Tyro praised his architects and builders as he surveyed this new Wonder of the World. Where the Earth-Wall turned its course from southeast to northeast, the engineers of Uurz had done exactly as they were bidden. A massive set of stairs was freshly carved into the bare brown rock, leading all the way up through the clouds to the wild forests of the high plateau. Each stair was carved low enough for Men and horses, yet wide and broad enough for Giants. The Great Stair ran more than a league from start to finish, ascending west to east along the cliffside. A gigantic network of wooden scaffolding was still in place as the last of the Stair’s detail work was completed. The sculptors would have to cease their ornamental work to let the triple host pass upward, and by Tyro’s order they were glad to rest. It would take weeks’ or months’ more work before the rough-hewn staircase was complete with columns, fringework, insignia, and other aesthetic considerations. Vireon was concerned only with its functionality.
It was the stairway to glory, and the northern Kings would be the first to climb it.
Seeing this evidence of what a determined force of Men could achieve, the Giants were greatly impressed.
“This Earth-Wall is like a mountain turned on its side,” Angrid told Tyro. “Yet the Men of Uurz have mastered it. There is more strength in your race than our legends tell.” The Ice King stroked his cloud-pale beard and admired the sculpted face of the continent-spanning cliff.
Tyro stared at his great construction and swelled with pride. “The Great Stair is but one of our many accomplishments. Did you happen to notice the city we built a few leagues back?” Angrid laughed at the jest; Men and Giants both took heart from the booming sound.
“Let us camp below the Wall tonight,” said Vireon. “We will climb the narrow way in daylight.”
“My exact thought,” said Tyro. “Tomorrow these tall ones will see the High Realm for the first time. I wonder how it will compare with the forests of Uduria?”
“I have seen both,” said Vireon. “There is no comparison.”
Tyro grinned and called for the setting up of his nightly pavilion.
“I do not like our position here,” Dahrima muttered to Vireon. “We are prone to ambush from the land above.” She gripped her great axe as if she expected an army of foes to fall from the murky sky.
Vireon slid down from his saddle. He looked up at the clouds hovering at the lip of the wall. “Up there are nothing but wild animals, ancient trees, and a pile of forgotten ruins. And there are working men at the top of this stair who would raise the alarm if any foe did appear in the night. Rest easy, Uduri.”
Again the great camp sank its roots into Stormlands soil. The rain fell sporadically all night. The Men of Uurz did not mind marching in mud, so glad were they to see and taste the blessed rains. Cookfires sprang up like a constellation of stars along the base of the cliff.
Dahrima slept on the bare ground, curled up with her axe before the entrance to Vireon’s tent. He thought of inviting her inside, but she might interpret his invitation wrongly. If he were tall as a Giant, perhaps he would lie with her beneath the warm furs. It might ease the pain of losing Alua. Yet he was mostly glad that her size kept them from sharing a bed; he had no wish to dishonor his wife’s memory. There was no replacing Alua, but how long must he wait until he might take another Queen? If he must wait until his heart no longer ached, he might wait forever. He forced lingering thoughts of Maelthyn from his mind and fell into a troubled sleep. He awoke before dawn to drink mulled wine and walk about the sodden camp as it stirred to life.
In the overcast morning, as ten thousand night-fires were snuffed out, soldiers accoutered themselves with sword, spear, shield, and hauberk, while the squires of cavalrymen strapped their masters into corselets of lacquered bronze. The Giants awoke ready to march, tossing mace, axe, or spear over their shoulders and yawning into the ashen sky. They milled about, throwing stones at wild birds, and traded stories, while the ranks of Men slowly prepared themselves for the ascent.
The three Kings went first up the Great Stair, Vireon and Tyro on horseback, Angrid afoot with Dahrima close behind him. They stopped only once, at the midpoint of the great steps, to look back upon the Stormlands and the great host spread across the plain. Only then did Vireon realize the true scale of the triple host. It set his blood to racing in his veins, and he thanked the Four Gods for gifting him with such an assembly of warriors.
All of this for you, Alua.
And for little Maelthyn, if she ever truly existed.
At the top of the Earth-Wall Vireon gazed southward at a second wall of towering, green-leafed trees. The ancient forest spanned the great cliff from horizon to horizon, hemming the southern world as far as the eye could see. It stretched all the way to Yaskatha and the remote shore of the Cryptic Sea. A kingdom of green shadows thrived beneath a cerulean sky laced with strings of pearly cloud. Looking back, the plains of the Stormlands lay hidden beneath an endless panorama of thunderheads.
There would be no storm magic up here where the legacy of Vod’s magic did not reach. Yet the upper land was green and fertile, as it had been for thousands of years. The forests of the High Realms grew wild, tangled, untamed, and nearly impenetrable. There were no great Uygas here to dwarf the Udvorg and make them feel small, for this was not the Giantlands. The most ancient of the High Realms trees rose barely three times taller than the Giants, as Giants stood three times taller than the average Man.
“My foresters have gone ahead to mark our trail,” said Tyro from the back of his mailed stallion. “We must rely on the Udvorg to flatten and widen our trail as we go. Based on our travel speed from Uurz to the Earth-Wall, we should see a week of rough passage before we reach the lowland marshes. There our hardships will begin.”
Vireon agreed. Twice now he had stood atop the great cliff and looked upon the seething cloud-roof of the Stormlands. Distant thunders rose dimly to his ears. Somewhere behind him, and farther west toward the Promontory, lay the ruins of Omu the Jade City. There the young Alua had ruled a kingdom of Men ages ago. The spirits of her people still haunted the deep groves of this place. Ancient superstitions, fierce predators, and dense foliage accounted for the lack of settlements here. Yet hunters from every realm came to the High Realms to stalk the game of this forest. Many were the bands of intrepid Uurzians or Yaskathans who never returned to tell their tales of the haunted wood. Knowing the secret of the shunned place, Vireon was no longer suspicious of its nature. The high forest reminded him of Alua: beautiful and full of mysteries. He wiped his welling eyes and called for the swelling lines atop the cliff to reposition themselves. A vanguard of Giants must go first now into the green shadows.
Lord Mendices and a retinue of fifty Uurzians rode ahead with a company of a hundred axe-bearing Udvorg. They followed the trail signs left by Tyro’s foresters, while the Giants cut down trees and stamped the undergrowth flat for the triple host’s passage.
The smell of earth and moss lay thick upon the air, mingling with the aromas of Giant sweat and the pleasant tang of splintered wood. Birdsongs rattled among the endless canopy of leaf and branch, overpowered now and then by the sound of a falling tree or an Udvorg’s rumbling laughter. Foxes, squirrels, hares, and tiny monkeys came running through the underbrush in terror, fleeing the northern titans. Vireon spied a black leopard leaping from branch to branch. The hunter inside him wanted to leap from his horse and give chase. But his true prey lay in the black heart of Khyrei, and he would not lose sight of it.
So the host passed through the length of the high forest, the Giants cutting, chopping, and stamping a crude highway into existence. Mendices suggested burning large swathes of undergrowth, but Vireon rejected the idea. Tyro agreed with Vireon. A smoke trail might be seen for hundreds of leagues, and the mariners of Allundra might easily carry word of the triple host’s passing to Khyrei. Perhaps they already knew. Perhaps Gammir and Ianthe had already fortified their swampland border with enough legions to oppose the great northern host. Yet there wa
s no way to be sure, and stealth must be maintained for as long as possible.
The host marched for seven days and spent seven nights camped amid the wilderness. Each evening the trailblazers cleared land for tents and horses and camp followers. Some Men and Giants went on brief hunts while the sun lingered low in the sky. The Men returned with the fat carcasses of pheasants and bright-feathered peacocks. One of Tyro’s best archers brought down a horned stag with a pelt white as snow. This was acclaimed as an omen of coming victory by all the Men of Uurz; such pale beasts were unheard of in the Stormlands. Word of this good omen soon spread to the Giants, who also believed it.
The Giant huntsmen fared poorly in this Men’s wood, for the tramping of their great feet set wild creatures running before them and gave warning to the armies of birds filling the branches. Still, a few of them managed to snare wolves or bears, which the Men would not deign to eat. To the hungry Udvorg it was fresh meat and nothing to pass up. They stitched new cloaks from the hides of these upland creatures. After a single Udvorg ate monkey flesh and became violently ill, they quickly learned to leave the skittish tree dwellers alone. The furry ones were too much like Men in appearance and facial expression, or so Angrid decreed. They must carry the souls of dead men in their tiny bodies, and so were poison to Giants, who had not eaten manflesh in several millennia.
The host crossed three raging rivers and spent a night on the shore of a hidden lake where Men pulled fish large as hounds from the water. There was feasting and drinking aplenty, and the barrels of ale and wine were nearly all gone when the host’s vanguard reached the sinking land. There the great forest plateau sloped gradually downward. Clusters of trees grew thinner with each passing league, until the vast swamp lay spread before them like a sea of steaming mud.
“The Eastern Marshes,” announced Tyro from the back of his warhorse. “Beyond lies the red jungle of Khyrei. Here our course must turn straight into the east. Passage will be slow and difficult. The vipers and venomous toads gather thick as flies here, and tales of the swamp’s great lizards cannot be ignored.”
“Aye, Lord,” said Mendices. His golden helm lay in the crook of his arm. “Poets say the marshes are haunted by the restless ghosts of a race that died ages ago. A people that were not quite Men…”
Vireon stared across the wetlands from the back of his own steed. An endless expanse of black mud, dead trees, strangling vines, and green meres of unknown depth. There was no solid path through the place, and a Man might easily drown in seconds if he dared to pass this way alone. He wondered at the host’s best course of action.
Angrid called forth Varda the Keen Eyes. The blue Giantess came forward in the company of two Udvorg brothers. The tip of her staff blazed like an azure torch. She wore a cloak of black wolf’s fur. Three bronze rings bright as gold hung from each of her ears, and a single ring depended from her shapely nose. The scars along her comely face were purposeful, indicative of her rank among those who wielded the cold flame. While most Udvorg hair was the color of snow, Varda’s was as black as Vireon’s own mane. A telltale sign of the common origins shared by all Giants.
Angrid spoke with the shamaness, and Varda turned again and again to survey the midday gloom of the swamp. Winged worms flitted among the rotting glades like bats, and Men traded guesses as to their nature. Vireon heard the first instances of grumbling among the hosts of Uurz and Udurum. No man wished to tramp through this chaos of filth and venom. Yet every warrior would take that awful journey. Men knew that glory and victory lay at the end of this long march. They believed in the might of their Kings and the righteousness of their crusade. And they had the Udvorg on their side.
Men and Giants transferred bale, keg, and crate to their backs, for no wagon or cart would travel through the mire. A great portion of the camp followers formed a makeshift settlement on the near side of the swamplands to await the triple host’s return. Yet the soldiers and their Kings must forge ahead with diminished resources. Vireon decided that Giants must again go first, not only to test the depth of the swamp, but also to confront any great beasts that might arise from it.
Varda walked to the head of the vanguard, her shaggy boots sinking ankle-deep in the muck. She raised the blazing staff above her head and sang in an ancient tongue. Vireon saw the three thousand Udvorg kneeling as one, as if the shamaness conducted some holy ceremony. Among their number, only the proud Ice King stood unbowed as Varda worked her spell.
The heat of the sun fell away from the swamp, and the brightness of the blue flame increased. A sphere of indigo fire floated from the staff like a bubble rising in water, hovering for a moment above the marshland. Varda continued her chant as the globe grew brighter than the sun itself, bathing the world in shades of sapphire and azure. The cobalt sphere radiated a terrible cold as the true sun radiates heat. Men shivered while Giants sighed with pleasure. Vireon himself could feel the intensity of the cold, a sensation he was not normally privy to.
Now Varda lowered her staff and the sphere of blue flame sank into the ground of the marsh. A sudden crackling filled the air as the muddy domain began to change. The mud froze as if caught in the grip of winter, and the scum-laden pools of water turned to solid ice. Men pulled their cloaks tight about their shoulders and marveled at the white fog of their breaths, while the Udvorg rose up, shedding cloaks and mail shirts to better enjoy the chill. They laughed and stalked into the frozen wasteland. One of them struck a tree with the butt of his spear; the icy wood cracked and splintered into a thousand gleaming fragments.
“By the Four Gods,” said Tyro to his Giant peers. “It appears this crossing may be less grueling than expected.”
The icy expanse reached nearly a league in all directions. Yet the air had grown warm again. Already the slick surface of the frozen mire was beginning to melt in the sun’s warm glow. They must travel quickly across this hardened land.
Varda the Keen Eyes bowed to the three Kings and resumed her frosty silence.
Word traveled backward along the lines and soon the march resumed.
In the day’s third hour, the first of the great lizards arose from the muck. Varda stood at the head of the columns, singing her flamesong for the second time in order to extend the icy path. From the yet-unfrozen ground rose a scaled behemoth, dripping mud and water from its spiny back and blunt snout. Even on all fours it stood half the height of an Udvorg. Its loose flesh was olive-green and mottled gray, draped in the scum of its habitat. Since it had only four legs it was not therefore a true Serpent, nor did it breathe fire as did those creatures of legend. Yet its toothy mouth split the circumference of its head. The yellow fangs within were as long as Uurzian swords, and far thicker. Despite its great size it lunged swift as the wind across the frozen marsh.
Before word of the monster had reached the center ranks, an Udvorg died in its jaws, spine chomped in half, severed head rolling like a pebble. The Giants near enough to witness the attack leaped forward with spear and axe, eager to test their mettle against such a beast. Here was game worthy of Giantkind. Here was a thing out of legend, whose speckled flesh might feed the entire Udvorg legion.
Vireon held his horse back and called for Dahrima to stay with him, as twenty Udvorg encircled the behemoth. Tyro watched the battle with a fascination bordering on gleefulness. Vireon drew his greatsword but remained calm on his steed. If there were more lizards such as this, the going here would be slow. Still, he admired the vicious nature of the Udvorg as they harried the monster with pole and blade. They danced about its snapping head and thrust spears into its hide. Others braved its claws to deliver crushing blows with axe and mace.
By the time the great lizard was dead, lying on its back with a dozen Udvorg spears sprouting from its pale underbelly, Varda had finished her new spell. Once again the swamp lay frozen before the host. The ice near the slain beast was smeared with its black blood. One of the Udvorg claimed the lizard’s head; he would hollow out the skull and wear it as a helmet. The rest of the beast’s killers
sliced off hocks of its dense flesh to fill their packs. Some dug their stony teeth into the raw red meat instantly, praising its wild flavor. They buried their fallen comrade quickly in the solid mire, marking the grave with a horned helm. Soon the triple host was again underway.
The iced landscape drove vipers and toads into their lairs or killed them outright. The carcasses of black-and-crimson reptiles and bloated amphibians littered the frozen mud. By the time the last members of the host crossed the frozen landscape, it was trampled into oozing mud and broken clumps of melting ice. Vireon and Tyro led their legions of Men forward with Varda, Angrid, and a small company of Udvorg on either side, while the bulk of the Giants came last across the marsh, traversing the half-frozen mire with far less difficulty than the feet of Men or the hooves of horses. Vireon’s captains kept the legions marching at top speed.
Night overtook the hurried host, and weariness claimed Varda shortly after sundown. The triple host would have to spend a night in the swamp, which would be long thawed by morning. Clouds of stinging insects rose up from their temporary hibernation and harassed the flesh of Men and horses, though their bites could not penetrate the skins of Vireon and the Giants. Soldiers chose carefully the ground on which they erected tents; some chose to sleep on logs or narrow spars of dry earth. The majority would awake to find their blankets sunk into the soft earth, but companions would help dig them free. Despite the cold, the Kings allowed no fires to be lit, for the smoke and light might give away their presence to the Border Legions stationed directly ahead, untold leagues farther on, where the ground rose up to support the crimson jungle.
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