Phoenix Rising
Authors: Ryk E. Spoor
Tags: #Epic, #Fantasy, #General, #Historical, #Fiction
BAEN BOOKS by RYK E. SPOOR
Digital Knight
Grand Central Arena
BAEN BOOKS by RYK E. SPOOR & ERIC FLINT
Boundary
Threshold
Portal
(forthcoming)
PHOENIX RISING
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Ryk E. Spoor
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-4516-3841-7
Cover art by Todd Lockwood
Maps by Randy Asplund
First printing, November 2012
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Spoor, Ryk E.
Phoenix rising / Ryk E. Spoor.
p. cm.
“A Baen Books original”—T.p. verso.
Summary: “Kyri is a highborn young woman whose life is shattered by the murder of her kin. But even as Kyri flees her beloved land Evanwyl, she knows that she is her family’s only hope for justice and Evanwyl’s only chance to escape a growing shadow of corruption. Now she must venture across Zarathan, a world on the brink of a long foretold Chaos War. With her are two companions, swordsman Tobimar Silverun, Prince of Skysand, exiled on a turn of a card and a prophecy who is now seeking his people’s lost homeland; and Poplock Duckweed, an unlikely hero whose diminutive size is as much a weapon as a weakness. Kryi’s quest is simple: find the legendary weaponsmith, take up the sword and armor of a new order of warrior defenders, and bring the power of justice and vengeance to the evil and corruption that has darkened her land”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-4516-3841-7 (pbk.)
I. Title.
PS3619.P665P48 2012
813’.6—dc23
2012032974
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Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)
Printed in the United States of America
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS & THANKS
First to my wife Kathleen, for giving me the time
To Toni Weisskopf, for giving me the chance
To Tony Daniel, for giving excellent editorial advice
And to my Beta-Readers, for giving me encouragement and feedback—especially my Loyal Lieutenant, Shana.
This novel is dedicated to three people without whom it would never have been written:
First to Jeffrey Getzin, author of the self-published novel
Prince of Bryanae
, in whose campaign Kyri Vantage (then Kyrie Ross) was first born. Thank you, Jeff, for one of the most intense campaigns I have been in . . . and thank you for visiting my own world, and taking Bryanae itself with you, to live a greater and brighter life of its own.
Second to Dana Renee LaJeunesse, for demanding and guiding the original creation of . . . a certain species (spoilers!). Thank you, Dana, for that and so much more. “Fear Me!”
And third to Robert Rudolph, who helped create Skysand, and who first created a character named Tobimar Silverun. That character’s adventures were different . . . yet the spirit of the character is, I think, very much the same. Thank you for entering Zarathan and leaving it richer than before, Rob—and may I never have to deal with another player so incredibly lucky!
PROLOGUE
Warm light spilled from the windows of the estate, windows that were set in solid stone, warded with spell and steel; comfort with protection. He gripped the hilt of his sword and swallowed; his mouth was dry, as though filled with sand. “I—I don’t want to do this,” he whispered.
His companion’s grip on his arm was unsettling—a combination of a reassuring squeeze and a warning, angry twist. “Ye’re too late fer that, boy,” the rough voice answered, barely audible from beneath the other’s helmet, covered now with black cloth to prevent any glint of light from reflecting back to possible watching eyes. “Done other things as we been ordered, you have, not so bad, but enough ’tis so you either knew what might be needed, or you been foolin’ yerself. Whichever ’tis, you’d best get over it.”
“They’re not bad people,
sirza
.” The word meant friend, brother, father, though not related by blood; it was a word he used only to this man, the man he’d most admired and trusted and followed. “Why—”
“Dragons and curses, kid, you know that doesn’t matter!” His mentor’s voice nearly rose above a whisper. “We don’t know the
why
, ain’t got need to know, and askin’ could get you what
they’re
about to get.”
He’d never more wanted to just shed the armor he wore than he did now, but his
sirza
was right; it was too late unless he wanted to go back to the temple and tell the thing waiting there that . . .
Shuddering, he shook his head and turned his face back to the castle.
No, far, far too late.
“We’ll never get in anyway. Doors are shut, the locking wards will—”
“Been assured that’s no problem. Just be needin’ to break the doors in ourselves. Guards are mostly gone.” His companion made three quick hand signals; the others fanned out. “The ones we’ve come for will be the real problem, boy. Neither soft, both adventurers in their time. But alone, quiet in their upper chamber, guessin’ they’re takin’ advantage with the kids all elsewhere this night.” A gentler squeeze to the arm. “Better this way, eh,
sirza
? Better than what
he
would do to them, if we were daft enough to refuse.”
That much was true. Their targets thought they were protected, blessed, but he knew how much of that was a lie.
Yes, much better to die at my sword, no matter how horrifying they find it, than . . . than
that.
He took a deep, shaking breath, nodded, and then drew himself up.
“Good lad,” he heard faintly. The two of them strode to the doorway now, coordinating their steps, concentrating the power they were given, speeding up, strides becoming a jog, a sprint, shoulders lowering . . .
BOOM!
The twin doors, each ten feet high and five wide, shuddered at the impact; he felt the cloth covering tear, but the time for stealth was over and it was no longer a concern.
He was right, the door-wards are down; all that force would’ve meant nothing otherwise, and likely alarm chimes and lights would now be everywhere—or something worse.
They drew back, focused, the power flickering about them in tarnished bronze light before they struck again.
This time the doors flew open, the eight-inch thick beam that had secured them snapped in two, deep gouges in the rimewood panels where their shoulderguards had bitten halfway through the wood.
Two house guards ran forward, but surprise at what greeted them hampered their response—and outnumbered more than three to one they had no chance, anyway. He and the others moved forward now, swiftly.
Thank all the gods that the children are gone.
He spared one more glance towards his companion. He
planned the assault; I’m sure he waited for just that to happen.
The others fanned out through the house. Sounds of screams, breaking furniture, and curses began to echo throughout the mansion as the two of them bounded up the stairs and smashed into the master bedroom doorway.
A blaze of blue-white thunderbolts limned them and he screamed, thrown back in a momentarily uncontrollable convulsion.
Those
wards are still up!
“Blast them! Threw up a new ward soon’s they heard the noise! Go, boy, got to get the door down before—”
“I know!” He gathered himself up and they swung hard, sword and axe slamming into spell-reinforced wood and metal. The hastily spelled ward could not overcome that assault, and though the hilt of his sword tingled, he felt the spell break.
