by Ryk E. Spoor
Kyri glanced towards the door. “But now that I know, Myrionar knows. It will not commit so much of itself as to be destroyed.”
Virigar shook his immense head slowly, his smile lethal with crystal blades. “You know better, Phoenix. Your own words have told me that Myrionar swore you this chance in the name of the very power of the gods. Myrionar can no more go back on that than you could forgive me and walk away, leaving me to my other work.
“And you, too, dare not leave this confrontation. Once we have parted ways, once I am no longer in your view…how will you know whether the friend you speak to is your friend…or myself?”
Kyri stared at the monster for a moment, as he simply smiled wider and waited, perhaps for her to charge, perhaps merely to watch all the emotions play across her face.
Virigar was right. She couldn’t turn back. And Myrionar would commit everything it was to this attack. “You’re right. So you intend to destroy everything that Myrionar was, not merely wound but obliterate the god. Which leaves me only one choice.” As she spoke, one of her hands dipped into a pouch at her side.
Virigar began a slow, pacing walk forward, claws lengthening. “And that is…?”
“Win.”
As she spoke, Kyri hurled a handful of pure silver coins at Virigar—and sent her power raging through the coins, vaporizing and pushing the vapor of the metal ahead and within her assault.
This time Virigar could not simply absorb the energy. He was driven back against his full strength, the silver-touched fire ripping and blasting his body, momentarily stunning him. And as he halted, she raised her sword and the Phoenix-fire shattered the ceiling overhead, tore outward, found what she sought, and touched it just enough to guide it in its fall.
Virigar’s face was a burned ruin, eyes flaring red and green with fury, as he shook himself. Masses of stone fell around them both, but abruptly the King of Wolves’ gaze snapped upward.
Just in time to throw up his arms as the point of the Balanced Sword drove straight between his eyes.
Chapter 40
Poplock rolled himself upright, thinking furiously. Got to distract Voorith.
Tobimar was backing up. There was, at least, more room, if he could manage to negotiate the rubble strewn everywhere, since that blast had blown down the enclosing wings on either side, and cracked the curved wall of the central building.
But Voory’s healing now. Concentrating a lot of his power to do it, which is probably why he’s not attacking yet. The Mazolishta clearly had limits—limits that were considerably lower than those of, say, Sanamaveridion—probably because as a god he was still subject to that pact of the gods. He was summoned as an avatar; you can’t just pull the whole incarnate god into this world under that pact. If we had a few more allies we just might be able to beat him. For at least the tenth time that day he found himself wishing for Miri and Shae.
There wasn’t much point in continuing to think about it right now, though. First order of business was to split the demonlord’s attention. He emptied a bottle of prepared oil in a circle around him, then took careful aim at Voorith with his clockwork crossbow, and, just as the insect-reptilian thing began to move towards Tobimar more quickly, unleashed a barrage of needle-sized death.
Alchemical fire and explosions stitched their way up the black carapace and across one of the huge eyes. Voorith shrieked in anger and gestured, making the grass and brush nearby turn hostile. Hate it when he does that!
However, Poplock had expected that; he muttered off a quick spell and then flicked his fingers, producing a tiny flame; with a low whoomp! the volatile oil around him ignited.
Demon-transformed grass and brush hissed and rattled, writhing in agony and fury as the fire engulfed them. The fire charm he’d placed on himself, on the other hand, made the flames just feel a little warm.
At the same time, Tobimar had reversed and leapt from the highest block of stone. Voorith blocked the assault, but only barely, and Tobimar slashed out again as his feet touched the ground; the Demonlord staggered. Poplock heard himself gasp as Tobimar just barely avoided a mantislike strike, then bellowed out “Look out!”
From the ground boiled a mass of writhing maggots, covered with scales, blind heads questing about and hissing, mandibles also armed with snake-fangs. They began slithering after Tobimar with shocking speed.
“Your stings are nothing, Toad, Silverun,” Voorith said contemptuously. “And of stings I know a great deal indeed. You think to fight me on your terms?” It spread great sparkling wings and leapt into the ruddy glare of the setting sun. “No, you will die on my terms.”
Tobimar incinerated the first wave of lizard-maggots, but more were oozing out of the ground—and not in one place but in dozens. Poplock sent a spray of fire up at Voorith, but realized he couldn’t reach the monster now, not if he insisted on flying.
He reached back, grabbed another handful of needle-sized bolts and dropped them into the crossbow. Fire and explosives still seem like the best choice, but the monstrous things, some longer than Tobimar’s arm, were so many…
A glittering arrow streaked from the ground to strike Voorith just beneath one wing. The Demonlord screeched in rage and pain and dropped clumsily to the ground. Startled, Poplock glanced around.
Aran Shrikeson stood atop a crumbled column; in his hand was Skyharrier’s bow, and a few silver-gold arrows lay before him. “That was for Skyharrier,” he said.
Tobimar did not hesitate, but unleashed another blue-white crescent fire that also eradicated maggots on its way. Distracted by Aran’s reappearance, Voorith barely evaded the blast, and dodged straight into Bolthawk’s path. The stocky Child of Odin plowed into Voorith at full speed, hammering with his fists, a crunching sound of splintering chitin accompanying the assault; Mist Owl simply appeared from the other side, rammed his blade home.
But it made no difference. Voorith snarled and batted the false Justiciars aside like toys. “Enough! I will tolerate this no more.”
Aran’s next arrow rebounded from empty air, and Tobimar’s sapphire-touched argent bent but did not break the insubstantial barrier that had appeared about the Demonlord.
“Grow,” Voorith commanded.
The maggots suddenly froze, expanded, became pupae the size of men. Oh, this isn’t good…
“Awaken,” the Demonlord said.
From the pupae burst dozens—hundreds—of gigantic wasps, black and poison-green, but with the fanged heads of serpents and armored along their body with thick scales. Their forward legs were armed with sharp, bladed points for clawing and impaling, and they also sported a long, gleaming sting.
Crap.
Instantly the voorwasps took to the air and began circling, diving, harrying the others, as Voorith strode implacably towards Poplock. “I think knowing your friends are going to die is sufficient,” he said coldly. “Now I will repay you for your interference.”
It was not an idle boast; even as Voorith finished speaking, four of the hideous creatures hammered Mist Owl, tore him from the ground, and ran him through too many times to count with their sword-long stings, ignoring Bolthawk and Aran’s screams of rage and horror. Poplock saw Tobimar glance in his direction, but they were too far apart for Tobimar to do much. Still, even as he started backing away, Poplock mimed a gesture of gripping something and throwing it. Tobimar’s brow furrowed, then cleared and he nodded, even as he incinerated two of the monsters and evaded a third.
“Hey, not my fault your cultists were sacrificing my people.”
“True,” the insectoid face answered, “but you also refused my offer, and thus I was barred entry into the world for years.” It paused, tilting its head. “Yet I can be merciful.”
The screams and curses of Aran, Tobimar, and Bolthawk provided a backdrop for the word mercy that Poplock didn’t care much for. But he was too busy arranging things in his pack while seeming to just talk to look. “How so?”
“For symmetry and for my own amusement…if you swear fealty to
me, I will even spare your friends. Having one of your kind as a vassal and ally? The one that opposed me now belonging to me, rejecting the Golden-Eyed? One who has achieved so much? That would be most useful and amusing.”
And swearing such an oath would bind me to a Demonlord. Poplock knew that much. Even if he swore it meaning to dump the oath right away, the magic of swearing fealty to a Demonlord wouldn’t permit it. “As my friend Xavier says, ‘in your dreams!’ I’m not swearing any oath except to see you sent back to the Hells!”
Voorith loomed over him now, and one of the great striking talons was lashing out—
And over the din of the battle, Tobimar’s voice shouted, “Come forth!”
It was a kind of…bubbly sensation, being yanked from one point to another, but Poplock materialized right in front of Tobimar, the pieces of his own summoning crystal still falling to the ground around him. Please, Blackwart, please let this work…
A tremendous detonation shook the air and the voorwasps staggered; a column of black smoke, mixed with acid green and choking yellow and flame-orange, crackling with brilliant electrical discharges and spreading both flame and frost before it, enveloped the spot Poplock—and Voorith—had been a moment before. Debris rained down, some pieces smashing the flying abominations to the ground. Tobimar stared at the place where Voorith had been. “What in the name of the Light…”
“Dumped out every single explosive, poisonous, thundershock, or otherwise nasty thing from my pack in one place; you snatched me out, and Voory hit the pile.”
The wasps were renewing their assault, but still Tobimar looked hopeful. “Maybe that was enough to—”
“TOAD.”
Green flame streaked from within the expanding cloud, and went straight past, not through, the shield that Poplock threw up to protect himself, as though the shield hadn’t been there at all. It slammed into his gemcalling armor and vaporized it, blowing the toad fifty feet away. Mudbubbles…think that just broke most of the same ribs that Aran broke earlier!
Voorith limped from the roiling holocaust, but once more his injuries were healing with horrific speed. “I will pursue you no matter your tricks or traps, Poplock Duckweed.” The voorwasps were beginning to overwhelm Tobimar and the others by sheer numbers, and a single sting or bite could weaken them swiftly. “You have no other allies. Run. Run as far and fast as you may. I will be following, and I will teach you fear.”
Suddenly Voorith was ahead of him, no pause, no sign of effort. “And there is, truly, nowhere for you to run.”
Poplock felt the agony in his chest only distantly. Seeing the monstrous wasp-things tearing into his friends, hearing the Mazolishta’s slow, deliberate steps approaching, simply drove personal concerns from his mind. I’m not running.
He drew Steelthorn and faced Voorith. “Then I’ll finish it here. And just maybe stick you in a really tender spot.” He glanced back quickly. Maybe if I can keep his attention, they’ll be less coordinated in their…
The voorwasps lifted up without warning, backing away. Poplock glanced back, and suddenly he grinned. “Or maybe I’ve got one more ally.”
“Then I shall slay them as well,” the Demonlord said; then he, too, noticed the wasp’s behavior, and tilted his head in confusion.
“I don’t think so,” Poplock said. “You wanted to teach me fear, but as I might say, you should—”
“FEAR ME,” thundered a voice so deep and powerful that the rocks all about them vibrated like sand on a drum.
Voorith whirled, to see towering up behind him a gargantuan Toad, black as night, with glowing golden eyes and mouth gaping wide in a humorless, hungry grin.
And at that moment, as a screech of furious terror started from the Mazolishta’s throat and its minions scattered to the four winds, the central dome of the Retreat shuddered, split, and collapsed; the Balanced Sword fell, the gigantic blade rotating, and plunged straight down to strike with earthshaking force.
Chapter 41
Kyri called the power of the Phoenix to shield herself, to keep the rest of the collapsing Retreat from crushing her. Myrionar and Chromaias, this is hard!
For a moment, she thought she might have failed, but somehow, from deep inside, managed to drag out one more ounce of strength, shove the massed rock above her aside just enough.
She collapsed to one knee, panting. The power of the Phoenix…of Myrionar…was very nearly gone now. Her battle with Virigar had drained almost everything she had; even though the monster had not been trying to steal her power at range, even the slightest touch of his claws or body had been enough to suck away energy at a frightening rate.
But there were still sounds above, shouts, curses, alien roars. Kyri forced herself up, clambered over the piled stone with the strength of pure will. They’re fighting a Mazolishta out there! I have to help!
But as she cleared the top of the mountain of rubble, she halted in astonishment.
Voorith was there…but so was a titanically huge Toad, and the two were locked in combat that shook the ground; the heap of stone on which she stood shuddered and began to collapse. She sprang away, rolling on impact and coming slowly to her feet. A cloud of monstrous wasp-creatures was darting about and harrying her friends, even as the two gods settled a duel that must have been ages in the making.
Taking a deep breath, Kyri called on what might be the last of the power she could reach, and raised Flamewing over her head, igniting it and herself in gold fire.
The light caused all eyes to turn towards her—and gave the great Toad the opening she had hoped. With a tremendous lunge, Blackwart the Great was upon his enemy, mouth gaping wide, and half of Voorith disappeared into that immense maw. There was a crunching sound, the crushing of bones and chitin, and with a dark flash the Mazolishta was gone. In the same moment, the wasp-things disappeared as well.
All movement ceased; all those remaining, from Aran and Tobimar all the way to the God of Toads himself, stared motionless at her.
Then the gigantic Toad gave the smallest of smiles and lowered himself in a bow, then hopped into Elsewhere without a word.
“Kyri! You did it!”
Tobimar was sprinting towards her, Poplock clinging on for dear life, the Watchland only a little behind them. Aran helped a limping Bolthawk move towards her as well.
She caught Tobimar in a huge hug and kissed him, then kissed the little Toad on his head, and laughed. “I…I think I did!”
“You did indeed,” the Watchland said, looking up at the gigantic sword-hilt jutting from the wreckage.
“You used the Balanced Sword,” Aran said with awe. “Pure silver around a forged-steel core. They say over a ton of silver went into that blade.”
“I was thinking that I needed more silver, and then I remembered seeing it in the sunlight, and suddenly I was sure. Here, at the Retreat, they would never have settled for less than real silver.”
“With a never-tarnish charm,” Poplock said. “Or it’d have been about as black as Aran’s old blade.”
She laughed. “Yes, with a never-tarnish charm, I’m sure.”
Then she turned to Aran and Bolthawk; both saw her changed expression and immediately went to their knees.
“Aran Shrikeson, once Condor,” she said.
“Yes, K— Phoenix,” he answered.
“You have fulfilled the conditions of your parole and pardon. You are no longer an enemy of the Balanced Sword. You have shown…a bit of foolishness in the way you attempted to charge ahead, but even there you made sure to lead us here, and,” she grinned, remembering her own actions in the past, “I cannot claim to never have chosen poorly, either. But stay, if you would, for I have another charge for you.”
Aran nodded and did not move, so she turned her gaze to Bolthawk.
“Bolthawk, I have never known your true name.”
“Hittuma,” the Child of Odin answered in low tones, not meeting her gaze. “Hittuma Thorvalyn, Phoenix.”
“Then Hittuma Thorvalyn, once Bolth
awk, you have committed grievous wrongs against us, against others, against the very faith of Myrionar. In the end, you sided with us—but that could be explained by choosing what you thought might be the winning side.”
“No,” he said immediately. “I thought you…I did not belive Myrionar. I did not believe in you. I just was…tired of being on the side I had come to hate.”
“And do you believe in Myrionar now?”
The broad face rose and looked her in the eyes. “Yes, Kyri Vantage, the Phoenix of Myrionar. Now I believe, and I reject my old words, my old doubts of the strength of the Balanced Sword.”
“Then first you must name to me, before us, your crimes.” She knew that he must do the same as Aran if there was to be any chance for true forgiveness and redemption, but she would give him that chance—especially for the others who were now fallen, and who would not have that chance.
Bolthawk, like Aran, did not hesitate, but recited a litany of dark deeds, and accepted her right to judge him, even unto death.
Kyri nodded, feeling the knot of tension within her—a knot, she realized, that had been there since the day she discovered that the Justiciars had been the murderers of her family—slowing beginning to ease.
“Then to you, Bolthawk, I have a command, if you would redeem yourself; and while Aran requires no further redemption to go free, if he would prove himself more than merely forgiven, I would lay the same command on him.”
Aran nodded. “Whatever tasks you set for me, I will do.”
She smiled at him. “I had hoped as much, for you will help Bolthawk on his journey. The two of you will—”
A deep, echoing chuckle rolled out from the fallen Retreat. “Oh, Phoenix, let us not be premature about these things.”