All-Patron Reward: *Oldest* Draft of Phoenix Rising, Chapter 3

To 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.