Phoenix Rising (44 page)

“But,” Poplock pointed out, even as Tobimar began to pack his things, “it’s already been quite a while since his last appearance. He might already
be
there.”

“He might not, too. Plus he might take a bit longer scoping out each victim.” He let his twin swords settle into place, then lifted the Toad to his shoulder. “Besides, we need to try if it’s at all possible. Sure, the Justiciars can take care of themselves, but one of them is dead already. At the very least,” he said as he packed the information away with a last glance at the entry, “we can make sure that Shrike is warned in time.”

41

The sound of a footstep behind her had been just a split second too late to warn her as a tremendous blow struck her back, sent her sprawling, and before she could recover something very heavy was on her back, and a sharp, cold metal edge resting on her neck below the helm. “Now, you Balance-cursed imposter,” the deep, Shipton-accented voice growled, “I give you a few minutes to explain yourself, not that it be likely any explanation will save your body and soul from the Justiciars’ judgment.”

Outflanked. I thought I was stalking Shrike, but somehow he caught on.
She knew she wasn’t the best at this sort of thing, though she wasn’t bad. Still, the older Justiciar was clearly a lot better. She thought fast.
He’s got the advantage. I have to find a way to get the upper hand.
“And which imposter was it that hewed the head from Kyril Vantage—Shrike or Condor?”

The edge on her neck shifted the tiniest bit as her question struck home, and she heaved upward and to the side, escaping the squat Justiciar’s trap. Shrike, realizing this as soon as she moved, rolled to his feet even as she did, raising his axe to find her sword already clearing its sheath.

For a moment they stood, staring at each other, and then Shrike’s eyes narrowed, widened, and he gave a grunted sigh. “I know that voice, disguised though it is. That was my axe, lass. And your mother’s neck was mine, too, though Condor fought both well; I struck the last blow to both.”

“And how was it that you could manage to walk into our house and still be able to look yourself in the mirror, traitor?”

The mouth behind the gray-streaked mustache tightened and the eyes narrowed. “You understand nothing, girl, or you’d be a lot less quick with your judgment. Me, I learned to take what good I could get; better that than what waits for any who try to turn their back on
him
.”

“Quick with judgment?” She barely kept herself from starting the fight then and there.
I need to understand. Killing Shrike . . . part of me screams at me to do it now. He killed Mother. He killed Father.

And somewhere inside there was a tiny sigh of relief that, somehow, though he had been there, it was not Condor who had slain either of them.

But I can’t kill Shrike if I can get him to
talk
. “
You
dare
call me ‘quick to judgment’? You killed my parents! You
orphaned
us, all three, and your false Justiciars killed Rion too, and you have the undiluted poisonous
arrogance
to say I am quick to judge you?”

The axehead made an abortive twitch, but stopped.
He wants to get information from
me
just as much.
“I suppose you’d see it that way. Can’t argue that, not much, but you’re wrong about one thing.
We
didn’t kill your brother. Truth be told? None of us were sure we
could
kill him. No, Silver Eagle, he got the direct treatment. And maybe, if you remember that, you’ll be a little less certain about what a man should be doing in our position.”

The soul-wounding. That’s the doing of whatever they’re working for.
She’d suspected that, of course, but it was a great deal different to actually have those suspicions confirmed. “You could have just
left
, even if you didn’t have the courage to right the Balance.”

“Hellfire and curses, girl, you sound just like the damn boy. He almost—” Shrike stopped himself, but maybe too late.

Condor? Wanted to leave?
“And why didn’t he leave?” She let her sword drop a tiny bit. “Because he couldn’t leave
you
?”

Shrike spat on the ground. “He didn’t
want
to, no, but believe me, he would have if he’d thought there were any way to talk to
you.
Damn near got us both killed, mooning over you and your justice-ridden family—I finally had to drag him in, make him see the
real
truth, before he gave it up.”

Condor almost left . . . because of
me? She grappled with the thought, then pushed it aside.
Later. Later. I’ve spent so much time brooding on their treachery I don’t know what to feel. But this means that Condor might not be beyond reason. Whatever Shrike did, whatever he showed Condor, it
scared
Condor into following their shadow. Maybe I can reach him . . . somehow.

It wasn’t the time for a duel. If she could catch up with Condor, who was patrolling the Varheyn area—just a little ways over—if she could catch up with him, it might even be worth Shrike knowing who she was. He spoke gruffly, hard and cold, but somehow she thought there was still some sense of decency, or at least old guilt, in him.

She started to back away, towards the thickets of the jungle that she knew well from years of rambling through every part of Evanwyl.

Shrike’s eyes widened, and he suddenly lunged for her, axe held high. “You’ll not get to him, you Dragon-spelled witch!”

As she parried, her heart sank.
It wasn’t an act. He really cares about Condor—maybe the only thing he
does
care about—and this
thing
that’s behind them, he’s so afraid of it . . .

The copper-colored axe whipped around again, and she saw a shimmer of sharp claws in the air. Just in time she ducked aside; the axe cleaved air where she had been, but not one, but THREE deep furrows scored the ground, one no more than three inches from her foot.
Claws of the Shrike . . .

She evaded the next strike, and the next, reading his movements, looking for an opening to flee. He was too methodical, too well guarded to give her an easy strike to stun. Any cut or jab she tried had to be serious, had to be driven home as if she truly meant to kill him, or it would never get through at all. She offered Myrionar another prayer, pulled speed and strength from the Balanced Sword, and matched the older man strike for strike, her new-forged Flamewing catching the metal Claw and holding back the shimmering magical ones at the same time.
No. I’m not getting away from him. I’m better than he is, I think, despite age and experience . . . but not enough better to just dump him and run.

She straightened then, bringing her sword up higher, and she saw Shrike come on full guard.
He’s seen it.

“So, lass. You’re ready to kill me?” he said, and his mouth quirked up in a bitter smile. “Then prove to me you’re a better woman than your mother, or Windclaw’ll take your head to lay next t’ hers!”

Decision made, she suddenly felt the fury flare up within her.
You killed Mommy and Daddy! You left us alone, and then you came into my house, spoke as a friend while knowing all along—

And Flamewing suddenly
blazed
, flaming with red-gold fire, as she swung it again, and again, and
again
, three blows so fast that not even Shrike’s speed was enough to parry all of them, and she felt Flamewing bite deep into the false Justiciar’s armor, shearing off the shoulder-guard as though it were thick bread before a flaming knife, and Shrike gave a low snarl of pain at the burning cut in his shoulder.

But it was far from a disabling blow, and the return stroke of the axe rebounded from her armor only after delivering such impact that she felt a rib crack and every breath was suddenly fixed and circumscribed with agony. Now it was her turn to back up, on the defensive, as she tried to concentrate enough to heal, or at least drive back the pain, without losing the concentration on the fight that was allowing her to keep her head.

Shrike was
hammering
her now, a rhythmic controlled cycle of swift, hard strokes jolting her body, ramming pain through her arms with every impact.
He knows I might beat him if I recover. So he’s not giving me a chance.

But Shrike wasn’t Mist Owl; he was stronger than the
Artan
warrior, but not stronger than she was, and not as skilled. Lythos’ training, plus whatever instincts and blessings were in the Vantage family, and perhaps whatever gifts Myrionar had seen fit to offer—these outmatched Shrike in every way. She felt the pain in her chest ebb—a bit, a tiny bit, but enough to ease the tightness of sympathetic contractions in her arms, the instinct to curl in and shield, loosen her stance just that critical bit. Her sword caught the next blow, turned it, and she struck, driving Shrike back a step, struck again, two steps, and as Flamewing awakened again, burning brighter, Shrike was backpedaling furiously, trying to get enough distance, had it, bracing himself, and a howling arose from his axe, the Wind backing his swing as the Fire drove hers, and the two weapons met in pure and complete opposition.

The concussion blew her off her feet, nearly ripped Flamewing from her grasp, left her dazed, not even sure of direction, just knowing she had to get up,
up!

But when she was up, wavering but with her sword on guard, she saw nothing moving, just drifting smoke and mist from the meeting of Wind and Fire.
Where is he?

The haze cleared, and now she saw Shrike, lying on his back, unmoving. She edged closer, and as a light breeze blew the last of the smoke away, realized that the false Justiciar would never move again.

Windclaw had failed against the newest blade of the Spiritsmith, against a true Justiciar’s weapon, and shattered in the conflict. One great edged shard had plunged full-length through Shrike’s throat; his own axe had finished him.

She felt, for a moment, vaguely cheated. By the end, she’d
wanted
to take Shrike’s head herself.

But . . . maybe Shrike’s own words had had some truth in them, after all.
Maybe I can’t completely judge him when I don’t know what he feared. He was fighting to protect . . . his son, I guess.

She rested a moment, let Myrionar’s power heal her in a flow of star-touched light.
Now to find Condor!

But almost as she thought that, she realized it was the wrong idea.
How was I just feeling about Shrike? If Aran . . . Condor . . . was anything like he seemed, Shrike
was
his father. I can’t go to him fresh from killing Shrike and act as though I might be his friend. That would make me just like them.

She put the conundrum of Condor aside.
Still, I have to try a different way. On another Justiciar. Both of these I’ve killed, but maybe . . . maybe I did this wrongly. Perhaps the ones who have some trace of good, some hope in them, perhaps they need to first see a friendly face, not start out facing a stern and unknown figure that fills them with guilt that pushes them to fight.

She thought about that as she made her way carefully through the woods.
But who? Four left of the false Justiciars, if they haven’t replaced Eagle yet—and I haven’t heard that they have. I can’t go to Condor yet.
She pictured the others: the overly loud, boisterous Bolthawk, now here, now there, as erratic as the flight of his namesake; Skyharrier, with his cool white wings and gentle even temper. And Thornfalcon . . .

As soon as she thought of his name, she felt a smile.
Of course. If any of them can be reached, it has to be Thornfalcon—the half-clown, the would-be bard and minstrel.

The smile broadened.
I’ll find him. I’ll have to be careful, find out which patrol area he has, figure out how to approach him . . . but I’ll find him.

And maybe . . . just maybe . . . I’ll find one I can save.

42

“Oooh,
that
doesn’t look good.”

The comment was involuntary, and probably not very respectful of the scene. But on reflection, Poplock felt it pretty much covered the ground.

Rather like Shrike.

“Gods be damned . . . too late.” He heard the frustration in the Skysand Prince’s voice, and Poplock gripped tighter as Tobimar raced to the body that lay in the clearing and dropped to one knee, hoping against hope that . . . but one good look at the body, even in the moonlit dark, sent that hope to nothingness. “Stars and sand . . . not a chance. But what in the Dragons’ Names is this that killed him?”

Poplock looked around. It was clear that the jagged shard of metal sticking out of the now-dead Justiciar’s throat was a piece of something. As Tobimar continued his cautious examination of the body, Poplock’s eyes focused on the heavy, ornate metal shaft not far away, and, on one end . . . “I revise my opinion. It’s worse than not good, it’s really, really bad. Tobimar, it’s a
piece
of his axe.”

The head with its long black hair came up and the startling blue eyes followed his own gold gaze. “By Terian’s Light . . . but you’re right.” He looked down at the body. “And look, his armor’s cut through at the shoulder.”

For the first time, Poplock
really
felt uncertain. “Those Justiciar armors and weapons . . . they’re magical.”

“More than just ordinary magic. I heard it said they were made by the Spiritsmith, which means they use whatever techniques he knew, and maybe were also infused with some of the god’s power in their creation as well. To break that . . .” Tobimar’s face reflected the same indecision.

“You want to back out?” Poplock asked quietly, after a moment of silence.

Tobimar didn’t answer immediately; he continued walking cautiously around the clearing. “Poplock, can you help me figure out the battle here?”

“Sure.”

For the next hour, the two companions worked on reconstructing the way Shrike had been killed. More than once Poplock found himself wishing Willowwind was there;
he
would probably have figured it all out in minutes. But eventually they came to fairly close agreement.

“First . . . um, we weren’t the first here,” Poplock said.