by Ryk E. Spoor
“And from a few things Kyri said, I don’t think Myrionar’s got much left to spare, anyway,” Poplock pointed out. “Sorry, but really? We were ready to try to take him on ourselves, so you don’t have to fight the big baddie here. If you’re good enough to help keep Bolthawk and Skyharrier off our backs, that’ll be good enough.”
Aran straightened a little and nodded. “I can do that.” He looked back at the Demonshard. “That still leaves this problem.”
Poplock wrinkled his face, thinking. The problem was that there really weren’t many options. That blade couldn’t just be left here. And while he’d like to think that tomorrow they’d head out and triumph, he couldn’t be certain of that, which meant that it would be ridiculously irresponsible to not deal with it before leaving.
Finally he sighed. “Your scabbard’s the only thing that can hold it, right?”
“As far as I know.”
“Fine, here’s what we do. We put it in your scabbard, then either Kyri or Tobimar will carry it on the way there. When we get close to the Retreat, we can dump it off nearby—no one will find it accidentally, that’s for sure, as long as those diversion wards are up around the Retreat. Then we figure out what to do with it after the battle’s over.”
Aran bit his lip, clearly thinking hard, then nodded. “I guess that’s the best we can do for now.” He glanced at the little Toad. “Better stay back while I approach it. I’ve seen it move on its own, and while it might not kill me, since I’m its intended wielder—”
“It won’t mind at all doing a little toad-sticking. Fine.”
Aran approached the weapon as one might approach a giant scorpion, gingerly, poised to strike or flee at an instant’s notice. The weapon stirred slightly as its owner approached, but did not rise from the ground. “Your course is decided, Demonshard,” Aran said. “More than once you have fought me and lost; do not attempt to fight me again.”
Poplock didn’t hear a reply, but sensed the weapon’s anger. There was, however, a clear note of defeat in it, despite its prior mocking tones. The kid has thrown it away on his own, and I guess beat it more than once on its own terms. Not something to laugh at.
Aran finally reached out, seized the hilt, and in one swift motion drew it from the earth and slammed it back into its scabbard. The young man shuddered, then straightened again. “Come on, let’s get back to camp. I want to be done with this.”
Poplock hopped ahead of Aran; he didn’t want to sit on a shoulder not more than a few inches from the Demonshard. Some things are just too creepy-nasty to get used to, and that’s one.
Finding their way back to the camp was easy. Tobimar and Kyri were still asleep, and the sun filtered peacefully through the trees, lighting the camp with gold-touched green. Kyri did stir uneasily for a moment as the surrounding sounds faded with the approach of the Demonshard.
“Better take that off,” Poplock said.
“Yes.” Aran reached back and the little toad heard a catch release. The scabbard came free of the armor.
Too late, Poplock noticed that one of Aran’s hands was clenched just a little oddly on the scabbard. The hand whipped out and whitish dust sprayed all over the little toad.
Poplock tried to shout a warning, but his shout was barely a gurgle; as things began to fade around him, the last thing he saw was Aran’s face, filled not with triumph but sorrow.
Chapter 32
Aran looked down at Poplock, then glanced at the other two. They were still sleeping. He could sense that even the Demonshard was startled. Unlike the three heroes, the sentient sword could sense his emotions, knew that he had thrown his lot in with the last Justiciar of Myrionar.
The Toad was completely unconscious. The sleeping powder—ironically enough, made by Thornfalcon many months ago for all of them to carry—had been startlingly effective. It probably wouldn’t last very long—nor did Aran want it to—but it would be long enough. Even a relatively few minutes would be adequate. He took out a piece of paper and wrote a swift note, left it under Poplock’s nose, and then turned, walking swiftly to the West.
What are you planning, Condor?
“I am not Condor anymore, Demonshard. Just Aran.”
An inaudible snort. Very well, then, what are you planning, Aran?
“They wouldn’t trust me alone. They certainly wouldn’t trust me while I’m carrying you, and I can’t blame them. I certainly wouldn’t trust me. But if I go with them, the moment we appear, the false Justiciars will know I have betrayed them. Kyri and the others said themselves that my great advantage is that our enemies don’t know that yet.”
I see, the Demonshard said, with a chuckle. You will go forward and try to be the worm within their apple, to betray them at the moment they spring their trap. A pause. Or, perhaps, just to slay those who remain, taking advantage of their trust?
Aran gave a wordless snarl. “Never. I have sworn to Myrionar, Terian, and the Golden-Eyed. I mean to keep that oath. I will not pass judgment and vengeance upon Bolthawk and Skyharrier. But there is a promise I made—a promise I made to you, Demonshard—that I intend to keep.”
A sense of pleased surprise. Ahhh! You hope to use the weapon of the Demon King himself to destroy his firstborn son!
“Can you kill Viedraverion? You seemed unsure of an Elderwyrm.”
The Elderwyrm had sheer size—and perhaps considerable power above that of even the Firstborn of Kerlamion—in its favor. If you can wield me skillfully enough, I can. Think you that the Lord of All Hells is not cautious of his most powerful children? I have seen through his blade, for I was a part of that blade, and I know Viedraverion well. If you strike him well and truly, he will fall.
“Good enough.”
After a few hours, he knew he was approaching the crucial area. He drew the Demonshard and began making random cuts in the earth as he walked.
Stop! What are you doing?
“Making sure that Kyri can follow me even through the diversion wards. Do you think I am so stupidly overconfident that I believe I must triumph? That I will survive? No. I must do this myself, for myself and for all of us who were drawn into that monster’s web of deceit…and to protect Kyri, if I can. Because it is obvious that Viedraverion intends her to find her way here, if she survives. But if I fail, the three who have come so far will at least have their chance, and it may be that I will have weakened him enough.”
The Demonshard fell silent.
“Do not think of rebelling against me again, Demonshard.”
I will not, it answered, its unvoiced tones both resigned and amazed. You have bested me at every turn with your will, whether my ways to your mind and heart were direct or as subtle as poison. Even at the last, your will was absolute. I could not force you to complete that oath sworn in fury, that purpose for which I was forged, and while I may still tempt and reason with you, I have found my way to your heart blocked. I know now that which even the King of All Hells did not know, that you will be the master of me, not I of you. Use me to destroy, then, at your will, and if you feed me the soul of the King’s Son I shall be well content.
Aran was startled by this speech, but he could sense the Demonshard meant every word. “Then I promise you that we shall face my patron together, Demonshard, and if you can take his head and soul, do so, and I will ask no more.”
He walked on, feeling a faint hope; with the incomparable power of the Demonshard—a power that had shattered a tsunami hundreds of miles long and mountain-high—he just might have a chance to destroy that false-smiling monster and keep Kyri from ever having to face him.
The sun was beginning to drop lower in the sky by the time he approached the Retreat. Cautiously, now.
There. He saw Bolthawk, guarding the front entrance. Skyharrier will be patrolling above…
He waited. A minute, two, three, and then he saw it, the faintest flicker of motion above. The Raiment of Skyharrier could reflect the sky above it, make the flying Justiciar but a fleeting shadow, a breath of motion scarce to
be seen against clouds and blue. He waited again, unmoving. His Raiment, too, could hide him, as could all of theirs; what use stealth if one’s armor gave them away with bright colors?
Two more passes, and Condor was certain of the timing. That’s three passes. He will reverse direction now, to make sure that someone trying to guess his pattern will make an error.
Sure enough, only a moment later he saw the ghostly shape of Skyharrier return, going in the opposite direction. He will do three more like that, and then do a straight pass across the Retreat and reverse again.
As soon as Skyharrier was well out of sight, Condor moved, moving around the Retreat until Bolthawk was just hidden by the wall. He waited again until Skyharrier passed once more, then emerged from the jungle, walking swiftly, openly, coming around the corner.
Bolthawk immediately came to the ready. “Condor.”
“Bolthawk. Why are you drawing your weapon on me?”
“Have to be sure whose side you’re on.”
“Whose side?” He put as much bitter outrage into that as he could. “I have no other side to go to, any more than do you! As well you know.”
“Hmph.” Bolthawk regarded him narrowly, then shrugged. “Then what news?”
“News I must give to our patron directly, concerning my own quest and our worst adversary.”
“You’ll find him in the usual place, then,” Bolthawk said. For just the tiniest fraction of an instant, his eyes flickered back towards the Retreat.
Aran was already in motion, having hoped and assumed that would be the case; with lightning speed his hand struck, and Bolthawk staggered, stunned, against the wall of the Retreat. Another two blows and his former ally was unconscious. Possibly dying, Aran thought with a pang as he dragged the heavy Child of Odin into the doorway, but not swiftly. If we win out, healing will bring him back to himself. If not…he will be free of our Patron, anyway.
Time was not his ally, now. One or two circuits of the Retreat might pass before Skyharrier realized that his companion’s absence from his post wasn’t just a matter of a quick visit to the washroom, but no more than that. Skyharrier might be suspicious as soon as the entrance came in view again, which would be only a few minutes now.
But that’s all I need.
He moved quickly through the familiar retreat, now quiet with a watchful silence. Be alert! He may have other guards within.
And as he came into sight of the doors to the sanctum, he ducked back. There.
A massive figure, inhuman, with an insectoid head and chitinous arms, stood impassively before that set of doors. By the Balance…that’s a demon of the Mazakh hells…one of Voorith’s servants, I think. Has Viedra made a bargain with that thing as well?
He must have, came the unexpected commentary of the Demonshard. That is one of Voorith’s favored guards, of the Sazachil; only his strong allies are given such.
Well, I have no time or choice.
He came around the intersection striding purposefully, glancing at the demon arrogantly.
“Halt. You may not enter.”
“I am Condor, and I have come a long way to talk with our Patron. Stand aside.” Even as he spoke he was still approaching.
“Condor? I have been given no instructions regarding you.” The creature’s eyes were suspicious, and it tightened its grip on the mace it held.
Now, Demonshard.
Power flooded into him, black and ecstatic, and he leapt from the ground, a bound that took him six feet up and twenty feet forward, slamming into the demon before it even realized he had begun the attack. The mace fell from its grip, but it was recovering—
—not fast enough, as Aran caught the arms that sought to enclose him, spun around, gripping one, pulling, levering it back until there was a crunching crack! and a steamkettle whistle of agony. The creature fell heavily against the doors, and Aran dropped to the ground, then leapt again, delivering a roundhouse kick, then a spinning kick that finished bringing the insectoid face back around, and finally springing at it from the wall across from the double doors, both of the Condor Raiment’s boots smashing into the demon, shattering its armor, driving it into the doors with irresistible strength. The twin portals bowed inward and then burst apart, scattering pieces of the bar that had held them as the demon’s twitching corpse skidded across the polished black floor.
Their Patron—Viedraverion, Aran thought—merely raised its head as the body slid to a halt near its chair, and slowly closed a book. “Why, hello, Aran. I must admit, I had not expected you quite yet.”
A chill went down his back at the casual greeting. “You expected me?”
A laugh. “Oh, Aran, of course I expected you. Couldn’t kill your father’s murderer, could you?”
“You knew who she was all along.”
“Oh, not quite all along,” it said cheerfully, rising from the chair to face him. Though there were no weapons in evidence, Aran was certain that his opponent was far from unarmed. “I knew what she had to be, you understand, but not precisely who, until I surveyed the damage after poor Thornfalcon departed our company.”
“Knew ‘what’ she had to be?” He drew the Demonshard now, and it howled distantly, waiting for the strike.
“Of course,” it said. “I suppose you already know that my work for Kerlamion was merely…not a smokescreen, precisely, but a project whose purpose was merely to give me access to certain resources, while keeping the King of All Hells and most of his servants too busy to pay much attention to anything else.”
“I know that now, yes. Though that must be dangerous, betraying your father, Viedraverion.”
“My father?” It smiled, and for the first time there was something inhuman visible, a glitter from teeth too shiny, too sharp, to be anything human. “Kerlamion has his own interests, but sees only relatively simple goals. I have something much, much more important in mind, and the Phoenix is the very heart of it. When she arrives here…oh, now, then we shall see something absolutely unique.”
“What do you mean?” He wasn’t quite close enough to dare a quick strike, not when he wasn’t sure how fast or tough his opponent might be. Aran edged closer as it replied.
“I designed her, Aran. Don’t you realize this? Everything I’ve done, ever since I arrived in Evanwyl, every single one of my efforts has been devoted to producing this last, final, ultimate Justiciar, the last true representative of the god Myrionar, and—as I hoped and planned—one coming directly to me, with the faith of so many upon her shoulders.”
Designed? He was at once outraged and appalled. “You planned—”
“—everything, yes. There were other possibilities than Kyri Vantage, although once I realized she was the Phoenix it was clear that she was the best possible choice. And now she walks to her doom—a doom I have planned, and which shall give me far more than she, or you, could begin to imagine.”
“You are never going to touch Kyri,” Aran said. “And with this weapon, a weapon of the Demon King himself, I will make sure of that!”
The Demonshard came down like lightning.
But their Patron blurred, moving so fast that the Demonshard passed harmlessly by. A casual backhand from the creature struck Aran harder than a bilarel with a club, and he was hurled backwards against the wall, the Demonshard skittering uselessly away across the floor.
Even as Aran felt himself sliding down the wall, his Patron was there, lifting him off the ground like a toy, smiling, chuckling, but the sound was dropping, deeper, now a laugh like rumbling thunder as the shape before him shifted, ballooned upwards, seven, eight, nine feet, eyes changing from cheerful blue to a laughing, pupilless, poisonous yellow glow, the face elongating, the mouth becoming a cavernous maw filled with glittering diamond teeth, still laughing, shaggy black-brown fur covering a body of immense, inhuman power, and the hand that held him now gripped him from neck to mid-chest, and every finger was tipped with a glittering claw nigh a foot long.
His heart seemed to stop as he recognized that m
onstrous shape, a shape of the darkest legends and stories, even as the might of that arm sent him crashing through one of the walls, an impact that drove the breath from him and made red-black pain threaten to envelop his consciousness. He tried to rise, but again he was caught up, sent tumbling back through the wall, into and through the great desk, to sprawl helplessly on the floor. Wrong, wrong, it tricked us even about WHAT it was, and now Kyri and the others are coming into its trap!
“No, no, Aran. You’ve come here as the perfect bait, you see,” the Great Werewolf said, the voice showing it had resumed its human guise. “If the Watchland wasn’t enough, surely the repentant Justiciar—who has come here alone to protect her—will ensure that she comes straight here. You see, there was still a very small—but measurable—chance that she would choose to withdraw, find stronger allies. The situation is terribly delicate; a delay of weeks, perhaps, surely no more than months, and my entire design would come apart. Now, that chance is essentially zero, and the grand finale is assured.”
He could feel a faint coldness near his right hand. Maybe…“What…do you…mean to do?”
“Ah, of course, it is so obvious to me, as I’ve planned it for these centuries, I forget it won’t be nearly so clear to you. But it’s really quite a simple thing, Aran. Once Kyri Vantage confronts me, she is facing the one who helped corrupt and destroy the very religion of Myrionar. She must destroy me in turn; it is, in a very real sense, a cosmic necessity, to right the wrongs I have done, to begin the true healing. To do so, Myrionar can—and must—invest her with every single trace of Myrionar’s power.” A shuffling sound, a tinkle of broken glass from something that had fallen on the floor; the monster in the guise of a man was getting closer. “That means that Myrionar’s very essence—its self—will be completely open, utterly vulnerable. All of its existence…and all of its connections.”
Despite his intention to pretend to more weakness than he felt, Aran started half-up to his knees in horror. “You can’t—”