by Ryk E. Spoor
Nothing would save them from Virigar’s direct assault. She had to win, she had to defeat this monster somehow, even though the more she thought, the more she wondered if it was even possible. In that blank glowing-eyed grin she read the simple truth of the King of Wolves’ words: he had been the death of many a god before, deities experienced, aware, knowledgeable of what they were, what they could do, had consumed every energy, every power, every thought, every trace of their souls, their selves, and made them part of the King of Wolves.
But maybe that gave her a chance. Lythos had once said to her, “The greatest swordsman in the world does not fear the second-greatest. But he may well fear the worst, for the worst swordsman may do something so foolish that the greater warrior would never expect it, and so be felled.”
I don’t know what in the world I’m doing as a god. So just maybe, I’ll make a decision he doesn’t expect.
She flew higher, circling, evading Virigar’s hurtling assault, then dropped back to the earth. I know best how to fight here; the only battle I’ve fought in the sky was against something the size of a mountain, not a power-draining monster that lives by stealth, misdirection, and guile as much as by sheer strength.
And the silver was helping to protect her. She could feel, as his claws missed her by inches, that the glittering armor she had created was refusing his Hunger, preventing him from reaching within and tearing her soul out.
Another passage at arms, another detonation that stamped the earth down as though a giant’s club had struck it and sent shattered trunks of trees flying. Virigar, having resumed his accustomed form, skidded to a halt, circled her again. “A fine duel on a fine day, Myrionar. And how clever you are to gird yourself in silver.” His head tilted. “Yet…perhaps not clever enough.”
He pointed a clawed finger, and his Hunger tore at her—
No! Not at HER…
At the armor.
And the silver faded away, replaced with the red-gold pattern of the Phoenix. “Ah,” Virigar said cheerfully. “Much better.”
He sprang with the speed of thought.
But she was a god now, and though she was only barely beginning to grasp what that meant, still it gave her speed beyond speed, enough to bring Flamewing up and parry the diamond blades that sought her essence. But to her consternation she saw those water-clear claws gouging Flamewing—small gouges, but still damage, cuts into the edges of the invincible. He can—he will—carve apart the rest of my armor and even my sword if I cannot stop him!
But he had dismissed even the silver that had protected her, as though it hadn’t existed, as though her power was, literally, nothing to him, just…just another meal, an amusing chase before the kill. Virigar was the cat, and she, god or no, was nothing but a mouse trapped in a wide, open field.
Another clash, sparks flying a thousand yards, energies of conflict shattering the outbuildings of the Retreat. Virigar spun away, the cut she had managed through his guard healing at visible speed, and she had felt a wave of weakness pass through her. He’s using my own strength to recover from any blow I land.
Hopelessness warred with determination and rage and the desire to be avenged upon this unspeakable monster, destroyer of her friends, her family, her faith, and she found another surge of power, flashed across the ground, slammed into Virigar and hurled him across the land, towards the Balanced Sword, lying flat across the heaped remains of the Retreat.
The Werewolf King twisted his body at the last instant, rolling across the silver instead of being impaled by it. Smoke and vapor sprang out from his form at the contact with so much of the sacred metal, but his speed carried him past and clear, to the other side of the wreckage—and out of her sight.
Oh no.
She moved as fast as possible, yet by the time she reached the other side of that hill of broken stone, Virigar was nowhere to be seen. He said he can assume any form…
The thought solidified just one split-second too late.
One of the blocks of stone nearest her transformed, lashing out a taloned arm the size of a small tree-trunk, batting her aside like a rag doll, Flamewing flying away into unguessable distance and her armor shattering. Even as she tumbled to a halt, the King of Wolves was upon her, catching her once more about the throat, dragging her to a halfway-upright position, as Virigar towered up above her. She felt even her new-born power now running out of her like water.
“And now,” Virigar said pleasantly, with a twinkling of water-clear blades for a smile, “Now it will end, Myrionar. Not with a final clash of blades, nor with a cry of vengeance, nor of mercy, nor even the calm certainty of justice. Just with the fading of your strength, the quiet of the grave, and the silent thrill of your power becoming mine.”
And he was right. She couldn’t speak, could barely keep herself half-standing before the monstrous figure, as he drained her power, drinking it like the freshest, coolest water on a hot, hot day.
No.
Anger and hopelessness combined with outrage and desperation and suddenly she was calm, calm in a strange way, feeling herself like chilled steel, like the silver of the distant moon, high and distant, above all things, seeing them in its light equally. Justice must be done.
How many thousands—hundreds of thousands, millions—of lives had the King of Wolves claimed?
How many homes destroyed by the war he had designed for Kerlamion?
How many children screamed for their parents, parents cried for their children?
How many defenders watched helplessly as all they sought to defend fell?
Justice must be done.
But her power flowed away, her will only slowing it, not stopping that impossible, implacable drain. She was Myrionar now, she could not tolerate this failure, yet even silver had failed her, been erased as though her power was…
And then she remembered a long-ago conversation, the Spiritsmith leaning over his forge, and talking of the creation of metals and the reason for his work, and knew there was one last possible chance.
Chapter 44
The power of Myrionar flowed into him, and Virigar smiled. This has truly been a fine, fine day. Even if my ultimate goals have been rather put back.
As he had intimated to Bolthawk, the problem with immortality and power was boredom. To encounter a surprise, something new, this was worth a great price, and the complete and utter reversal of his plan into something that birthed the very enemy he had reduced to nothingness? There was surprise indeed.
Kyri-Myrionar struggled weakly, both physically and in her will. The flow hesitated, but did not stop; his smile broadened. She will fight, yes. As long as she retains consciousness, she will fight. And that, too—her anger, her fear, her hopelessness—these things also feed me. That was, of course, the other of the primary reasons he did not simply kill his enemies outright. Not only did that remove the chance for his adversary to either surprise or amuse him, it also reduced the variety in the meal.
And the dying struggles of a god? That was a banquet, one to be savored slowly and carefully, as a human might linger over a magnificently prepared meal with a carefully chosen wine, not something to be bolted down in three bites so one could, metaphorically, run out the door to the next appointment. He had done this many times—with gods, and things greater—and the few times he had been forced to end it quickly were some of his greatest regrets, in a life that had very few regrets indeed.
There was a sudden shift in the flow of power, and he braced himself—but wait! That was not an attempt to fight him again, but the flow had been released, a FLOOD of energy fountaining into him, a reversal so unexpected that for an instant—the barest moment—he had to pause, to adjust—and he felt some of that power flow away from Myrionar, not towards him, not an attack, just a flow of power—
And the flow was cut off as sharply as though a guillotine had dropped across it. In the same instant, an armored knee drove straight up between his legs.
A knee armored in pure silver.
T
he agony and power of the impact buckled him over, and a fist—glittering with pure silver—drove upward, sending him flying.
What…?
And as he rose, he saw Kyri Vantage, Myrionar, also rising, clad in pure silver, raising a silver-gleaming sword. He reached out with his Hunger—and found it rebuffed. Then he looked over her shoulder and saw the fallen Balanced Sword…and a large section of that blade now bare, no longer gleaming, just steel support where silver blade should have been.
Not created silver! Not silver I can erase by disassembling the magic that tries to counterfeit the true metal! She has exchanged the metal in her armor for pure silver, silver through which courses her power, out of reach, out of reach!
From behind the silver beak of the silver helm of the Silver Phoenix, amid the golden fire of her power, Kyri Vantage’s voice spoke, with the echoing power of Myrionar making the air quiver:
“JUSTICE MUST BE DONE.”
With a joyous snarl he leapt to the attack, catching the deadly blade’s stroke with his own claws, feeling actual pain still radiating from the first rude strike and second followup, and still he laughed. “Then let us see your justice, Myrionar! For this, surely, is your final surprise for me.”
But as they came together, there was another surprise for him, after all.
The entire world shuddered. A dimness that had been barely visible, yet had weighed upon the senses beneath perception, flickered, faded, lifted, and all of Evanwyl—all of Zarathan—seemed to blink, to breathe.
“The Black City is banished,” Myrionar said in a voice of vindication and certainty. “The Five who were chosen have completed their task; Kerlamion is vanquished, and the Great Seal is broken.”
For the first time in literal ages, Virigar felt his mind go momentarily blank with shock. The Black City banished? The Great Seal…BROKEN? His stunned incomprehension was so great that he missed a parry, and the great silver sword of Myrionar ripped in cold agony across his chest.
And in the distance…or near as a heartbeat…he heard a single ringing chime, the jingling of a staff in the hand of his oldest, most beloved enemy. Khoros.
Now, truly, all there was left was to finish off this young god. There was nothing here on Zarathan to hold him, no reason to stay. With the Great Seal broken, the power held in abeyance for half a million years would be unleashed, thundering across light-years and through the spaces between reality to return to the world that had not known its touch since the Fall—and he had to be there before that happened!
He spun, ducked, feeling his wound healing, denying the power of silver with the dark power that was his own, evaded a strike, another, caught the blade between splayed crystal claws. Yet…yet he did not sense the rage, the thirst for vengeance. There was only…
…only a calm, calm determination. A certainty placid and implacable as a glacier, and through the silver helm he saw eyes.
Eyes the color of stormclouds and steel, cold and grim with barely a trace of doubt or fear or hesitation, and a chill went through his soul.
Were these exactly the eyes?
He could not be quite certain, and then he was sure. No. Not quite. But close, oh, so very, very close. But Kyri’s blade was yanked from his grasp, came about again, and again he barely parried the stroke.
Enough of this. I have no more time to waste. A magnificent day, still, yet now I must end it in haste.
He flipped backward, concentrated, brought all the power he had stolen to bear, and increased his speed beyond any limit. The world froze about him, the debris of their clashes suspended in air as though frozen in ice, the breaths of Kyri’s friends and allies halted, the very sound crawling so slowly that he could sense the sluggish, sluggish rippling of the atmosphere, such that he could have counted to a thousand and it would barely have moved a hair’s breadth. Like a bolt of lightning he strode through the unmoving world and brought his claws down to cleave Myrionar from head to toe.
Silver rocketed across his perceptions, smashed into his face, a bludgeon of flaming cold agony. He rolled, dodged a gold-blazing blade, swung, was parried, even at this impossible speed, and then another strike. Fast! Faster than I! That’s impossible!
And the golden Phoenix fire was changing. The fire itself was shimmering, blazing to a cool liquid white, sparkling, silver flame that drew its strength from the foundations of the earth, from the source of silver itself, a past lost in time and memory even for him. She struck him again, and again, and he impacted the ground with a force that sent a wave rippling out, and he tried to regain his bearings, yet she was there, in front of him, even before he could blink, and her eyes blazed gray and silver as the power that tore into him, shredded his essence like his own Hunger had rent so many other souls asunder!
Impossible, his thoughts repeated. What is she?
But…he knew that light. He had seen it before.
And then the memory broke through, from the place it had been hidden by his own will when first he began this game, and for the first time in ages beyond ages he felt a touch of fear.
Virigar turned and fled, and the silver-blazing avatar of Justice was close on his heels. No, no chance to match this, not now, it would take long, far too long, to unbind that which lies within, to retake that which I have hidden! By the time that could be accomplished, I would be dead, torn apart by that which I have created!
He knew what was happening, and why, and fear warred with laughter at the absolute perfection of this, the final surprise. His only hope was his knowledge that it was a unique event. If she could be interrupted, even for a few moments…I must escape. I can NOT allow her to complete this apotheosis!
He ran, focusing all his power now into speed, and slowly, slowly he drew ahead, feeling the silver fire still burning in his wounds, knowing that he was defeated in truth.
There! Evanwyl, the town before me!
He spun then, whipped savage claws around, sent a surge of his Hunger screaming at her, separated that part of himself in the veriest instant before it struck, and then streaked away, shedding his power, his shape, everything, as he dove into the one shelter he knew could protect him.
Chapter 45
The black-consuming Hunger clawed at Her, and She met it with silver and calm, certain will.
Even as Her blade struck, She realized that it was not Her enemy; a part of him, a piece thrown aside as a distraction, as a lizard might shed its tail to divert the hawk, an octopus relinquish a tentacle that it might regrow later. She understood this, but even that did not upset Her tranquil certainty, absolute conviction, pure Justice. She was Justice now, only vaguely aware She had ever had another name, silver burning through Her like shimmering cool water with the power of the sun dancing along it at dawn, and She no longer thought of vengeance or fear or anger, no longer worried about friends or enemies, only of the one Enemy, the Enemy that had been behind all other enemies.
She cleared Her vision, dispersed the foul darkness of the distraction, and sped forward through air as solid as stone to Her feet, seeking that final confrontation with the King of Wolves.
But here was a village, a small city. A part of Her knew it was Evanwyl, the center of a faith dedicated to one small aspect of Justice.
And Her enemy was gone—hidden, She could be absolutely certain, within this village. For that was Virigar’s most potent talent, his ability to hide, to be unseen by any. He was here—as one of the townsfolk, as a dog, perhaps even a stone.
But he would not escape. Justice demanded his destruction, a destruction earned eons before She could even truly recall or understand, and She answered that call, raised Her Sword, called the silver flame of Justice and Retribution to kindle above Her, a silver sphere the size of a mountain. It would eradicate all beneath it, and even the Lightslayer could never escape.
No.
It was the tiniest of voices, an echo of a hint of a memory lost within the vastness of what She was becoming, had very nearly become.
Mercy before Justice.
Justice before Vengeance.
Yet the deaths and destruction that the Wolf had caused towered up in Her knowledge, some the result of others who had stayed their hand, been unwilling to strike against the King of Wolves because he held others hostage, and so let him flee, let him destroy again, and that blood was then on their hands, not on his alone. She firmed Her resolve and began to call upon the Silver Fire to descend.
No. Justice can never be done by expedience. The voice was Hers, yet it was not. It was a quieter voice, a human voice, but it strengthened.
The sacrifice of innocents is never Justice.
She wavered, confused. What the voice said was true. Yet She also knew that the monster below had used that to escape, had been responsible for deaths, for corruption, for evil utterly beyond measure on a thousand thousand worlds in a thousand thousand realities, and he was so close, so vulnerable, and voices forgotten for years out of mind called to Her to strike!
NO.
It was a human voice, and it was Her voice, and She suddenly saw Evanwyl beneath Her, and remembered Lythos and Arbiter Kelsley and the little twins in the temple, afraid, and most of all remembered herself, crying, holding her brother’s body. If I do that to another, there is no Justice, no matter what monster I may strike down. And with sadness, She knew it to be true, and lowered her sword, let the Silver Fire return to her from above.
“No,” she said to herself, and with fear and wonder realized that she was finally remembering who she was, that she had lost herself in something that had lain beyond rage, beyond vengeance, beyond even Myrionar, and now was returning, returning from the high, implacable otherness that was even now fading from her understanding. The silver fire guttered down, faded, transformed back to the red-gold flame of the Phoenix, and Kyri looked down on her home, seeing the faces of all the people looking up at her in awe and welcome.