Phoenix Ascendant - eARC (27 page)

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 Bolthawk, 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.”

The Balanced Sword was flung upward a hundred feet, to come crashing down a few dozen feet away.

Kyri felt her body going numb with shock.
No. Myrionar, no…

Virigar stood atop the wreckage, smiling down at them. “And
now
all truly
is
ready.”

She could not take her gaze from the glowing, blank eyes, now yellow, now green, now blue, nor stop herself from saying, “But…how…?”

“How did I survive? Oh, Phoenix, that was a master-stroke, I give that to you. Stunning me with silver and power, then bringing down the Sword! A perfectly marvelous plan, and such
symmetry!
I brought down the entire faith of Myrionar, and you would defeat me by literally bringing the Balanced Sword down in vengeance.

“Unfortunately for you, I was able to get my hands up
just
in time, and prevented the thing from entirely splitting me in twain.” Virigar held up his hands, which were blackened and scored deeply; there was also a deep scar down his face. “This may actually take some moments to heal.”

“Then let’s not
give
you those moments,” Tobimar said coldly. Instantly he was springing
past
her, charging with both swords before him. On his shoulder, Poplock gestured and sent silver coins streaming out ahead of them from one of Tobimar’s pouches.

Aran was charging too, and Bolthawk heaved himself up and lumbered forward, limping slightly but still undeterred, and the Watchland was leaping nimbly upward as well.

Even as she forced herself to move, broke her paralysis, Virigar
roared
, and the others were cast aside, crumpling with weakness or falling from the sheer impact of sound that was like a bludgeon. “Child of Skysand, you have no say in the matter,” the King of Wolves said, stepping over Tobimar, who tried to move but failed to do more than raise his hand. “This battle has always been intended to end in one way, and one way only: the last Justiciar against me, falling by my hand, under these
exact
circumstances.”

Kyri summoned as much power as she could, but it was nowhere near enough. Even in the moment she felt her perceptions speed up, Virigar streaked the last few feet and caught her up about the throat.

For an instant, she felt despair; but then she refused it.
I haven’t done anything wrong here; I’ve done the best I could. I’ve kept faith. There is—there
has to be
—a way out of even this.

“So end it, then,” she said. “You hold the last of Myrionar’s faith. That’s what you were after.”

“In part.”

“In
part
?

The crystal grin widened. “You still have not quite solved the riddle? Yet it was you, yourself, who assured me that my plan would come to fruition; your own words told me it was all prepared.”

“What?” Desperately she searched her memory for something she could have said that would have told Virigar anything of the sort.

“You said that Myrionar had sworn an oath
to you
—in the name of the very power of the gods. Is this not so?”

“Yes…”

The King of Wolves waited, then shrugged. “I suppose you lack the proper perspective to solve this riddle. Master Wieran would have understood, I think.

“Simple enough, then. So far, what I have told you was the truth, just not
all
of the truth. I did, indeed, need everything focused upon
you
, so that no…ideal, no
symbol
, of Myrionar was strong enough to serve as another anchor for the god in this moment, not even in the minds of those who had
opposed
the god directly but who believed in its existence—which is, naturally, why all the false Justiciars needed to be either dead or focused entirely upon
you
. No symbols; only
you
, only the focus of all that remains. Even now, that oath
binds
Myrionar’s last power to you. An oath that
connects
Myrionar to the power of the gods, specifically to the power of its allies.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “No.”

“Yes! Oh,
now
you see!” The face before her was the Watchland’s again, but a Watchland holding her like a doll in one hand. “If I consume the very
essence
of Myrionar, with that oath
still in force
, I can consume—I can
duplicate
—those connections, and through them, I can slowly and surely consume
all of Myrionar’s allies
…and they will never be able to stop it from happening, because the very power of the gods creates that connection, they can no more undo it than they can act against their own natures. I will have
become
Myrionar, and they will be
bound
to me!”

Kyri felt as though time had frozen with the pure, absolute horror of that revelation. Even Myrionar was just a tool for him. “And Myrionar…”

“…was the only reasonable choice. Such connections among the gods exist at all levels, of course, but there would be no way for me to, for example, eliminate all the priests and knights of Terian, or even of Thor or of the Three Beards. But Myrionar’s faith,
that
still had a single, singular source, could have its outlying temples pared down, its worshippers diverted to other faiths, could be slowly reduced until I could distill it down to a single, ultimate defender, who would become the god’s perfect and final vessel.”

Virigar laughed, and as he laughed she felt the last strength starting to ebb away. The King of Wolves was going to win the final prize, and no justice would be done, no vengeance would be hers.

No justice?

Though her strength was fading like morning mist before the sun, her mind grasped at that thought in outrage.
No. That isn’t possible. After all this, with everyone believing in Myrionar—in
me
—I can’t fail them.
Myrionar
can’t fail them.

And then she saw it, through shock and fading consciousness, and even though a part of her recoiled with disbelief, the rest of her simply said
of course
.

Justice and vengeance. These were the very
foundation
of Myrionar. And as Virigar had said,
the gods could not act against their natures
.

Yet Myrionar
had
. Myrionar hadn’t given a single
hint
to Arbiter Kelsley about the true nature of their adversary, when Myrionar
had
to have known. Her parents and her brother had gone unavenged, no justice done for them. All the others who had died in Evanwyl of Virigar’s schemes, of Thornfalcon’s malice, they had died without justice or vengeance.

But a god cannot act against its nature
.

And what was it that Virigar had done?

Replaced the symbol of the Balanced Sword.

The part of her that denied the revelation turned back, and brought forth another recollection, as she had spoken to the Wanderer:

“A prophecy. You have a prophecy.”

“Not…precisely. Though, perhaps, close enough for your purposes.”

And then, she finally remembered one other thing:

A voice that seemed both as unfamiliar as a stranger on the street, yet so familiar that she felt she had always known it.

Kyri opened her eyes, and Virigar’s laugh paused, for she was
smiling
.

“Injustice,” she said.

“What?” The blue eyes flickered to blank, glowing yellow.

“It is impossible for a god to act against their nature. Yet Myrionar allowed so much injustice. I believe in Myrionar, and Myrionar
swore
that there was a way out for me, and that means that there was a
reason
. There was something else, something so important that even the loss of the Justiciars, the destruction of the very
faith
, was less important.

As the wolf-eyes narrowed, she finished, “and what could that
possibly
be, except the god’s very existence itself?”

“But then it should have acted earlier, unless—” Virigar’s eyes flew wide, wells of pure white shock. “No.”

But his tone said
YES.

“
This
is the day that Myrionar was
BORN
!” Fire burned through her, fire sweet and pure as justice itself, and she felt the focus of a thousand prayers upon her as Kyri Victoria Vantage spoke her final words. “
I AM Myrionar!”