Phoenix in Shadow - eARC (7 page)

Aran, the Condor Justiciar, felt his heart hammering faster than ever before in his life, even more than when he was confronted with his patron and Thornfalcon’s true power. This was the King of All Hells, and no name had ever been spoken with greater fear, save perhaps only that of the Slayer of Gods, the Hunger without End, the King of Wolves, Virigar—and even he, it was said, would not care to casually offend the one who sat upon the Ebon Throne.

Aran knelt and bowed his head.

“Rise and approach, Condor,” the King of All Hells said, and his voice was both rumble and howl, the sound of air or water being sucked into a void, screaming and growling at once.

Aran stood, feeling his knees trembling.
I asked for this. I asked for this. I must move forward. Doomed and damned I may be, but at least I must not fail in following my own course. I will
not
collapse and be shown a coward here, not now.

Somehow he found the courage to stride forward as though at a review, steps rhythmic and steady as a drumbeat, ignoring the eerieness of the echoes and the deadly darkness that loomed ever higher before him.

“Stop,” commanded the King of All Hells, as Condor had come to within fifty feet of the Throne, and Kerlamion rose to his full height, his nigh-invisible head thirty feet above Condor’s own.

Kerlamion looked down upon him, and there was
power
in that gaze; the mere regard of the Ruler of the Hells was enough to feel as though a leaden blanket had fallen over Aran. But Condor held tight to his pride and purpose, and raised his head to meet that terrible, blank, flaming stare.

Kerlamion chuckled suddenly, and that was perhaps the most horrid thing Aran had ever heard, causing a sick sweat to spring out across his brow; it was a laugh that had humor and understanding in it, yet mixed with malice and hatred, all twisted and warped by the distortion of sound around the King. “So, Condor, called Justiciar, you come seeking power, power to match and outmatch your enemy, the slayer of the father of your heart?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

He nodded. “Know, then, that this is a great boon you seek; for you wish a power sufficient to withstand the power of a god, and return against it enough power to break that god’s wards on its last champion. Yet,” and suddenly a blaze of howling blue-white showed as Kerlamion smiled, “yet, in truth, it is well within my power to grant you this boon; for I am called ‘demon,’ but I am as much god as Myrionar. Indeed, I am greater by far, and have faced the Light in the Darkness himself, contested power with Elbon Nomicon, and still I hold my throne and none dare oppose me here.”

I must not be utterly cowed. He is volatile—this I know—but he will not respect weakness at all.
“This is true, Majesty, yet the boon was already asked, and you bid me here to receive it, not to impress me with your power, which is indeed beyond compare.”

The deadly blazing eyes narrowed, but the tone showed it was with more amusement than annoyance, and Aran permitted himself to relax the slightest bit. “So. I have devoted some small time to contemplating how best to provide that which you have asked. And seeing you, I now see the best—perhaps the only—true choice. Give me your sword.”

Aran’s hand was already complying, even before he realized it.
Disobeying him would be almost impossible.
The sensation was itself frightening; he had never found himself so unquestioningly obedient to anyone or anything before. He extended the blade to the King of All Hells, hilt-first.

Kerlamion did not bend down; the Justiciar’s blade Skyvault floated up and hung before the burning blue eyes.

Then Kerlamion reached back and drew forth his own Sword. The blade blazed as black as Kerlamion himself, devouring any light that approached. “The Sword of Oblivion, the Consuming Blade,” the King of Demons said. “Greatest of all weapons, before which none may stand.”

To his astonishment, Aran saw that the outline of the Consuming Blade was nearly identical to his own, merely immensely larger. “There is a kinship between us, Aran of Evanwyl,” Kerlamion said, with another touch of that monstrous humor. “We wield similar blades in much the same way, and for much the same purpose of vengeance against those who have wronged us. So to you...I give much the same power.”

There was a rending sound as though something had torn sky and stone, and a tiny shard
split
from the Blade of the Demon King and dropped slowly. It shimmered with the terrible blue-white fire, and descended until it touched Skyvault—

And Skyvault
vanished
. In its place was an identical sword, save that the blade was black as night, glinting with the deadly azure-tinted white power. “A piece of my own weapon I give to you. The Demonshard Blade will strengthen you, guide your hand, and deliver absolute force to your blows. Even against the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar it will be unstoppable.”

The Demonshard drifted down to Aran’s upraised hand, and as soon as his fingers touched the hilt he felt a
surge
of strength, of confidence and power such as he could scarcely believe. Even the King of Hell, while still awe-inspiring, seemed less fearsome. Stunned, he raised his head. “I thank you, Majesty. Is there
anything
that can withstand this weapon?”

The eyes narrowed and that terrible smile drew a line of consuming dead fire across the face of night. “Its source and parent, my own blade, of course. But other than that? Aran Condor, even were Terian himself to come before you, he would be cut, yea, and the wound pain him for ages to come. Once you have left my presence, I do not believe you shall find anything to withstand the Demonshard. Wield it well in our service, Condor, and I shall be well content.”

Slowly, the King of All Hells seated himself. “You may go.”

The confidence of the Demonshard allowed him to bow calmly and turn, striding to the exit.

But inside, he desperately wanted to run. And a part of him thought, perhaps, that he would be much wiser to cast this blade aside, and keep running.

Chapter 8

“What, young Prince? You thought my skills suited only to metalwork?” The Spiritsmith was dipping a pearlescent cloth into some liquid that shimmered like moonlight.

Kyri saw Tobimar give a wry smile. “I suppose I
did
assume that, yes. Clearly I was mistaken.”

“When making armor, can one neglect the padding, the straps, the parts that make it truly wearable and secure? And if these be weak, will they not define the weakness of the armor?” The Spiritsmith’s voice, she noted, was not angry or sarcastic, merely instructive, as he watched closely the way the cloth swirled and coiled without even the slightest touch from his hand. “And many are the forms of armor; I know them all, from woven bamboo and leather to chain and scale, solid plate and metal cloth, all the forms and types that have ever been imagined. These I know, as I know all weapons, forge all weapons, here, whether they be blades of metal or mauls of
kerva
wood, nets woven of shadow and light or a bow to call down the stars.”

“And a good thing, too,” said Poplock from a different corner of the forge. The little Toad was sitting on an anvil, surrounded by hundreds of tiny gears, springs, levers, and other less identifiable components; he was hammering on some new piece of metal even as he spoke. “If you were always working metal, I wouldn’t be able to use your anvil.”

“Ha! True enough, my friend. But for one such as yourself, who has already taught himself much of the craft of metal and the way of machines, I am glad to lend you the use of the forge and what materials you find; even building your largest creations will take but little of what I have.”

Kyri was glad to hear that cheerful tone in the Spiritsmith’s voice again. For the first few days after the Black City had arrived, it had seemed he might not emerge from his shock. But on the fifth day, he had emerged from his private chambers and slammed his massive fist on the table so hard it had cracked the solid stone. “Enough!” he had said. “Terrible the days upon us, and worse to come, but that calls me to action such as I have not had in ages gone, and you are the first who need me.”

She saw Tobimar look to another part of the workshop, where two new swords sat within a glowing pit that shone with soft golden radiance; they were nearly ready, according to the Spiritsmith.

“So,” she said, “what exactly is that stuff?”

“This?” the massive Sauran said, indicating the swirling material in the vat. “Woven from the webs of the stormsnare, the great spiders of the Khalals. One of the strongest of cloths, and capable of holding strongly to great virtues of power.”

“Stormsnares? You mean the
Charahil
, the Winds that Walk?” Tobimar said in surprise. “I’ve never encountered anyone who successfully took any of their webs; those who claimed to be hunting them...never returned.”

“
Hunting
them? How barbarous. The
Charahil
are wise and ancient as a people, and nothing like the Doomlocks and other monstrous spider-kin. I killed none for these webs; rather, I trade with them, and gain much from the exchange.”

Kyri smiled, remembering a similar question about a vat of Dragon’s blood. “Do you get
all
your materials voluntarily?”

The Spiritsmith bared his immense bladed teeth in a grin. “Not all, no. Just those that I can. Demon blood and bone and hide, these are not given willingly, to name three obvious examples. Many indeed are the monstrous creatures whose bodies yield materials peculiarly appropriate for my work, and most of them will not donate of themselves so freely either.”

He reached in and pulled the stormsnare fabric from the vat; the liquid seemed to bead and run off as though the cloth was waxed...but there was now a new moonlight sheen to the material. “Excellent. This will be a fine foundation for your new armor, Tobimar.”

“I don’t want to impose—”

“There is no imposition,” the massive scaled smith replied, spreading the cloth wide on a granite table. “Soon enough I will have to travel elsewhere—for surely my King and kinsman Toron will have need of my skills now. But you three will be traveling into the heart of much of this evil, and I will ensure that you are all three well protected.” He managed a wry smile. “Khoros knew this would happen, and thus your presence here is as clear a command to me as though he were here to give it.”

“Not to pressure you...but how long until the swords and the armor are done?”

“Your swords...another day and a half. Most of that, however, is infusing the various powers and assuring that they are permanently affixed to the blade in their essence. I expect that I shall complete this armor in that time. It is not, of course, nearly able to match the Raiment of a Justiciar in most aspects, but it will protect you far better than your current equipment and will have certain virtues of its own...as well as being exceedingly light and not bulky, so as not to interfere with your style of combat.”

Kyri nodded. “You mean unlike my style, which is generally more to hit things harder until they break.”

Both Tobimar and the Spiritsmith gave a snort of laughter. “You do yourself something of a disservice, Phoenix Justiciar,” the Sauran smith said, “but yes, in essence. You have more need of mighty defenses and slightly less of movement—though as you are already aware your Raiment impedes you very little.”

“Yes,” Kyri agreed. “For its bulk it is
very
light, yet strong.” She remembered other things she’d felt in battle. “And has that peculiar trait of my sword, as well.”

“Peculiar...ah, indeed. You mean the fact that its lightness is only perceived by yourself, but that it retains all its mass to resist blows as the metal from which it is forged.”

“I’d noticed that,” said Tobimar, “though more its opposite, with Thornfalcon.”

“Yes, the lighter blades of the Justiciars are forged with the ability to strike and withstand blows as though they were much greater than they are,” agreed the Spiritsmith. He began to mark the cloth—delineating a pattern for the armor purely by eye, it seemed to Kyri. There were no templates, nothing to show Tobimar’s measurements and ensure its fit, yet she was certain that when the Spiritsmith was done the new armor would fit Tobimar as though it were a second skin.

“So in two days or so, you will be ready to depart,” he said, picking up the earlier thread of conversation. “You may make free with my supplies for that journey; I myself will be departing shortly after.”

“Departing?” Kyri repeated, bemusedly. “I remember you saying something about that earlier, but honestly I thought you lived here always!”

“In the normal way of things, I do,” the huge Sauran agreed, going over and checking the swords sitting in their shining pit. “But the Black City has come to Zarathan, and I know that my King will be mobilizing all he can muster to confront the armies that will—beyond doubt—soon march from those gates. I will go to them, that they can have my aid; perhaps I, who have walked the world far longer even than they, can help them find other allies, even call the Great Dragons themselves to awaken—if they can, for the cycle turns, and not in our favor, I think.” He looked distant. “So have I gone to them before, I can sense, even through the faded memories of the Chaoswars past. When the great wars have begun, then I must heed the call of those who need my arms and armor to stave off the darkness that ever threatens to fall.”

Tobimar nodded. “Of course, that makes sense. So we’ll be heading for Moonshade Hollow while you head for Zarathanton.” He shook his head. “I just wish we knew more about the place, but Kyri says no one knows anything about it—that even Rivendream Pass isn’t known much past its entrance, and there’s a lot of miles of the pass to go through.”

Kyri nodded, looking into the nonexistent distance. “Rumors in Evanwyl say that the Hollow’s really a pretty big place, ringed with mountains, and in the middle there’s supposed to be Darkmoon Lake, but...that’s rumor. No one’s ever confirmed anything except that there are really dangerous
things
that like to come out of Rivendream Pass.”

“There
is
one who may know something of the Hollow, and perhaps even of its past,” responded the Spiritsmith, returning to the table with the cloth laid out upon it. “Knowing that you would wish such counsel, yet have little enough time left to waste in travel, I have called to him, in the hope that he will come here, rather than force you to journey thence. And I believe he shall.”

To say she was startled was putting it mildly; everyone who had ever journeyed into Rivendream pass had either never returned, or retreated to safety after going no farther than a few miles. And its
past
was before the last Chaoswar, which meant that no one should be able to recall anything of it clearly. “Who, sir?”

“That would be me,” said a voice from behind them, at the entrance to the forge.

Kyri whirled.

Standing in the entry, holding a staff nearly covered with glittering runes and bound with black metal, blond hair flowing to his shoulders, with strange blocky armor that reminded her of that which young Ingram had worn and a black cloak slung over his shoulders, was a figure out of legend, a picture from a storybook.

“The Wanderer,” Kyri breathed, feeling a thrill of awe through her.

Tobimar was also staring in disbelief, and even the usually relaxed Poplock’s eyes were wider.

He bowed low before them. “I suspect that my reputation exceeds me, but I am, indeed, Erik Arisia, the Wanderer.”

Kyri found herself opening her mouth, and knew she was about to start absolutely
babbling
questions.
No!
she told herself sternly.
The last thing he needs is someone asking him questions about his old adventures—whether he
really
had struck down the great dragon Frostreaver with a single blow of his staff, or outwitted one of the Nine Kings of Night by simply accepting his soul within, or whether he and Larani Darkwood had...

“I...Sir, I had never expected...you came
here?
”

He laughed—a very human and ordinary laugh, and suddenly she didn’t see a legend, just a young-appearing man of about twenty-five to thirty, leaning on a staff and amused by her stuttering question. “Relax, Kyri. I know I’ve got quite a rep, but don’t be overawed. And yes, I came here instead of lurking in my stronghold waiting to mess with you on the way in. When the old lizard makes that kind of request I figure he’s got a good reason for it.”

There was something familiar—yet alien—about the way he spoke. Tobimar’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, sir...but you sound almost like...”

“...like your friend Xavier? Yes, he and I share something of the same background.”

“So it
is
true! You came here from the sister world too!”

“Most of what they say about me is true,” he agreed. “And most of it is false, and most of it’s also exaggeration and confusion. Some of that’s my doing, a lot of it’s just the way things get repeated.”

“How did you know my name?” she asked after a moment, trying to figure out if he was just being obscure or
meant
something by all that. “Oh, wait. The Spiritsmith—”

“Didn’t have to tell me. Evanwyl’s not very far from the Broken Hills, and once you started raising something of a ruckus I made sure I knew who was who over there.”

A thought struck her. “Do you know how to find the Retreat?”

The Wanderer chuckled. “
Know
how? Well, sort of. I could probably do it myself, if I wanted to. But I can’t tell
you
how to do it. I have...a kind of unique position with respect to godly magics, something I can’t lend to you. And I’ve got some other work to do, now that I’ve been pulled out of my shell.” He tilted his head, then nodded. “But I think—when the time comes, which isn’t yet—you’ll find a way in yourself.”

“What do
you
know about this whole situation?” Poplock asked.

“That’s a nice generic question,” the Wanderer said with a grin. “I know quite a bit about
parts
of it—a lot of parts you won’t care about. But I can tell you something interesting about Moonshade Hollow. Not
details
—I haven’t actually been very far inside and that once was a while back—but there
is
something in there—a god, a mystical ward, something—that suppresses or at least affects the operation of various mystical powers. I
think
that applies to godly powers, even.”

Tobimar frowned. “So Kyri’s powers...won’t work?”

“I don’t think it’s quite
that
bad, but my guess is that they’ll be more limited. Moonshade Hollow isn’t the only place like that—Elyvias, for instance. If Moonshade Hollow is like Elyvias, you probably will find a lot more, oh, gadgetry—magic placed into items in one way or another. Summoners and Gemcallers will be a
lot
more common than your standard wizard like me.”

“Ha! You, a standard wizard,” said Poplock. “That’s funny.”

The Wanderer acknowledged that with a laugh. “Okay, fair enough. I use a lot of standard wizardly tricks, though, and those were pretty damped down in both Elyvias and Moonshade Hollow.”

“What about Rivendream Pass?”

The Wanderer grimaced as he wandered up and glanced into the pit where Tobimar’s swords were sitting. “Oh, that’s as nasty as you think it is. Moonshade Hollow’s definitely got something of
really
dark nature in it, and the Pass is like a crack in a tank of something nasty; the nasty stuff flows along it until it dries out. And when it dries out it hardens. In this case, that means you keep getting monsters showing up. It’s a dangerous route, but about the only one you can take.”

“Toron said you might know something of the Hollow’s past?” Tobimar asked.

The Wanderer turned and looked at Tobimar quietly for a moment. Kyri was suddenly struck by the intensity of both mens’ blue eyes, eyes that were as nearly identical as hers and Xavier’s. “I am not immune to the effects of the Chaoswars,” he said finally. “But I am...more resistant, I suppose you could say, than others. So I do know a bit. I remember Heavenbridge Way, and that it was a green and pleasant place, a fine journey with a great road that ran from one side to the other, to end in the realm of the Lords of the Sky.” He nodded to Tobimar. “A land that was called Silavarian, which in the ancient Dragon’s tongue means, roughly, the Land of the Eight-Starred Sky.” The Spiritsmith repeated the name, as though recognizing something of distant memory. The Wanderer went on, “Or maybe of the Sky of Eight Stars on the Land—it’s clearly a contraction of some sort and figuring out the missing pieces isn’t easy.”