Ryk E. Spoor
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All-Patron Reward: *Oldest* Draft of Phoenix Rising, Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2021-01-10 20:03:34 +0000 UTCTo my great surprise, this week I discovered a file that has the ORIGINAL draft of Phoenix Rising -- then, of course, called Fall of Saints -- in it.
This is a story written in 1991, almost thirty years ago. It's clumsy in a lot of ways, and I'm VERY glad that it wasn't published back then -- the modern version is better in every way.
But it's still amusing to look at this and see the differences. In this original draft, we start without a prologue, simply with the aftermath of the assault on the Vantage castle. Most of the names are different -- and mostly far too American-Earth to really work. As we go through this draft, we'll see a lot of my stumbling approach to writing an epic and why it didn't work then.
But it's still a key part of the ancestry of Phoenix Rising, because if I hadn't written THIS... I'd never have written the final version. This one started my thoughts down the path that Kyri(e) Vantage (Ross) would eventually travel.
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FALL of SAINTS
Part One: Oath of Fire
i.
It was the smell that struck Kyrie Ross first; the smell of
blood. She halted momentarily, swallowing against the roiling of
her stomach. Xavier pressed closer against her as their older
brother, Michael, stepped inside Ross Keep. She almost backed out,
then remembered what she'd told Aunt Victoria: "If something has
happened to Mother and Father, than I am the Lady of the Keep."
A Lady could not retreat. Especially not from her own home.
Slowly she began to make out shapes in the vast entrance
hall. Only one of the mystic lightglobes was still working,
shedding a dim radiance onto the shattered chaos below. Kyrie bit
back a scream, gripping her lower lip in her teeth as she heard
Michael draw a sharp breath that seemed louder than a shout of
pain. Xavier simply gazed wide-eyed at the body of Terrence, the
cook; sprawled lifeless in the midst of the room, impaled through
the chest on a great shard of wood.
"They didn't get in without a fight." Michael muttered
through clenched teeth.
Kyrie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She, too, could
see the marks of footsteps scattered across the floor, patterns of
a deadly dance; there were places scarred by swordblows gone
astray, and the door ahead had been crushed in by batterings of
mace, axe, and armored forms.
They pushed on through, and Kyrie absently noted that an odd
silvery color clung to the edges of one splintered hole. *What
could have left *that*?*, she wondered.
Bodies littered the stairway, broken scarecrows spilling
their crimson stuffing out to congeal on the gray stone steps.
"*Horlanth!*" cursed Michael savagely. "The treacherous scum
killed *everybody*!" He stopped suddenly and dropped to one knee,
his fingers coming to rest on the body of a dark-haired beauty.
"Saeri." he whispered.
Kyrie laid her hand on Michael's shoulder. She'd known her
brother had an eye for Saeri, but not that he'd been this taken by
her. When Michael rose, the tears on his face only accented the
stone-cold anger that had replaced his shock.
That upset her even more than the stink of blood; *It isn't
right,* she murmured soundlessly to herself. *He's only fifteen.
I'm thirteen.* She glanced to the small, black-haired figure next
to her. *And little Xavier's three years younger. No. It's not
right.*
"They cleaned up too, Michael. I don't care how good they
were, some of them died tonight, but they took their dead with
them."
"Obvious tactic." He pushed past the last body and began
leading the way to their parent's private chambers.
*We talk tactics so that we won't start screaming,* she
thought. *Without our training, I think we'd both have run out of
here after the first three steps.* Aloud, she asked, "What tactic,
Michael?"
Surprisingly, it was Xavier who answered. "They came after
Mommy and Daddy, but everyone likes Mommy and Daddy; so they had
to make sure no one knew who they were." He sniffled and stared
fixedly at a hand that protruded, lifeless, from one of the
shattered doors, gray eyes huge and uncomprehending. "An' that's
why they killed everyone, too."
The great iron-bound bronzewood doors were broken from their
hinges, hanging only by the smallest thread of forged steel.
Michael paused outside for a moment, illumination from the
lightglobes within spilling out and glinting on the chainmail he'd
been wearing for his training. He took a deep breath and shoved
the ruined doors aside.
Kyrie jumped as the lefthand door broke free and fell with a
shuddering *boom* that echoed throughout the deserted Keep. Then
she did scream.
Sir Moril Ross had been a mighty fighter, a giant of a man
whose black hair and silver mail had been a familiar sight in the
border wars of Evanwyl for twenty years. Now the huge body lay in
a bloody pool, hacked nearly apart by a dozen swordcuts. Kerrie,
his wife, lay next to him, mutilated just as badly. Splotches of
red and drying brown covered the room; the furniture was
shattered, the very stone scraped and scarred.
Neither her Mommy or Daddy had died without taking several
with them; but all she knew at the moment was that they were dead.
She collapsed, sobbing, gripping the hands that were already gone
cold. From what seemed miles away, she heard her brother's voice,
almost choking with fury and grief.
"I'll find them. And then I'll kill them."
Then he, too, fell to his knees.
**************************
It had taken everything she and Aunt Victoria had to persuade
Michael to stay, not to ride off into the night in search of the
killers. Surprisingly, it was Victoria's cutting tongue that had
stopped Michael like a battering ram: "Very well, ride off then.
Since you obviously think you're a better man than your father..."
Michael had stopped and stood there, saying nothing for a
long minute. He knew exactly what she meant. Then he'd turned to
Victoria and said, calmly, "You're right, Auntie. I'm not good
enough." But as he walked away to the waiting coach, he'd flung
one more word back. "Yet."
The next day he had taken up his sword and begun the grueling
practice sessions that had dominated his -- and Kyrie's -- life
for the last two years.
*He might be good enough now,* she thought proudly. *Surely
the Saints will accept him!*
Sworn to the service of the god of Justice and Vengeance, the
Saints of Myrionar had been a force of champions for longer than
Evanwyl itself had existed. Michael's desire -- almost obsession -
- to join them had been inevitable. But they accepted only a very
few into their ranks, for their numbers were limited by the
special suits of armor that they wore. Each was called by the name
that was symbolized by their armor. As Saints, in fact, they were
said to *be* that armor; a Saint shed whatever other name he bore
when he donned his helm. Too, they were said to have special
powers, granted them by the Living Will that the Ross family had
always worshipped; the Living Will that was the core of every
thinking being, that passed its strength to the gods so that the
gods could, in turn, bestow their blessings upon their
worshippers.
Eight there were, all told: Sparrowhawk, Condor, Peregrine,
Kestrel, Skua, Falcon, Shrike, and the most honored of all, Eagle.
But the Eagle had died just recently, and thus there was one
opening. Michael would win that armor, she was sure of it!
Kyrie wished she could wear the colors and armor of a Saint
as well; but the Saints did not admit women to their ranks.
She watched with admiration as Michael came towards her. He
had grown so much! He was almost as tall as Father had been, even
if he hadn't yet gained the tremendous width of shoulder that had
been Sir Moril's. But he did have the Ross strength, as did Kyrie.
Aside from Lythos, the Elven Guardsman, and the veteran warriors
about the keep, she was the only one who could spar with Michael
and give him a fair contest. And since veteran warriors had duties
to perform, Kyrie was usually his main sparring partner.
Besides, she enjoyed the learning and the attention. When
they sparred, everyone stopped and watched. Kyrie brought her
blade up in a flashing salute as Michael arrived, knowing that
several of the younger men-at-arms were staring openly at the
fifteen-year-old girl who stood taller than most of the men and
held a blade that even seasoned warriors would have trouble
wielding.
Michael raised his own, smaller sword. They stood immobile
for a moment, and then Kyrie found herself driven backwards by a
furious series of cuts that her brother unleashed against her.
Parry, parry, dodge, jump back! Parry again, and *again!* Wielding
a greatsword gave better reach, but you couldn't use a shield...
something Michael was taking full advantage of!
Kyrie caught Michael's sword on the downswing, slid inside
his guard with a stroke that would have laid him out in the dust
if he hadn't somersaulted backwards at the last second. Kyrie
tried to catch him, pressing her advantage, but her arms were
beginning to feel the strain of moving that huge weapon to match
Michael's lighter one. First Michael regained his feet. Then he
stopped backing up.
Kyrie gave up the assault for now, breathing hard and trying
to keep from smiling with pride. She was sure that she would have
beaten anyone else in the keep with that attack (except for the
nearly-immortal Lythos), but not Michael. She held off her
brother's attacks, sweat trickling down her spine and black
strands of hair escaping from her helmet.
She felt like screaming at the dull yet piercing ache of
fatigue that trembled in her limbs. Somehow she brought up the
greatsword and held it before her.
"You need endurance, Kyrie!" Michael snapped, sweat rolling
down his face.
That was true enough. Michael was sweating but he didn't seem
particularly tired. Kyrie's arms felt like they were ten times too
heavy.
"Keep your guard up, stupid!" Michael's anger was also
touched with concern.
Shocked, she realized that she'd let the point drop, and
Michael's attack had already begun.
With a grunt of anger, she spun the massive two-handed blade
around, just in time to intercept her brother's cut. Too late she
realized it had been a feint. Michael's shorter, lighter
broadsword ducked around her greatsword and smacked it up and
around, spinning the huge blade around even faster. The greatsword
was wrenched out of her grasp and clattered harmlessly to the
stone of the courtyard.
But Kyrie was already in motion. "To be *disarmed* is not to
be *unarmed*." Lythos, their combat instructor, had drilled that
saying into her head a thousand times. She dove legs-first beneath
Michael's sword, sweeping his legs out from under him and rolled
with him. Her backfist was blocked by a hastily-raised arm, and
his countering punch knocked the wind from her. Desperately she
focused her Spirit into her fist, but before she could deliver the
Great Strike, she felt a blade at her throat. "Yield." said
Michael.
"I yield." She tried to feel shame at having failed, but all
she felt was pride for her brother's skill. He *would* be Eagle.
That she was sure of.
Michael took her hand and helped her up. "All right, Kyrie?"
She smiled at him. "Of course, Michael."
"I still think you'd do better with a smaller blade."
Kyrie didn't comment. They'd had that argument before. She
wasn't sure why she stuck with the greatsword; maybe she was just
trying to prove something. Or maybe she just liked the
intimidating feel of the weapon. She did like the way it stretched
her to her limits. Normally she was faster than Michael, which
evened out the fact that he was considerably stronger; but with
the greatsword she lost that speed advantage. Somehow she felt
that if she could master a weapon that even Michael was reluctant
to use, she would prove something to herself.
She just wished she knew what that "something" was.
She glanced over to the far corner of the yard, where Xavier
trained with Lythos. Kyrie was better than either of her brothers
with the Way of Hand and Foot, but Xavier showed signs of being a
true Master. He was not interested in the greatswords or the
broadsword, but favored instead the strange, slightly-curved
blades of the Elven Masters.
She smiled. She loved both of them dearly. Mother was gone;
she had to take care of both of them.
She *would* take care of them.
