Phoenix in Shadow - eARC (6 page)

“Sir...can you tell me something?”

The Spiritsmith looked up from his platter, and swallowed the ten-pound chunk of meat his teeth had just torn from the boar’s leg. “Perhaps. What is it you wish to know?”

He wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. “Well...as I said, Khoros taught me—not just how to fight, but how to use this...internal power of mine. And a lot of other little things, ranging from philosophy and logic to theory of magic. I always rather liked him, even if he could be pretty maddening in the way he preferred to answer a question with another question and force you to figure it out yourself.

“But...everyone else who’s known him seems almost, I don’t know, afraid of him. They talk about him manipulating people, using them, and then they seem really careful about telling us anything at all. What do you know about him? Is he...well, not on our side somehow?”

The Ancient Sauran gave another of the snarling sighs and took another bite from the raw meat. Finally he raised his head again. “It is...not that simple a question, and thus the answer you seek is not simple either.

“How much evil must a man do in the name of good before he is, himself, no longer a good man?”

Kyri looked troubled. She said, “You can’t do evil deliberately and remain good.”

“You are a child of direct faith.” The draconic Spiritsmith smiled—in a manner that was probably meant to be tolerant, perhaps even fond, but the sharp teeth covered with fresh blood made it disquieting. “Then how much good must evil achieve before it is no longer evil? Is there no repentance, no salvation for a soul once lost?”

“Well, you can repent...but you can’t keep doing evil and actually be good! You have to actually
repent
of your evil, and try to make amends for it, and
stop
doing bad things!” A slight flush touched her cheeks as she seemed to realize how naïve those words made her sound, but she didn’t retract them.

“And you, Prince of Skysand? How would you answer this riddle?”

Poplock spoke first. “We all do little evils to achieve good, I think. You killed that boar so you could live. Trees get chopped down to build houses.”

Tobimar nodded. “We killed Thornfalcon—and killing people is pretty much one of the absolute wrongs. But by doing that we prevented him from killing who knows how many people, and avenged those who had been killed before.” Tobimar shook his head. “But that’s a long way from the kind of thing people imply Khoros does.”

“Then, Tobimar Silverun, I can say only this: that Konstantin Khoros is, I believe, on ‘our side,’ as you put it, but that he will manipulate both sides to achieve his goals. It would not be beyond him, for example, to have realized what would happen to the
Artan
in the months past, and to have not only allowed it to happen but even have guided the method of its happening, if that apparent victory of darkness would, in the long run, lead to a greater victory of the forces of light.”

Kyri shuddered. “How could anyone live with such choices, if they understood what they chose?”

The Spiritsmith looked at her gravely. “I do not think he
intends
to live with such choices; he simply postpones his death until all such choices are finished, and—I hope and believe—so that never again will any need to make such choices.” He stood. “But he will tell you nothing unless it fits his plans. You will meet him again—of this I am certain. But you will not
find
him, he will find you. This guides my own decision, you see.”

Tobimar looked up. “You have made a decision, then?”

“I have.” The Ancient Sauran gazed at each of the three in turn. “You have need of new weapons, yes. And those, I believe, I can supply, for I see the design Khoros used, and understand what purpose lay behind that design; so, in his way, he
has
arranged that I do this, by sending his designs in your own equipment—echoes of work done so long ago that the world was a different place, then.

“But more, you must begin to oppose the entirety of this plan that has undermined the power of the Balanced Sword, which has beseiged Artania, thrown Aegeia into chaos, and soaked the Forest Sea in blood, and that means preparing to face them in all their guises and in those places where their evil is most ancient and strong, where they began the work of felling the powers of light.”

Tobimar looked at Kyri; for a moment both exchanged puzzled gazes, but Kyri’s eyes suddenly widened. “You mean—”

“Khoros’ commands to you, Tobimar, were clear enough; you simply had not the knowledge to understand them. But the same forces are moving now, and you have met them, and in the end you must face them down, drive them from the lands of your forefathers.”

Now
he understood, and saw the Phoenix’s face pale. “So it’s true?”

“I know little of it; Chaoswars have passed, and even this memory was faded from my mind until your presence and urgency made it clear. But there is no doubt. Why else do you find the threads lead here? What importance is there in Evanwyl, what importance was there ever in that small country, save for two and only two things: the first the presence of Myrionar, the highest holding of the Balanced Sword, and the second being that singular gap, the only passage through the Khalal range, through which once flowed riches and heroes, and now is a place of terror and death, Rivendream Pass and, on the other side, Moonshade Hollow, what is left of the lands of the Lords of the Sky, whose name echoed your own, Tobimar Silverun.”

As the Spiritsmith spoke these words, so heavy with ancient legend and fear, Tobimar felt as though the cavern swayed with the import.

Then he realized that the cavern
had
swayed. The hanging lights were swinging, and both he and Kyri were suddenly on their feet. “What...”

The earth shuddered again, and this time a wave of nausea and foreboding washed over him, pressing on his spirit. As he fought it off, he saw Kyri stagger and lean against the table. Poplock shivered.

The Spiritsmith looked even sicker; he stumbled, fell to the floor, took long minutes to rise. But he lunged back to his feet and charged for the exit. “Come. Quickly!”

The three raced after the Ancient Sauran, as yet another shockwave of force and
wrongness
passed through the mountain. “What’s
happening?”
Kyri asked, nameless dread in her voice.

The Spiritsmith did not answer. Poplock was muttering something that Tobimar couldn’t catch.

They burst out of the entranceway onto the plateau. At that moment a final concussion of earthshock and evil knocked them from their feet, and the sky overhead flickered, as though the sun itself had been momentarily stunned.

Tobimar picked himself up slowly, reaching out and helping Kyri, who seemed even more affected. He became aware that the Spiritsmith was staring off to the West, walking almost as though in a dream towards the far side of the plateau. The massive draconian form slowed, then—shockingly—collapsed to its knees, still staring in numb disbelief.

Tobimar followed the Spiritsmith’s gaze. Through the narrow gap in the mountains, a thin sliver of land was visible, a cracked and seamed plain interrupted by virulent green tangles of growth, jagged tumbles of stone shards hundreds of feet high, steaming pools of water and mud, flat and empty desert—an impossible and repellent patchwork of terrain that could not possibly exist together...yet did.

But it was not this which the huge creature stared at in mute horror. Beyond the abominable landscape, far away, at the very horizon or even beyond, was...darkness. Tobimar blinked. The bright sky
dimmed
there, dimmed and went to complete blackness, a darkness that rose up in the center to a knife-thin line that seemed to stretch upwards to the roof of heaven, draining the very light from everything around it and turning it to ebon shadow. And despite being so far away, something about the sight pressed in on the Skysand Prince’s senses, as though merely to look upon it was enough to weaken life and break hope. The land shuddered again, this time with the groaning motion of an earthquake, and pebbles and rock cascaded down. “What
is
it? What’s happening, Spiritsmith?”

The question, spoken so urgently, managed to penetrate the creature’s shock; he turned his head slightly, and the deep-set eyes were wide, with a fear that nothing so ancient and powerful should be able to feel. “T’Ameris Kerveria,” the Spiritsmith said quietly. And then he translated, and Tobimar understood the true meaning of horror. “The Black City. The Fortress of Kerlamion Blackstar.

“The Gateway and Nexus of all Hells is come once more to Zarathan, and Kerlamion its King sits on his throne and gazes out upon our living world.”

Chapter 7

Aran stumbled, fell to his knees, remained in that position, unmoving, for long moments, waiting for his head to clear.
I’ve been...driving myself hard. Far too hard
.

A part of him tried to force himself to lunge back to his feet, but now he knew that much of that was anger at himself, rage and guilt. “Sit still,” he told himself, and sat down. He was near his destination, though he saw nothing to indicate that a path to the Hells lay here, in the tangled jungle of the land that was, itself, called Hell; but if there was, he would not be wise to come before Kerlamion exhausted, weary of mind and body both.

He forced himself to sit, to eat of his rations, to drink water. But even sitting still, in the quiet greenery, he was tense, trying to watch everywhere, for he had learned all too well in the last weeks that danger could be anywhere.

This place deserved its name, he felt. He had spent years as a Justiciar of Myrionar—or, as he was now being honest with himself, as a false Justiciar empowered by what was almost certainly a great demon, perhaps drawing power directly from the King of All Hells himself. But though his true nature as a Justiciar had been dark, he had in fact spent much of his life as a defender of Evanwyl, protecting it because Myrionar, the so-called patron of Evanwyl, was too weak, or too uncaring, or both, to do so.

In that time he had faced many enemies—bandits and murderers and other ordinary people turned against their own kind, yes, but also many worse things. The blade-legged doomlock spiders, monstrous creatures which could lash out with cutting forelegs to drag you, slashed and bleeding, to their deadly venomous fangs, or who might first entangle you in paralyzing webs before closing in; graverisen, fearsome shambling undead
things
that seemed slow, clumsy, until they would suddenly scent the living and rush upon them with terrifying speed, rending men limb from limb and feasting on their entrails; flame-ants, dwelling within the earth and carrying the fires of the interior with them, swarming and consuming everything they touched like a conflagration; even, once, something for which he had no name, an armored monstrosity the length of a dozen wagons that came ravening out of Rivendream Pass, with a mouth like a cavern of blades and claws that cut stone like grass, and healing so swiftly that wounds closed even as the blade passed through the flesh.

But such things were the
ordinary
here. All his powers had been needed, every day, as he made his way through the twisted, hideous, contradictory terrain of the Circle of Hell. He could not imagine how the true Hells could be much worse than this place, where he had seen a floating black cloud, like a thunderhead come to earth, turn and pursue a creature, rend it apart with screaming wind and crackling bolt, and leave a shriveled, desiccated, scattered corpse behind; where a great stone had suddenly moved, become a hunger-howling mass of granite which he had to trick into a fall to shatter hundreds of feet below; where a lovely flower had suddenly bent down towards him, opening a maw that dripped corrosive sap upon him that even left a scar on his nigh-invulnerable armor.

He had often thought of turning back, but now, he knew, there was nowhere for him to go back to. The false Justiciars knew he had been sent on a special mission; if he returned without that power he sought, they would know his will and courage had failed, and worse, that he had given up on the oath so fiercely and publicly sworn to their...patron. And before he left he had been told, by that same patron, that Thornfalcon’s fall had torn the veil of secrecy, and because of that he knew that Evanwyl itself was now no longer his home. He could never walk the streets again as Condor. There was little he knew of the lands beyond, and he didn’t know how he could have made his way through the lands elsewhere, even if their patron allowed him such a simple escape.

And even if he would have, he now held himself in utter contempt, unworthy to return until he truly redeemed himself. Whatever the excuses of rage, of revulsion and terror and denial, he had himself betrayed his father, Shrike. Oh, he had excuses—shock, white-hot anger, unthinking escape from a horror he had never imagined—but the last comment of their patron as he departed had struck deep and reminded him of how Condor was as guilty as the one he sought. “You have little time and a long distance to cover,” their patron had said, smiling falsely from beneath blonde hair and blue eyes, “so make haste. Worry not; we shall tend to Shrike’s body and hold a funeral in your absence.”

I who was so furious at this...Phoenix for leaving my father to rot...I did the same thing in my anger and need to find vengeance.

There were even brief moments he wondered if he
deserved
to find vengeance.
I’ve helped murder people. Should I seek vengeance if there are those out there who would seek the same on me?

The worst of those, of course, would be Kyri Vantage. Condor faced that truth. He’d helped
kill
her parents—even though it had been Shrike who struck the killing blows. And he’d known what was going to happen to her brother, even though—in all honesty—he couldn’t have done anything about it. He wondered how she was.
Maybe she’s found some peace in faraway Zarathanton. I hope so. As long as she’s alive, I know there’s a bright spot out there, somewhere.

He rose and dusted himself off, finally, feeling much more
himself
. Food, drink and rest; a soldier, or a Justiciar, needs these to keep going. He’d neglected himself from shock, pain, guilt, and desperation, and that could have gotten him killed.

I have to be almost there
. Their patron’s directions had been clear and simple—follow specific landmarks that, despite his fears, had been easy to spot, and even in thick jungle he’d been able to find spots to verify his heading often enough to not get lost.

But he had no idea of what to look for
after
he got there.

Green sunlight gave way to unfiltered gold, and he stepped from the edge of the jungle to see a plain of waving green and rose grasses—with some rippling movement that was not just wind—before him. The plain stretched several miles before him and to either side; towards the horizon, low, jagged, bare mountains rose abruptly, smoking faintly in the lowering sun. On his right, the plain gave way to a dusty, cracked plain with what appeared to be ancient ruins wavering in the distance through the heat of the day. On his left, the plains reached a river, on the other side of which lay a dark-green forest of pines. He shook his head at the warped and contradictory sights.
The monsters are bad enough, but this
place
is insanity incarnate.

Without warning, shadow seemed to boil up from the ground, flow from the air above, and the ground shuddered. He was suddenly assailed by a feeling of such terrifying foreboding and evil that the darkness he had known all his life seemed light and friendly.

And then there was a concussion, a roar and scream of earth and air rent and crushed, and he was blown from his feet, deafened, battered, cast aside like dust before a storm. He tucked and rolled, but all around him he heard creaks and tearing, rending, ripping sounds as the screaming manic wind blasted the forest flat, sending the boles of mighty trees smashing down around him, shattered limbs battering Condor, trying to crush him even through his Justiciar’s Raiment.

The air was cold now and the sunlight gone, and he smelled chill of ice and the scent of decay of eons, and looked up.

He came to his senses slowly, aware by the stiffness in his limbs and dryness of his mouth that he had been gazing in unbelieving horror for minutes with no thought at all, just absolute disbelief and terror.

Before him loomed the Black Wall as told in some of the oldest tales, polished like an obsidian monolith a thousand feet high and more. But even as tall as it was, still beyond it he could see twisted spires, dark buildings, and far beyond, in the center so far off that it would be beyond the horizon, a tower of pure ebony that rose towards the roof of the sky and faded into...elsewhere.

Now
he understood his patron’s knowing smiles, Kerlamion’s laugh. There was no passage here to the Hells.

The Hells had come
here
, to Zarathan itself.

The forest was deathly silent now. Even the worst monstrosities he had seen would have fled, be cowering in their burrows or still running, flying, swimming through the ground until they dropped of exhaustion.

And then there came a sound: the sound of an incalculably huge lock opening.

Directly before him a gate began to slide open in the impregnable black wall. Sterile, sharp white light poured from within that gate, a light so cold and dead that its touch seemed to leach away color and life. Silhouetted against that light was a black form, round in outline but with hints of much worse.

As Condor’s eyes adjusted to the fell light, he could see the Thing more clearly, and wished he couldn’t. An ovoid, leathery-skinned body was supported by four talons like those of a gargantuan bird of prey, and sported night-black wings like a monstrous bat. A long, flexible, wattled neck held a long head that shone like black bone or perhaps the carapace of an insectoid abomination; the dead-white glowing eyes certainly had the pupilless, faceted look of the eyes of most insects, but the mouth was long and jagged, as though the beaked mouth of a snapping turtle had been crossed with that of a wolf, or perhaps a dragon. The long, slender tail included black, bladed spines.

And then it spoke.

The voice was startling. It was pleasant, gentle, sweet, like that of a young girl—though beneath and behind it, almost beyond the range of hearing, was an undertone that sounded like distant screams.

“Condor False-Justiciar, step forward.”

It was the last sort of voice he would have expected from that monstrosity, and it added a crowning touch to the horror.

But I long since left my choices behind
. Shakily, he walked towards the monster.

It smiled, a flexing of a face that should be incapable of flexture, another horrifying tiny detail. “Well done. You have arrived precisely as directed. The King of All Hells will be pleased indeed, for to cross the land called Hell is a considerable feat.” It turned and moved a wing down, an ebony ramp. “I am to bring you to the King immediately.”

The wing was frighteningly solid beneath his boots; it did not feel like a leather pinion, but rather a bridge of stone. The creature’s back was softer, dry and flexible as the hide of the elephant Condor had seen once; yet there was something repellent about it, perhaps a faint scent of dry decay, as of a house abandoned in the desert for centuries.

Smell of decay or no, the Demon—for such Aran knew it had to be, and a powerful one indeed, to be sent on a personal errand for the ruler of the Black City—leapt up and arrowed into the now-darkened sky with speed and agility a smaller creature would envy.

Now Aran could see the city from above, and knew his horror had not reached its limits. The Black City stretched from horizon to horizon, a ten-mile circle of blackness—black walls, ebony buildings, night-shadowed streets, all arranged in perfect circular arcs. The city rose slowly, a vast cone-shaped arrangement of structures and roads all converging on the gargantuan castle in the center, itself echoing the design of the whole: a ring of walls, a ring of towers, and in the center a great single keep that rose up and somehow faded away; it hurt his eyes and mind to look at how it went from something that
was
to something that
was not
. At intervals along the great outer walls were guard towers, posts with guards and with great engines of destruction that looked like nothing he had ever seen.

Below, demons—monstrous forms of all shapes and sizes—moved busily. Many were marching, drilling—parts of an army so huge that Aran couldn’t grasp it—but many others seemed to be going about their business as though they lived in an ordinary city. Yet even there something seemed wrong,
off
, as though even in living daily lives there was something terribly twisted and unnatural about them.

The Demon upon which he rode flew straight up one of the great throughfares, a road running true as a sword-stroke to the central tower. The gates of the castle were already open, and nothing challenged his mount as it flew directly up to the door of the central keep itself.

“Here you dismount,” it said in its eerily pleasant voice. “None save those granted audience may enter the Tower of the Black Star.”

Condor said nothing; he wanted to save his breath and his courage for the coming confrontation.

The doorway to the Tower was open, yet nothing could be seen within; it was deadly black. Aran glanced back, but knew there was no choice.
I made this decision as soon as I demanded I be given the power for my revenge.

He brought the image of his foster father’s face to his mind, drew strength from the anger he felt as he contemplated that face as he had last seen it: glaring open eyes beneath a fragment of Shrike’s own axe, plunged lethally into his forehead.

With a deep breath, one scented with old decay and something sharper but no less deadly, Aran strode through the doorway.

The echoes of his footsteps...
changed
as he passed into the Tower; they whirled upward in pitch, then dropped so low as to be beyond hearing, chasing themselves in a rumbling, squeaking chorus around the interior. Within a few steps, the darkness lightened, slightly, and now he could see the Throne.

It stood in the center of the Tower, and the Tower was but a single titanic room, an empty, unadorned space of pure black polished stone a quarter-mile across. The black Throne was simple, a cone that rose from the floor, carved out so that Someone could sit in it, and then continuing up, up, out of sight into darkness, impossibly fading, blending into the void above.

And in the throne sat Kerlamionahlmbana, the Black Star of Destruction, a figure hewn from the darkness darker than his surroundings, with only blazing, eerie blue-white light showing where his eyes were. The black figure was itself surrounded by a faint blue-violet aura, and a distant wailing howl emanated from Kerlamion, as though the air itself feared his presence.