d even occasionally fooled himself into thinking he was one. Now he was accepting the help of the monstrous weapon he’d been given, and he could feel it trying—perhaps even succeeding—to take hold of him once more.

  Doesn’t really matter, another part of him whispered. Just finish our oath, and then we can destroy the demon himself.

  A smile that was more a snarl of joy crossed his face. If Viedraverion really was a son of Kerlamion, as his conversation with the Demon King had implied, then it would be a battle of true irony; a piece of his father’s sword would be the weapon used to kill him.

  He felt a touch of weariness, drew dark, ecstatic power, strode forward with a smile now, tearing through the jungle. Time passed, but he did not weary.

  Then he burst from the forest onto the southern road. Ahead he could see Trader’s Rest…

  And two figures against the darkness.

  He touched the hilt of the Demonshard, caressed it, then drew it slowly, sensuously. “Our time is come, Demon. Tell me I’m not wrong; one of those two is my Phoenix.”

  You are surely right, Condor, the black sword answered, its tone eager and more respectful. I can feel her life, her power, she is indeed a Justiciar such as you played at being!

  Buoyed up by the relief and triumph of reaching his journey’s end, he broke into a run, calling on the sword’s power to silence his movements, cloak his approach, consuming all trace
of his coming.

  Strange; it appears that the Phoenix is lying on the ground, wearing almost naught but a helm. Why?

  It struck him that he might be seeing that most ironic of moments—the Phoenix betrayed and prepared for sacrifice by a false companion. But there is no way I will let anyone else kill her!

  False companion or true, the standing figure was the only thing in his way. He did not slow, but lowered his shoulder in the charge. The Demonshard protested, screamed at him, but he managed to refuse it to make his arm more than twitch. He had come here to kill one person, and one alone. Yes, if this man faced him again he might be forced to kill, but this time—

  The impact was stunning to Aran Condor, enough to make him stumble and fall to his knees for a moment. But his opponent had it far worse: he flew through one tree, two, then collapsed limply to the ground.

  He will be out of it long enough, if I have not killed him; but if he was with the Phoenix in the battle against a dragon, I think he will not perish so easily.

  Aran rose to his full height and felt adrenalin and joy and an alien, savage hunger rising. Fingers trembling with eagerness, he raised the Demonshard again and strode forward, looked down at the bound figure before him. Dawn was near, now, and he could see that she was a tall woman, as the reports had said, and clearly as well muscled as any he’d ever met. But he could not meet her gaze, for her helm was still on.

  “No, murderer,” he said, voice shaking. “You’ll look on me as I look on you, as I take your head, and leave your body for the crows as you left Shrike!”

  He reached down and tore the helm from the Phoenix’s head, raising the Demonshard for the final blow.

  Kyri Victoria Vantage looked sadly up at him.

  Aran froze, his brain unable to comprehend what he saw, and his arm began to descend, a stroke of death screaming with howling blue-white fire around a core of night.

  “NO!”

  With a supreme effort he caught his own arm, shoved the stroke aside, felt the Demonshard’s fury at being balked even as the long black blade plunged hilt-deep into the earth with a screaming flare of starfire.

  The Demonshard was in his mind now, raging, no longer under control, clawing through his brain, forcing his body upright again, raising the sword again. She killed your father! She is the one you swore to destroy! She is the Phoenix, the enemy of ALL False Justiciars! Kill her for your justice! Kill her for your vengeance! Kill her as she would kill you!

  But under all the arguments was merely the imperative: Kill. Destroy. Rip asunder bodies and souls and continue to do so. Feel the power of others flow into him, make him more than man, more than demon, something that could destroy the one who tricked him, who thought to control him. The Demonshard promised this, and he knew there was truth in the promises.

  But there were eyes of gray—sprinkled with strange, frightening yellow—and long flowing hair, and a tear flowing down the face that was not filled with hate, but sadness.

  Impossible. Impossible! It cannot be her! Kyri could never have made it back to Evanwyl in time!

  But the power of the gods could make a mockery of time and distance. He saw her, and at this range sensed her, knew that this was Kyri Vantage, knew how right it was that it would be her, sister to Rion, and then he remembered his patron’s smiles, his evasions, the denial of knowledge.

  He knew! He knew it was Kyri, perhaps from the very beginning! He arranged with his allies that I never met her! Fury burned within him now, but not at the bound figure below him—at, instead, the urbane, smiling mask of a demon. He made sure I never passed through Evanwyl, had no chance to discover the truth! This was his plan all along, to have me destroy her and then be broken by the discovery!

  Even as he thought this, his arm was rising, gripping the Demonshard, moving with a volition beyond his own. Kyri looked up and met his stunned, frozen gaze, and she spoke.

  “Forgive me, Aran,” she said.

  The words pierced through his anger and anguish and self-righteous justifications, reverbrated past even the impassioned and venomous urgings of the Demonshard, shattering the hatred that had squatted, vile and cold and corrupting, in his heart for all this time.

  He froze, the Demonshard upraised, fighting the weapon of the King of All Hells one final time. NO.

  YES! I was created for this! You will not—you cannot—deny me this kill!

  I can and I do. He forced his body to turn—not even an inch, but he turned, turned away from the woman he had hunted. I renounce that oath. I renounce my vengeance. I renouce my oath as a false Justiciar. I renounce it all. And most of all, foul weapon, corrupter, Demonshard, monster-blade, I renounce YOU. You have no more power over me, for I am no longer Condor. I am Aran.

  I am Aran.

  I am Aran!

  “I am ARAN!” he screamed, and with all his might spun, flinging the Demonshard away. He toppled, rolled down the hill, and lay there, sobbing, feeling both the revulsion at everything he had done and the slow-emerging wonder that he had somehow stayed his hand…and that the Phoenix, the true Justiciar, was by some miracle Kyri Vantage, the one person it should have been.

  The sun finally sent its first beams across the broad expanse of the world to touch upon Trader’s Rest, and for an instant Aran felt it was Myrionar’s own symbol, telling him that he had finally, at very long last, emerged from darkness.

  But then Kyri began to scream.

  Chapter 28

  “Bolthawk, Shrike, Mist Owl, Silver Eagle, Skyharrier—thank you for coming so swiftly.”

  Shrike made no attempt to conceal his sour expression. “Aye, but not as if there were a choice.”

  “Tsk, tsk, Shrike, there are still niceties to be observed,” it said, wearing the smile he knew they all found most galling. “It is true it would be exceedingly unwise for you to reject my summons, but still, I am not—and I believe you would all agree, have never been—an unreasonable being.”

  “True enough,” Bolthawk said, with a sharp glance at Shrike. It was interested to see that after the events of the past year, Bolthawk had become the unquestioned leader of the False Justiciars; even Mist Owl and the old Silver Eagle had accepted him. Surprisingly capable in the role, too; the crisis brought out something in him that had never come to the fore previously. “You don’t gather us like this without reason, sir. What do you ask of us?”

  “It is time for us to prepare to welcome some new guests who will be arriving very shortly,” it said.

  “You mean Phoenix and her friends,” Skyharrier said.

  “In a while, yes. But somewhat before that I expect at least one other visitor—an old friend and ally of ours.”

  Shrike started up. “Condor?” he said, with an eagerness that was utterly at odds with his prior sullen look.

  “Indeed, our long-departed friend Condor. He is nearing Evanwyl—in fact, has already entered it. But I am not entirely sure that he will be arriving to assist us, if you understand my meaning.”

  Shrike looked up. “He doesn’t know who the Phoenix is.”

  “Not yet, no.”

  The broad, frowning face suddenly creased in a wintry smile. “Then maybe the lass’ll wake him up.”

  It laughed. “Oh, dear, Shrike! You are hoping for my defeat? For your son’s salvation, after all he’s done?” The creature wagged a finger reprovingly at the false Justiciar. “For shame, now. That would just mean that you’ll have to kill him for me when he comes. You don’t want that, do you?”

  Shrike met its gaze with a sullen glare. “Maybe I’d just fall before him, an’ then it’ll be you he’ll be after.”

  Its hand lashed out, lifted Shrike effortlessly. “You think he has the power to defeat me? Even with those allies he has gained? Oh, Shrike, you truly are amusing. If you die facing him, I will make certain you rise and get to fight him again, until he wearies of slaying his father, or his father wearies of dying!”

  Tossing the warrior aside casually, it turned away. “I assure you, Shri
ke, your best course of action—for both your sake and his—will be to kill him swiftly, before I am actually forced to take a hand in the battle. You know what I can do now. Unless you wish that on your adopted son and the girl who wears Justiciar’s armor, you know it would be better they died before that.”

  It could sense the anger from Shrike, and not just him; all of the false Justiciars were reaching the limit of fear. But then, it only needed them for a short time longer, and having them break at the right time would be artistically correct; if it had to either leave them intact, so to speak, or directly deal with them after the rest was done? Not as elegant as the plan demanded, though such an outcome would not directly affect the major goal of the whole plan.

  It paused, then turned. “Very well, Shrike; you, Mist Owl, and Silver Eagle may retire to your own rooms. I will not involve you unless it becomes necessary.”

  Bolthawk looked up. “Why not us?”

  It shrugged, with an easy smile. “Because you are known to be alive and in service to me—though they do not, of course, know who I truly am. If you are not seen, our adversaries will have good reason for suspicion. If and when Condor appears, ascertain which side he is on before allowing him passage. I would prefer no battles within the Retreat itself. I will sense if you require aid soon enough to send the others to you, or come myself. If he is alone, there is a decent chance he is on our side. If not, you will know his intentions.

  “All of you ready your weapons, your defenses, your resources of all types. The coming battle will be the last you need be concerned with.”

  The three he had named first paused in the doorway at that, and Shrike turned. “An’…if we survive this battle…what then?”