knowledge, so much so that he made things work the way I described—such that many who sought him must have died in the attempt. But he did not extract from me any promise to keep his secrets, or place on me any of the requirements or commands he did on the nearby villages. If you aren’t going to become a Justiciar, I don’t know if I can convince him to help you...but I’m very sure he’ll at least have some good advice, a name or three of those who can help us.”
She paused to catch her breath, and so did Tobimar, grateful for the respite. Where does her family get their stamina? Her strength, her speed, her toughness...they’re just stunning. Without Khoros’ training, I couldn’t keep up at all.
Once they reached the chimney she had described, Tobimar realized they were now only a short distance from the top...and minutes from a legend. The Spiritsmith.
He emerged from the narrow vertical tunnel, breathing hard, and heaved himself upright.
The massive form of an Ancient Sauran loomed over him, scarcely ten feet away and standing over eight feet high, taller than Toron himself, his scales having a patina of depth and iridescence that Tobimar guessed indicated his age far more clearly than any wrinkles could have.
“So you have returned, Phoenix Kyri, and with true blood of false Justiciars upon your sword. It is well. It is very well indeed. Yet you also bring another...” he paused, narrowing his gaze, and then smiling, “ two others, with you.”
“Good eyes,” murmured Poplock. Tobimar nodded, impressed; most others didn’t even notice the Toad, let alone realize Poplock’s significance.
“So, Phoenix,” the Spiritsmith continued, “is this boy—or this toad—to be the next of your Justiciars?”
Even Kyri, serious though she was, could not keep a straight face as Poplock leapt onto Tobimar’s head and struck a grandiose pose. “Indeed, behold the next of the true Justiciars of Myrionar, and my trusty steed!”
The explosive snort of laughter from the Spiritsmith almost blew the little Toad off Tobimar’s head. “I see, I see indeed; yet such as yourself are already so mighty that one such as I can do little for you.”
“In seriousness, sir,” Tobimar began, not without some lingering smile on his face, “I do not intend to become a Justiciar—at least not at this time,” he amended. Why cut off the possibility? Many things may yet happen. “But various events have made it clear that my path and Kyri’s are joined, and thus I may face her enemies, and she mine; and,” he drew his blades and presented them, “I have far too clear evidence that my weapons are inadequate to the challenge.”
The Spiritsmith looked very interested in his swords—more so than Tobimar had expected. “The twin curved swords...interesting.” His gaze traced the blades carefully, visibly pausing when reaching one of the dents or minor cuts on the blade. He then gestured for Tobimar to sheath the swords. “I see indeed your reason for traveling here. And you have done well to have wielded your blades with such skill and power that they sustained such slight damage, overall.”
“He helped me slay Thornfalcon,” Kyri said simply.
The huge Sauran studied him for several moments, then turned and strode slowly, thoughtfully, across the plateau. Tobimar could see that to the West, other peaks rose, but there seemed to be one clear path—which, if it was truly clear, might actually provide a narrow, straight glimpse at the land called Hell itself. The Spiritsmith was not, however, looking in that direction, but rather pacing with slow, measured strides towards the rocks that surrounded the entryway to his underground forge, his massive tail swinging in time to the steps.
“The intersection of heroes at a battle is not unusual,” he said finally. “What other events or circumstances link your two causes?”
Tobimar glanced at Poplock and Kyri, trying to figure out how to go over all of it in
She paused to catch her breath, and so did Tobimar, grateful for the respite. Where does her family get their stamina? Her strength, her speed, her toughness...they’re just stunning. Without Khoros’ training, I couldn’t keep up at all.
Once they reached the chimney she had described, Tobimar realized they were now only a short distance from the top...and minutes from a legend. The Spiritsmith.
He emerged from the narrow vertical tunnel, breathing hard, and heaved himself upright.
The massive form of an Ancient Sauran loomed over him, scarcely ten feet away and standing over eight feet high, taller than Toron himself, his scales having a patina of depth and iridescence that Tobimar guessed indicated his age far more clearly than any wrinkles could have.
“So you have returned, Phoenix Kyri, and with true blood of false Justiciars upon your sword. It is well. It is very well indeed. Yet you also bring another...” he paused, narrowing his gaze, and then smiling, “ two others, with you.”
“Good eyes,” murmured Poplock. Tobimar nodded, impressed; most others didn’t even notice the Toad, let alone realize Poplock’s significance.
“So, Phoenix,” the Spiritsmith continued, “is this boy—or this toad—to be the next of your Justiciars?”
Even Kyri, serious though she was, could not keep a straight face as Poplock leapt onto Tobimar’s head and struck a grandiose pose. “Indeed, behold the next of the true Justiciars of Myrionar, and my trusty steed!”
The explosive snort of laughter from the Spiritsmith almost blew the little Toad off Tobimar’s head. “I see, I see indeed; yet such as yourself are already so mighty that one such as I can do little for you.”
“In seriousness, sir,” Tobimar began, not without some lingering smile on his face, “I do not intend to become a Justiciar—at least not at this time,” he amended. Why cut off the possibility? Many things may yet happen. “But various events have made it clear that my path and Kyri’s are joined, and thus I may face her enemies, and she mine; and,” he drew his blades and presented them, “I have far too clear evidence that my weapons are inadequate to the challenge.”
The Spiritsmith looked very interested in his swords—more so than Tobimar had expected. “The twin curved swords...interesting.” His gaze traced the blades carefully, visibly pausing when reaching one of the dents or minor cuts on the blade. He then gestured for Tobimar to sheath the swords. “I see indeed your reason for traveling here. And you have done well to have wielded your blades with such skill and power that they sustained such slight damage, overall.”
“He helped me slay Thornfalcon,” Kyri said simply.
The huge Sauran studied him for several moments, then turned and strode slowly, thoughtfully, across the plateau. Tobimar could see that to the West, other peaks rose, but there seemed to be one clear path—which, if it was truly clear, might actually provide a narrow, straight glimpse at the land called Hell itself. The Spiritsmith was not, however, looking in that direction, but rather pacing with slow, measured strides towards the rocks that surrounded the entryway to his underground forge, his massive tail swinging in time to the steps.
“The intersection of heroes at a battle is not unusual,” he said finally. “What other events or circumstances link your two causes?”
Tobimar glanced at Poplock and Kyri, trying to figure out how to go over all of it in
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