Phoenix Rising (34 page)

That I am a Vantage, child of my mother and my father, descended of those who have stood sentry on Rivendream Pass since the last Chaoswar.

She reached back and drew her sword, the two-handed blade looking slender yet sharp as a rapier before the immense weapon of the Spiritsmith. “So I will, then. For I shall leave this mountain alive, armed and arrayed as a Justiciar of Myrionar. This I have sworn to the Balanced Sword, to Terian of the Infinite, to Chromaias and the Four.” Despite the pounding in her heart, she extended her arm and lowered the blade to point at the Spiritsmith, all five feet of the sword as rigid as her purpose. “So I have sworn to the memory of my mother and my father, to the spirit of my brother, and to those who yet live. Come.”

The fanged mouth smiled, and he came on, a rush of scales and muscle and claws preceded by a sword that loomed like a mountain.
Fast—faster than I thought!
She dove to the side, straining every muscle. The impact of the monstrous sword resounded through the ground like a hammerblow, and she realized that the Spiritsmith’s words had contained not a bit of exaggeration. If she did not meet whatever standards he had set, he would kill her without hesitation.

That giant blade was up, out of the gouge in the stone already, arcing over and down again.
Roll!
One cut on one side, one on the other, both nearly cutting her in half, one striking the armored cloth she wore so hard that even the deflected blow felt like a mace. She swung from the ground, a flat, swift swing for the Sauran’s ankle, forcing the creature to retreat with an astonishing leap backwards. She had just enough time to roll to her feet before the Spiritsmith lunged back to the attack.

This time she did not underestimate his speed. Despite his mass—which might be close to a ton—the Spiritsmith moved like someone her own size. But he had the strength of Dragons and thousands of years of experience. She whirled her blade as fast as possible, deflecting blows like falling oaks by the narrowest margin.
I have to find a tactic . . . something . . . anything!

She focused on the giant sword.
I don’t care
how
strong he is, that weapon’s larger compared to him than mine is to me. It
has
to slow him somehow.

It was horrifically difficult to watch the movements of the weapon dispassionately, analytically, while its mighty wielder was using it to rain down blows on her that could shatter bones and break limbs with a glancing blow. Her own blade was showing its quality by the fact that it was bending, rather than breaking, under the punishment . . . but that couldn’t continue forever.

There!

After every heavy, long swing, there was just the tiniest fractional hesitation before the great sword finished reversing its direction.

For a moment she stood in a different place, facing Rion, on a day when both of them were praised . . .

And her sword was up and moving, just as the Spiritsmith began another swing, down like an avalanche, but her blade had switched sides, was
behind
the gigantic sword of the Spiritsmith, pressing on, matching the creature’s own swing and amplifying it, shifting even as the Spiritsmith realized what she was doing, increasing the speed and twist of rotation, faster, all her strength behind it, and suddenly he gave a low
grunt
of pain and the titanic weapon was arcing up, somersaulting through the air, ten, fifteen, nearly twenty feet high and much farther away, to clatter away and over the cliff edge.

Just as Rion’s had, years before, so did her blade finish its sparkling arc directly at her opponent’s throat. “Yield.”

The black eyes, with a faint glow behind them, narrowed, and the fanged mouth smiled. With the speed of a striking serpent, the Spiritsmith’s hand closed on her razor-sharp sword, heedless of the steel biting deep into scales and muscle, and
ripped
the sword from her hands as though taking a riding crop from a child. “One little trick will not suffice against your enemies, Kyri Vantage!”

To her dismay, she saw the cuts closing even as she backed away, trying to devise some way of fighting this monster now that she was unarmed.
I am here to prove myself; Myrionar has nothing to prove save that It has selected me.
And that could be after the battle, by healing her wounds. She had to assume she was on her own here; praying for Myrionar’s assistance against the Spiritsmith would almost certainly avail her nothing.

Sizing up the creature as the Spiritsmith advanced with a measured, unhurried stride, she decided she really wasn’t any worse off than before.
That sword gave him incredible reach; he’s still got arms slightly longer than mine, but not all that much.

She ducked and jabbed. The impact stung her knuckles, even through her gloves, and she winced; the Spiritsmith, on the other hand, seemed almost not to feel it, and his return strike nearly gutted her. She rolled to the side, trying to get behind him—

For a moment she could not remember where she was or what she was doing; her head, her whole body, ached, but there was a terrible sense of urgency . . . she rolled away and up by instinct as something pounded its way towards her, evading . . .
the Spiritsmith, yes, that’s it . . . I was trying to get away . . .

The creature’s armored tail had nearly killed her.
He is
not
human, or anything like it. He is child of Dragons, and nearer them than anything I have ever fought. One more mistake like that and I’m dead, as he’s promised.

Obviously the Spiritsmith was not fighting her to his full capabilities; a being so old yet timeless who had practiced with weapons for longer than her country had existed would surely be able to defeat her in moments if it took her seriously. No, he was simply waiting to see if she could reach some minimum standard of capability—of skill, of strength, of training, of sheer unbending will, perhaps. But if she failed to meet that standard, she’d die.

All I have left is what my Sho-ka-taida taught me
. She focused on Lythos’ teachings, of sharpening her perceptions, increasing speed and strength through the Living Will, what he sometimes called the Ninth Wind, letting the power of the spirit do that which the body could not. She could see, now, the pattern of movement, the double step forward and then one sideways, trying to drive her in a particular direction. She dove and rolled again, immediately doing a handspring that took her over the thrashing tail and to the side, her booted foot lashing out and cracking with precision against the side of the knee joint.

A real roar of pain accompanied that blow, and she tumbled away, trying to shake off a frightening dizziness.
That . . . tail strike I took. Hit my head. Might have real damage. No time now!

As she came to her feet again, she blinked, trying to will away a dark fogginess in her sight. The Spiritsmith was coming for her again, this time with a limp—though the limp was already improving.
Anything I do has to at least incapacitate him long enough for a convincing possibility of
something
killing him.

She knew better than to try the same maneuver again, but her options were limited. One of the armor-scaled fists caught her on a backhand, and she staggered back, feeling more dizziness assailing her, tasting blood in her mouth as she fell against part of the heap of boulders and rubble near the center of the plateau.

That gave her a minor inspiration, and she suddenly turned, grasped a boulder the size of her head, and
hurled
it at the advancing Sauran.

The creature barely blocked it, but failed to block the second rock which had followed a split-second later. The Spiritsmith was momentarily stunned, and Kyri battered him with a short shower of boulders, smashing the Spiritsmith’s head, legs, and chest with granite and basalt missiles thrown by the full strength of a Vantage.

But even
that
wasn’t enough; the draconic monster hunkered down, taking a couple more blows, and
charged.

She tried to dodge, but her choice to try to beat him to death with stones had backfired; she had in effect built herself a miniature dead-end alley with no safe dodging directions.

Immense arms caught her up and began to squeeze. She had one arm free, and tried to reach the Spiritsmith’s face; but he was just a bit too large, able to tilt his head enough to deny her the ability to reach the eyes—the only clearly vulnerable spot.

Her ribs creaked, even as she struggled desperately, and she realized this was the end of the battle.
If I have nothing left . . . it ends here.

But there
was
something. The Living Will. The Dragon’s Claw, the Claw of Stone.

Her vision began to fog with red, but she called up the discipline once more. “Focus your strength into the hand,” she heard Lythos saying in that cool, dispassionate voice. “Let it flow from heart to hand, tensing muscles here, arching there, building like a bowstring being drawn back. Feel your spirit concentrating, rising like a wave, cresting . . .”

An agonizing pain as a rib cracked, and yet it seemed so distant. Only Lythos’ voice was clear. “Cresting higher, the bowstring drawn, the tension of your hand hard as iron, hard as granite, hard as mountains, and now moving, an avalanche released as an arrow! Strike!”

Her hand sledgehammered into the Ancient Sauran’s throat, just where it was exposed by the creature pulling back its head to shield the eyes. The shock of impact resounded through the Spiritsmith’s entire body, and she felt bone and cartilage snap and crumple.

The great creature dropped her instantly, hands going to its throat, gagging, going for its knees. Black and red spots danced before her vision, and the whole plateau seemed to be tilting, but she saw her sword, lunged, grabbed it up, swung the glittering blade high. “And is there mercy, or only death, Spiritsmith?”

She began the downward swing, aborting it as the Spiritsmith threw up a scaly hand in a clear gesture of surrender. She let the blade drop from her hand and found herself sagging to the ground, head whirling and a smell of iron that tasted like blood. “If that’s . . . not enough . . . I’ll forge the Balance-Damned armor . . . myself.”

The creature coughed, managed a pain-wracked chuckle, fell back in a coughing fit; its regenerative powers were rebuilding the throat, but it was far from instantaneous. She heard its breathing slowing, but it was as from a great distance; it seemed as though she viewed everything through water.

The Spiritsmith coughed once more, and then spoke. “That will do well enough, little Justiciar,” it rasped, and then the voice smoothed out, regaining its old resonance. “You have the spirit, the strength, the will, and—though still far from realized—the potential for greatness. All I need see now is proof of your blessing. Myrionar, show to me that this is your chosen emissary, that she is, in truth, the last and only true Justiciar of Justice and Vengeance, and then shall I forge for her as I forged for you long ago.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then the golden light shone out, the same awe-inspiring light she had seen first with tears streaming down her face in the Forest Sea. The light touched her and lifted her up, wiping away pain and confusion and exhaustion, sharpening the senses, and she found herself standing straight and unbowed before the Spiritsmith, as though the battle had never happened—as though, indeed, she had not climbed a mountain to reach here, but merely stepped from Aunt Victoria’s receiving room to the outer hall to greet this strange visitor.

As the light faded, the Spiritsmith bowed low before her, baring twin daggers at his sides, and pivoted in the full Armed Bow. “And so you
are
the final Justiciar, Kyri Victoria Vantage, and I, the Spiritsmith, shall forge for you that armor and those weapons which only the chosen of the Gods may wield, as I have done since first the Dragon King and the Sixteen placed the tools and fire in my hands.”

She stared at him, for a moment unable to believe that she had triumphed, even though it was something so necessary for all she hoped to do.

“But nothing can I forge unless you give to me one more thing, Kyri Vantage,” the ageless draconic smith continued. “To become a Justiciar is to become a symbol; a symbol requires its own name. What shall be your name, your symbol, which will go before you, bringing hope of justice to the helpless, striking fear of vengeance into the guilty?”

She had touched upon those thoughts many times, yet—until now—she hadn’t dared to dwell on that question. It seemed to presume too much.

She could not use the old names; the old names, like their armor, were tainted, must be cleansed first before any could bear them again. And she would not use them anyway, for she needed to stand apart and beyond them, not be confused for one of them. Yet there was the basic essence of their names to preserve, swift wings of justice, claws of vengeance . . .

What was it he had just said? . . .
and so you
are
the final Justiciar . . .

“No,” she said. “I am the
first
Justiciar.” It was suddenly clear to her, as though she had known it all through her journey, had known it since she was a child. “The old Justiciars ended for me when they destroyed my family, sending my home up in flames, though I knew it not then.

“In those flames I died, and they died. And now . . . now they must be reborn, through me.” She had gripped her sword again, without even being aware of it, and raised it towards the deep-indigo sky, where the first faint sparks of stars, and where the Balanced Sword, glinted back at her.

“Through me, in the golden fire of the heavens, in Myrionar’s flames of Justice and Vengeance, they must be reborn, and for that there is no name—there
can
be no name—other than the legend of death and rebirth, the red-gold fire of the soul, the wings that heal and destroy, no name other than
Phoenix
.”

The Spiritsmith bowed even lower, the great head scraping the stone, and above she thought—for just an instant—the stars of the Balanced Sword blazed with red-gold fire.

33

“We cannot transport you terribly far,” Toron said apologetically, “but I believe we can at least send you to the lakeside area of the East Twin.”