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.
“No. Someone else. Either that, or the survivor came back.”
“Hm. Hadn’t thought of that. Could be. Boots are about the same size . . . anyway, how do you read it?”
“Shrike actually made the first move; came up and wrestled the Phoenix—we assume it was Phoenix—to the ground. Then somehow Phoenix got free—hard to imagine, given how well-trained the Justiciars are—and the two of them talked for a while, moving a bit to get in position for attack.”
“Maybe.” Poplock said. “But these marks here are the Phoenix’s, and it looks to me like he or she was trying to leave. Over there, Shrike suddenly charges, as though to stop him from getting away.”
Tobimar squinted. “I guess I can see that. But judging by the way the battle goes . . . it wasn’t because Phoenix was afraid of Shrike. Shrike seems to have gotten in maybe one or two good shots, but most of the time the battle was going to Phoenix—and there’s no trace of pieces of either the Phoenix’s weapon or armor.”
Then Tobimar looked at him. “Part of me wants to back out. But . . . no, I can’t. Not just pride—although there’s a lot of that involved. He hasn’t been dead more than a day. If we’d just been a little faster, he wouldn’t be dead now.”
“Or maybe he would, and we’d be dead with him,” Poplock pointed out.
“I don’t think so. If we’re right about the battle, Shrike wasn’t quite this Phoenix’s equal, but it wasn’t completely one-sided, either. Adding the two of us into the fray—especially when one of us would probably not be noticed until the right minute—would almost certainly have either defeated Phoenix, or forced him to retreat.” He studied the ground again, paced out a few of the moves. “Tall indeed. I’m guessing six foot three, maybe six foot four.”
“You know, that would argue for a woman as this Phoenix.”
“What? Most women are shorter than that.”
“True,” Poplock agreed, “but if this Phoenix is over six feet tall, he still didn’t weigh as much as Shrike, who’s a lot shorter. Look at the footprint depth in similar soil. Total burdened weight—because this Phoenix is travelling light, not leaving possessions behind—around two hundred ten, two-twenty.”
Tobimar shrugged. “I bow to your superior expertise at this sort of thing. But it still doesn’t make much difference.
“The real point is still that this almost has to be part of the whole . . . tapestry of events, the battlesquares game that Khoros is trying to direct through us and those other five . . . and maybe others. And it’s right where my quest takes me. I can’t back out. This is . . . what he trained me for.”
Poplock bounced a subdued nod. “And what I’m already mixed up in. We’re only a day or so behind this Phoenix. I think we can get a read on his direction pretty quick and then figure out who his next target is.”
“The number of choices is getting narrowed fast, Poplock.”
“Don’t I know it. Seven Justiciars total, one died a while back, now two more, there’s four possibilities left.” Poplock scuttled along the forest floor. “C’mon, Tobimar, carry the lightglobe over here. I need to read our quarry’s footsteps.” As they moved along, he checked each impression. Okay, after that last clash, both of ’em were knocked down—Shrike permanently. Phoenix gets up . . . looks like he was still a little shaken, staggers a bit here, trying to get his bearings, probably not sure if Shrike’s finished or about to finish him. Moves in carefully, sees his target’s down for good. Kneels beside him, maybe just to make sure. Doesn’t touch him as far as I can tell. Then . . . sits there for a minute or two.
Something about what Tobimar said struck a chord. “You know, Tobimar . . . I just had a thought.”
“That’s a dangerous thing for a Toad,” his friend said, trying to keep some humor. “What have you thought up this time?”
“Well . . . look at the picture we have of this guy now. He—or she—is really familiar with this area.” Gets up, moves away a bit . . . hmm, much much steadier now—healing concoction? Meditation? Actual healing gifts?—but no clear direction . . . “He’s calling himself a Justiciar; he either has similar powers or he’s good at faking them. The god’s not telling them what’s going on.” Hmm. Takes two, three steps in this direction with force, made a decision . . . stops . . . thinks again . . . starts moving off again. “He knows the area—and the people—well enough to get where he wants, how he wants, and for them not to question him. He fits in.”
“And? We know this.”
“Well, try this mud out for feel: ever hear the term ‘inside job’?”
Tobimar stopped in his tracks, and stared at Poplock so long that he started to get uncomfortable. Finally he let out his breath in a whoosh. “You have a nasty imagination, my amphibious friend.”
“And by that you mean it makes sense.”
“A lot of sense in some ways. No need to fake the powers if they are your powers. You’ll know where the Justiciars are going to search . . . because you are one. Maybe the first victim of the Phoenix wasn’t Mist Owl; might’ve been Silver Eagle himself. That armor isn’t in use now, is it?”
“Oooo. That’s one I hadn’t looked at. You’d need some really good armor to fake up being a Justiciar, and if you made something with a design that silly—I mean, silly if you weren’t a Justiciar or God-Warrior or other type where the armor’s a symbol, anyway—people’d remember it.” Walking in this direction, quickens pace a bit. Yes, he’s made a decision. Shifts course here, I’m betting to throw off pursuit. Need to track a little farther. “But what if you could just, oh, dress up one of the real Justiciar armors a little? Using your own, there’s risks with that, but if you had another Raiment set . . . why, you could put a real glamour on that, make it permanent . . . no, better, you make it conditional, so it’s only going to look like this Phoenix when you wear it.”
“Might be. And it explains how you can also be good enough to kill these Justiciars. You’ve worked with them. You’ve fought and sparred with them. You could have figured out a strategy against each one.” A thought seemed to strike Tobimar now. “You know, that makes sense. You’d also know what you could use against them—with words—to confuse them, throw them off. That’s how Shrike lost his grip on Phoenix.”
“And now we know who our likely culprit is,” Poplock said. Yes, he’s changed direction a couple of times . . . but this time he’s got a line and he’s holding to it. It’s definitely this way. “Six foot four, said to be one of the strongest of the Justiciars.”
“Condor.” Tobimar nodded slowly. “And it explains that little circling, talking bit. Shrike and Condor are direct partners; from what I’ve heard around they’re very close. So Shrike’s trying to figure out what’s going on, and maybe Condor’s trying to explain it to him. But that doesn’t work out, and Condor finishes it.”
“Our Phoenix was definitely flying off in that direction. If I haven’t gotten all turned around, that’s the Gharis region?”
“I think so.” Tobimar put the lightglobe in a nearby tree fork so he could riffle through their notes.
Poplock was still thinking. “Of course, none of this gives us a reason for what he’s doing, if we’re right. Unless . . .” That’s it!
“Unless what?” Tobimar supplied the obvious question, while still searching.
“Unless Silver Eagle wasn’t his victim, but someone else’s. Maybe it’s . . . a power play, a, a, what do you call it, a schism, a conflict in the faith itself, being played out inside the Justiciars!”
Tobimar winced. “Terian and Chromaias, you like to think of the worst possible . . . But it explains why Myrionar can’t answer. The motivations are internal; justice can’t be served either way, and both sides need or want vengeance.” He looked down at the paper in his hand. “And our next target is . . . probably Thornfalcon. I hear he’s the most popular of the Justiciars—and the one most people suspect is the weakest, though he’s got tales of unlikely heroism to amuse at any moment.” He shook his head. “If we don’t get to him before Phoenix does, it’s going to be ugly.”
“Twice as bad,” Poplock observed with grim humor as he bounced back to his accustomed position, “if this theory’s right. Nothing’s so ugly as getting involved in a family fight.”