by Ryk E. Spoor
“What?” Torokar Heimdalyn spoke up in surprise. “Is your Raiment damaged, then?”
“Oh, it’s not for her,” Tobimar spoke up. “It’s for me.” As per their agreement, Tobimar did not draw attention to Poplock. Thus far, the fact that the little Toad was often overlooked, and even if noted discounted as a familiar or a pet, had worked drastically to their advantage. Even here, Poplock tried to mostly maintain a stolid, dumb-toadlike façade and be taken as such. Whoever the enemy really is, he, she, or it might still have spies here.
“My equipment isn’t up to the standards of the Justiciars,” Tobimar went on. “So Kyri believes we can get better equipment there.”
“You most certainly shall,” agreed the Watchland, “if, of course, the Spiritsmith will see you.”
“There is that,” admitted Kyri, “but I think he will not refuse. He implied that I might be able to return without having to run his gauntlet again.” She turned and gestured. “And I will not be leaving Vantage Fortress unwarded this time.”
The Watchland’s face registered genuine surprise and gratification as Lythos came forward. “By the Balance, I had heard rumors, but it is truly a wonderful thing to see for myself. Sho-Ka-Taida, I could not hope for better hands to hold the Fortress while its masters are gone.”
Good, he’s happy. Or he’s a really good actor. Poplock, honestly, didn’t like having to be suspicious of everyone, and everything, but after what they’d gone through, it just made sense. The Watchland was trusted by everyone in Evanwyl, which to Poplock’s mind made him one of the prime suspects. In theory that was true of Lythos, too, but he and Tobimar had checked the Elf out pretty carefully after his reappearance, and Kyri had no doubts he was who he had been the last time she saw him.
But the Watchland seems to be, well, who he seems to be, too. Poplock studied him carefully through his front webbed feet, held to guide spell-born mystical sight. General aura’s positive, very positive, not dark at all. No sign of shapeshifting. Some traces of magic, but everyone uses some, and he may have quite a few spells around his armor or home. Don’t see anything else around him that doesn’t belong. That doesn’t prove anything, but it’s a good indication. Neither of his Arms look suspicious, though that shell of Gan’s has got some fairly hefty wards on it!
“I thank you, Watchland,” Lythos was saying, and bowed deeply before Jeridan. “I shall do all in my power to ensure that Phoenix Kyri’s work is not undone.”
“Then we shall have few fears indeed.” Poplock saw Tobimar’s distant expression as the Watchland looked down the road that led to the south, and the little Toad recognized that his friend was exercising the strange not-magic disciplines to sense the way of the world about him. Good, he’s double-checking me.
“You have returned from Zarathanton,” the Watchland said. “How was the journey? Can we expect—”
“No, Watchland,” Lythos said bluntly. “I was myself sorely beset three times on my journey. Evanwyl is cut off, now; be grateful that the great war keeps the larger powers occupied, with no effort to spare for such a small country as ours. The forces behind these disasters are great, and subtle, and wide-ranging indeed. Evanwyl must rely upon itself alone.”
Tobimar moved his shoulder front-and-back—a subtle cue that would just look like a man shrugging or loosening a tight joint, but that they’d agreed meant All clear. Obviously Tobimar didn’t see anything wrong with the Watchland or his entourage either.
The Watchland nodded. “Alas, I had suspected as much, when no messengers I had sent returned, and no travelers but young Tobimar here. So then I must ask, what of Lady Victoria?”
“My aunt,” Kyri said slowly, “has sent, with Lythos, the direction that Vantage Fortress shall pass to me. She does not know when she will return, for she has other duties which have become more pressing.” They had decided not to detail those “other duties.” After all, Poplock thought, whoever the overarching enemy was, it was probably responsible for all the disruptions around the world, including Aegeia. No need for there to be any hints as to the family’s involvement in that mess.
The Watchland looked surprised. “That has a ring of finality about it. Is she well?”
“Last I saw her, excellently well, Jeridan, and so Lythos confirmed, but she can’t return and doesn’t know when she will. From her point of view, since I’ve taken up responsibility for Evanwyl anyway, it’s time for me to inherit everything.” Kyri looked down. “I’m still going to think of it as hers, though.”
Jeridan laughed. “As will every one of us, I am sure. She was mistress of Vantage Fortress in the time of my father, let alone in my time. So still I shall hope for her return.”
“If she does,” Kyri said, “I’ll give this right back to her.”
There was a chuckle around the small group. “I see you have your traveling pack on; you are leaving this very minute?”
“We are, sir,” said Tobimar. “Now that we’re assured of the Fortress’ safety, we have to move quickly. Kyri’s time was well spent here, I think, but we have taken a great deal of time and given our adversaries a chance to recover.”
“Then we shall delay you no longer,” the Watchland said decisively. “May the Balanced Sword guide and protect you all.” He bowed again to Kyri, shook Tobimar’s hand—and flickered the very slightest of winks at Poplock.
Hm. So he does know. Does kind of limit how much I can rely on those results of my vision. Still, hiding significant facts from those spells took a lot of work.
“Farewell, Jeridan! Goodbye, Gan, Torokar! Goodbye, Lythos!”
The small party turned towards the south and walked onward, towards the distant mountains of Hell’s Rim. Poplock, as he often did, watched behind.
And he could see that Jeridan Velion did not move, but kept his eyes on Kyri, until they disappeared into the forest.
CHAPTER 6
“You’re sure about this, Kyri?” Tobimar said, glancing involuntarily downward. The base of the mountain already seemed a very long way away.
“As sure as I can be about anything which has not yet been proven,” the blue-haired Justiciar answered with a smile. With the helm off and the Raiment mostly cloaked, she looked less like the Phoenix Justiciar, deadly avenger of Myrionar, and more like the young woman he’d come to know in the past few weeks. “And even if this doesn’t work out, I am sure we can get some of the best advice on Zarathan here.”
He nodded, following her lead up the mountain. He suspected that he could climb at least as well as she could, though she wasn’t bad, but she’d been up the mountain before, and he hadn’t, so he let her keep the lead. “I can’t argue that. Though I don’t want to infringe on your honor against these false Justiciars.”
She paused as they reached a small ledge and looked over at him, those amazing gray eyes serious. “Tobimar, I guess . . . I would have been worried about that before Thornfalcon. But if I believe in Myrionar at all—and I do now, with all the faith my heart can hold—then I must believe that It arranged for you, Poplock, and Xavier to be there, either Itself or through Its allies, Terian, Chromaias, the Dragon Gods, even,” she flashed another smile, “Blackwart the Great or the Three Beards. And however it was arranged, it is a sign. You came seeking justice and vengeance, and with wisdom you saw past Thornfalcon’s lies just in time, and saved me from—oh, very literally—a fate worse than any ordinary death. You are a part of this, and—by the commands of justice—I am now bound to your mission as well. So nothing you gain here can infringe on my honor; it is my honor.”
He blinked. “Kyri, my quest might be a never-ending one, a fool’s mission. I may never find the answers, the homeland we left, the Stars or the Sun. There have been dozens of such seekers exiled from my homeland. I would not have you bound to something that may take you from your clear and urgent duty.”
She shook her head. “Justice requires balance. Nor can either of us ignore the fact that too many things appear to be happening at the same time. The power behi
nd these false Justiciars may be the same one—or related to the one—that has set all these other plans in motion. And your ‘Khoros’ already links us. I think, if I’m going to resolve the mystery of the False Justiciars, I will in one way or another have to enter the heart of your mystery, as well.”
She gazed upward, judging the angles. “And as Sasha determined, that gateway under Thornfalcon’s mansion went somewhere into Moonshade Hollow, which you believe—I think rightly—is what’s left of your homeland.”
“She’s right,” Poplock said, moving to his other shoulder as they continued the climb. “We’d already come to that conclusion, and it makes more sense the longer I think about it.”
Tobimar shrugged. “I can’t argue that. But . . . Kyri, while I respect Myrionar—now that I’ve met you and seen Its power in you, and heard Its tenets, I respect It very much—I’m dedicated to Terian Himself, as are all my family. I can’t be one of your Justiciars, so . . .”
“Don’t say can’t,” she said with a smile thrown over her shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about that, and do you know, I can’t find a single word in the Teachings that says all the Justiciars have to be dedicated solely to Myrionar. The power of the Justiciars is from Myrionar, yes, and obviously you have to conduct yourself in a manner that the Balanced Sword would agree with, but a follower of the Infinite, the Light in Darkness, would hardly do anything that would disappoint a Justiciar.”
I hadn’t exactly thought of it that way. “You mean a Justiciar could be a follower of another god?”
“I mean I don’t see anything that says he or she couldn’t be such a follower. But don’t worry, I’m not trying to force you into that decision.”
“But then what . . .”
“. . . do I think we can gain from this?” she finished. “The Spiritsmith is one of, if not the, greatest armorers who has ever lived. He’s also normally very jealous of his privacy and his knowledge, so much so that he made things work the way I described—such that many who sought him must have died in the attempt. But he did not extract from me any promise to keep his secrets, or place on me any of the requirements or commands he did on the nearby villages. If you aren’t going to become a Justiciar, I don’t know if I can convince him to help you . . . but I’m very sure he’ll at least have some good advice, a name or three of those who can help us.”
She paused to catch her breath, and so did Tobimar, grateful for the respite. Where does her family get their stamina? Her strength, her speed, her toughness . . . they’re just stunning. Without Khoros’ training, I couldn’t keep up at all.
Once they reached the chimney she had described, Tobimar realized they were now only a short distance from the top . . . and minutes from a legend. The Spiritsmith.
He emerged from the narrow vertical tunnel, breathing hard, and heaved himself upright.
The massive form of an Ancient Sauran loomed over him, scarcely ten feet away and standing over eight feet high, taller than Toron himself, his scales having a patina of depth and iridescence that Tobimar guessed indicated his age far more clearly than any wrinkles could have.
“So you have returned, Phoenix Kyri, and with true blood of false Justiciars upon your sword. It is well. It is very well indeed. Yet you also bring another . . .” he paused, narrowing his gaze, and then smiling, “two others, with you.”
“Good eyes,” murmured Poplock. Tobimar nodded, impressed; most others didn’t even notice the Toad, let alone realize Poplock’s significance.
“So, Phoenix,” the Spiritsmith continued, “is this boy—or this toad—to be the next of your Justiciars?”
Even Kyri, serious though she was, could not keep a straight face as Poplock leapt onto Tobimar’s head and struck a grandiose pose. “Indeed, behold the next of the true Justiciars of Myrionar, and my trusty steed!”
The explosive snort of laughter from the Spiritsmith almost blew the little Toad off Tobimar’s head. “I see, I see indeed; yet such as yourself are already so mighty that one such as I can do little for you.”
“In seriousness, sir,” Tobimar began, not without some lingering smile on his face, “I do not intend to become a Justiciar—at least not at this time,” he amended. Why cut off the possibility? Many things may yet happen. “But various events have made it clear that my path and Kyri’s are joined, and thus I may face her enemies, and she mine; and,” he drew his blades and presented them, “I have far too clear evidence that my weapons are inadequate to the challenge.”
The Spiritsmith looked very interested in his swords—more so than Tobimar had expected. “The twin curved swords . . . interesting.” His gaze traced the blades carefully, visibly pausing when reaching one of the dents or minor cuts on the blade. He then gestured for Tobimar to sheath the swords. “I see indeed your reason for traveling here. And you have done well to have wielded your blades with such skill and power that they sustained such slight damage, overall.”
“He helped me slay Thornfalcon,” Kyri said simply.
The huge Sauran studied him for several moments, then turned and strode slowly, thoughtfully, across the plateau. Tobimar could see that to the West, other peaks rose, but there seemed to be one clear path—which, if it was truly clear, might actually provide a narrow, straight glimpse at the land called Hell itself. The Spiritsmith was not, however, looking in that direction, but rather pacing with slow, measured strides towards the rocks that surrounded the entryway to his underground forge, his massive tail swinging in time to the steps.
“The intersection of heroes at a battle is not unusual,” he said finally. “What other events or circumstances link your two causes?”
Tobimar glanced at Poplock and Kyri, trying to figure out how to go over all of it in the shortest amount of time. It was the little Toad who finally said, “Well . . . have you ever heard of an old wizard named Khoros?”
The pacing stopped as though the Spiritsmith had run into a stone wall. For a long moment he stood silently, staring seemingly at nothing except a distant peak to the south. At last, he said, “Konstantin Khoros taught me much of my craft, in the days when the world was younger, when Elbon had only the Fifteen and none of the T’Teranahm had betrayed their hearts and souls. And after all had fallen into darkness, he came again, no longer a man of mirth and gentle humor, but grim and fell, and taught me other ways of guiding the powers I was still just beginning to understand. I have forged for him many times, and his designs have guided others; indeed,” he nodded to Kyri, “it was he who spoke to me of the designs which became the Raiment of the Justiciars, as well as others. You mean to say, then, that Khoros himself has brought you together?”
Tobimar stared at him, trying to answer while his mind tried to grapple with the implications. Khoros taught the Spiritsmith . . . in the days before the Fall? But that’s . . . He could see the same stunned incredulity on Kyri’s face, and realized once more how deeply laid were the plans of his old teacher. “I’m not quite sure we can say that exactly . . . but Khoros taught me to wield these swords—instructed our people in how to forge them, in fact—and he helped Kyri to reach this place originally at a much greater speed than she could have managed otherwise, and even Poplock ran into him once. And there were some others we met who were connected to him.”
The huge reptilian creature gave a sigh that sounded almost like a snarl. “Then truly there is a connection. I must think on this. He would have expected you to come here, I believe, and in that he would expect and require that I assist you in some other manner.’”
“You don’t have to—”
“hGrrrk’HA!” The Draconic obscenity cut Kyri’s protest off instantly. “There is nothing to be said against it, Phoenix Kyri. I owe Khoros much. Two worlds owe him much. He, too, owes the worlds, but his debt is not yet due, while mine is, and has been for many millennia past. Come,” he gestured, turning back to his caverns, “let us go inside, and you may rest and be refreshed while I consider what I may do.”
Tobimar did not object to t
hat thought at all. For three days they had been climbing and—training or no—he could use a real sit-down meal, rest, maybe even a bath or shower. A cleansing spell was all well and good, but it simply wasn’t the same.
Kyri had mentioned that the Spiritsmith’s delvings were extensive, but even so, Tobimar was startled by the size and number of caverns and tunnels. Of course, if he’s been here since the Fall . . . or a little after, since these mountains were created around then! . . . he could have dug only a foot a year and still have honeycombed half the mountain.
With that much space, it was perhaps not so surprising that he not only offered them guest quarters, but quarters of great size, decoration, and luxury. Even the air, normally thin at over three miles above the lower plains, was heavier and richer here. Tobimar took advantage of the time for a truly marvelous bath; an hour later he emerged, towelling his hair off, to find all his clothes on the bed and Poplock cleaning them off with mutters, gestures, and a bit of bouncing that invoked a mixed-elemental cleaning enchantment.
“Thank you very much, Poplock.”
“Well, didn’t have that much to do while I waited, and I can use the practice. I’m still learning a lot about magic, and after all the Summoning practice I need to keep up on the elementalist side. So you’re welcome.”
He watched as a swirl of airy water wove in and out through one of his travel cloaks, a flickering thread of fire somehow encased within. “You may still be learning, but that’s pretty impressive. Three-elemental cleaning is a pretty fancy trick, instead of just doing the usual selective displacement.”
“Elemental’s a lot easier for us Toads, usually, and I figured fire for heating the water, water for the cleaning, air for drying. You already had enough earth in there.”
“Ha! Indeed.” He picked up one of the finished outfits. “Looks like it worked pretty well to me.” He sniffed. “Smells like there might be food waiting outside somewhere, too.”