Sharadza had followed Vireon’s lead and taken the size of a human woman. She stood now at the side of the uncouth Slave King himself. That robust man of scars rode no horse, but stood bare-chested amid the northern monarchs, his only garb a kilt of blackened bronze plates, leather sandals, and the seven-pointed crown he had stolen from Gammir. A pack of the eyeless creatures lingered about him always, crouching like apes, horned heads bobbing at the level of his waist. Perhaps forty such creatures, fishbelly pale and grotesquely proportioned, answered to the Slave King’s unspoken commands. Three other former slaves stood amid that ring of pale flesh, the Slave King’s advisors. Barely more than boys in scuffed black corselets, wearing Khyrein sabres which they likely had no skill in wielding.
A cohort of three hundred Uurzian legionnaires and a hundred Udvorg stood behind the assembled Kings and their retinues. Beyond the looming Northern Gate, the city with its shattered palace still blazed in places, and the chaos of freedom spilled like angry waters along every street. The houses of nobles had been raided, and many a former high-ranking citizen now lingered in chains alongside former members of the Onyx Guard. It remained to be seen how many would find justice in their new King, and how many would find only slaughter.
A sextet of ships sailed into the harbor now, preceding the bulk of the double fleet. These were the flagships of D’zan and Undutu, flying the Sword and Tree banner and the standard of the Feathered Serpent. Behind each flagship came an escort of two ships each. The remainder of the allied armadas dropped anchor a league from shore, effectively blockading Khyrei and its single port.
Tyro saw D’zan standing in the prow of his lead ship Kingspear. The Yaskathan insignia fluttered on the billowing sail above him. The gleam of his silver mail was as brilliant as the scarlet cloak rippling from his shoulders. Tyro recognized the hilt of the greatsword strapped to the Yaskathan King’s back. That weapon had served D’zan well during the campaign to take back his throne eight years past. Its seasoned blade had ultimately taken the life of the Usurper Elhathym. Tyro felt a tinge of regret that he would not see that fine blade in action against the forces of Khyrei. He had trained D’zan to wield the weapon and had looked forward to greeting his old friend on the field of battle, once Ianthe’s navy had been smashed. Instead they would meet at the table of the Slave King, blades kept firmly in their scabbards.
Alongside the Kingspear came the Bird of War, forerunner of the Mumbazan fleet. Standing proud in its forecastle was Undutu, youngest of the assembled monarchs, a splendid sight in pearly scale mail, ostrich-plumed helmet, and cloak of white and gold. His ebony face gleamed handsome and bright beneath the peaked helm. He clutched a royal spear hung with a myriad of brilliant feathers, and the Feathered Serpent insignia coiled across the breast of his hauberk. At his side stood a man in a white robe with a staff of brown wood, an advisor or court wizard, Tyro presumed. His headdress was a mass of crimson plumage that matched perfectly his cloak of feathers. Above the flagships soared a golden eagle identical to the one Sharadza had been yesterday. It glided above the fat sails, heading ever inland, guiding the two Kings’ vessels between the black hulls of abandoned Khyrein ships. There could be no doubt that the eagle was Iardu. The Shaper had gone to greet the armada with news of the Slave King’s ascension.
Tyro wondered if D’zan and Undutu would be as frustrated with the turn of events as he was. Surely young Undutu had been looking for a chance to prove his manhood in this war that was not to be. As for D’zan, he would be a father soon, so this was his last true chance at martial glory, an opportunity to set his mark on history. In that, he shared Tyro’s ambition. The Sword King was certain he could win the southern monarchs to his side as he had done previously. Perhaps the black city would still fall. Vireon was Lord of the Giantlands, but he had no right to decide the policies of Uurz, Mumbaza, or Yaskatha. Now that the bulk of the Khyrein military had been lost or humbled, he would no longer need the Giants to take this broken kingdom.
Let the Giant-King take his Udvorg and march back to his frigid lands.
The flagships dropped anchor and the Southern Kings prepared to disembark, each with a small train of mailed guards. Undutu’s feathery advisor walked beside him. Tyro supposed he must be a personage of great power. Then he recognized the dark face with its shrewd eyes. This potentate was none other than Khama, famed wizard of Mumbaza. Tyro had met him briefly on the trek to Yaskatha during the time of D’zan’s crusade. Khama dressed like a Lord of Shepherds, but his reputation as a legendary force for peace preceded him. How he must have tried to talk Undutu out of this war. And how pleased he must be that there was so little battle and carnage for his young King to endure. Tyro knew full well that Khama would back Iardu’s call to end the war before it had begun. Whatever imaginary enemy the Shaper had dreamed up to take the place of Gammir and Ianthe, the Emperor of Uurz could not guess.
Vireon and Tyro dismounted as the Southern Kings descended the gangplanks of their ships and joined the assemblage on the dockside. Tyro’s blood raced like fire in his veins. Here now stood all the Kings of the civilized world. To count the Slave King among them was difficult for him, but he had little choice. This soft-spoken, simple-minded field worker had risen to their level, buoyed by his army of fanged beasts and underfed slaves. The King of New Khyrei had not a drop of royal blood in his body. Even when Dairon had replaced the Old Regime in Uurz, he at least held the honor of being cousin to the old Emperor.
What sort of King would a risen slave be? Tyrant or Fool?
Tyro embraced first D’zan, then Undutu, exchanging his forced smile for their genuine ones. Vireon greeted them warmly, and the Slave King bowed before both of them. The golden eagle dropped out of the sky to perch near Sharadza. A flash of brilliance and Iardu stood where the bird had landed, a blue flame glowing on the breast of his vermilion robe.
The Shaper himself bowed to the assembled Kings. “His Majesty Tong the Avenger, King of New Khyrei, has prepared a pavilion for our meeting,” proclaimed the wizard. “While his people labor to extinguish the last of the flames ignited by their liberation, he hopes to honor you with wine and delicacies from his fractured palace.”
Iardu guided the procession away from the docks to a great tent spreading high above a long table of cherry wood. It sat heavy with steaming meats, sliced fruits, braised vegetables, green cheeses, and decanters of ancient wine. The King’s pavilion stood at the base of the city’s northern wall and directly to the east of the main gate. The massive portal stood open to an endless stream of freed men and families. The messy process of redistributing the wealth and goods of an entire city had begun, with little guidance from the Slave King.
The same slaves who had cooked such foods for Ianthe now cooked for the Slave King. Tyro found it nauseating. He shook his head at Tong’s lack of language skills. This Man of the Fields knew only the tongue of Khyrei, so Iardu must speak for him. This troubled Tyro deeply, but he said nothing of it. He saw the same worry in the eyes of Mendices. Vireon’s face remained mysterious, his eyes like black pearls behind clouded glass. Were they the eyes of a Giant or a Man?
The five Kings and their followers topped a gentle slope and entered the shade of the pavilion. Tyro sighed and sat himself in the nearest of the great chairs. He watched the eyeless ones mill about and was relieved when they did not join their human King at the table. His stomach churned again, and he reached for a jeweled goblet. Sharadza herself responded by pouring his cup full of amber Yaskathan wine, most likely robbed by Khyrein raiders from some innocent tradeship. In any case, it lingered cool and refreshing on his tongue.
The Kings took their places about the board with the Slave King at its head. Directly across from Tong, at the table’s opposite end, sat Vireon with Dahrima at his right and Varda at his left. Of course the Man-Giant would choose that place of honor, directly facing the King of New Khyrei. Tyro bristled, held his tongue, and quaffed more wine.
The reign of the Slave King was so new that he had
not even a banner to hang at his back. Instead, the ocean gleamed aquamarine beyond the ornate wings of his chair; the crown of obsidian and rubies sparkled on his brow. Unlike his boyish advisors, the King of New Khyrei had been scrubbed clean of soot, grime, and blood. His flesh, touched by the daily sun of plantations, was slightly less pale than the average Khyrein, but his black almondine eyes were unmistakable. He carried silence in those eyes, a quiet wisdom where Tyro had expected to see only insolent savagery.
Tyro enjoyed a broad view of the southern fleets, as well as the crowded harbor. He sat across from D’zan and Undutu. Khama took a seat at Undutu’s elbow while Mendices joined Tyro on his left. A pack of the eyeless ones sat on their haunches in a protective crescent some small distance behind Tong the Avenger. His human advisors went off to supervise some function of rebuilding or properly looting the city.
D’zan was the first King to speak. “Well, this was a quick war indeed.” He grinned, and others caught his humor. Tyro had no patience for it.
“Yet a long time in coming,” said Iardu.
Heads nodded as cups were filled.
“This heat is oppressive,” said Tyro, wiping at his brow. “Let’s get on with it.”
Iardu eyed him curiously with flashing eyes. “I have assembled you Kings North and South here to reveal a great secret. For the first time in history, the rulers of six kingdoms have come together in peace. This is quite an achievement, something your ancestors would have thought impossible. The time for warring among ourselves is past. Old feuds, lingering grudges, and ancient hatreds… these are to be cast aside. The world has come together in this place of rebirth. Let us drink to Peace.” The Shaper raised his cup and the guests followed his example. Tyro raised his own chalice, but set it down again without drinking.
“You speak what we already know, Wizard,” said Tyro. “Tell us now this great secret of yours.”
“In good time,” Iardu said. “First I would tell you the story of Tong the Liberator, King of New Khyrei. Since he does not yet speak the northern dialects, I will be his tongue.”
The wizard spoke of Tong’s life under the lash, of his personal tragedy, his flight into the jungle, and his bonding with the Sydathians. Eyebrows raised in wonder as he spoke of the underground city where the eyeless ones kept their own kingdom. He told the Kings of the slave rebellion led by Tong, which spread like hungry flames to a hundred thousand slaves. He spoke briefly of a sorcerous battle with Gammir and Ianthe, which the tyrants lost.
Tyro doubted the truth of Iardu’s words when he said they were gone. “Are they dead, then?” he asked. “Both Emperor and Empress?”
Iardu responded with a moment of silence before he answered. “As much as sorcerers can ever truly die, yes, they are dead. Yet even if their deceased state does not prove permanent, their grip on Khyrei is gone forever. The black city is no longer theirs. The institution of slavery, which served as the bedrock of their reign and the reigns of those before them, is no more.”
“It is plain to see that you have done this thing,” said Khama, his first words since arriving. The ocean breeze ruffled the gaudy feathers of his headdress, and he waved brown fingers when he talked. “The Shaper has once again influenced the affairs of Men and Giants, molding them to suit his needs.”
All eyes fell upon Iardu. “Khama, my old friend,” smiled the Shaper, “as an isolationist, I know it must seem that way to you. Yet I did not achieve these ends on my own. Nor are they solely for my own good. In fact, quite the contrary.”
“So why have you intervened and stolen this war from us?” asked Tyro.
“Please,” said Sharadza, looking at him with eyes like emeralds. “Let him speak.”
Iardu took a deep breath and rubbed his silvery beard. “If anything I have merely given your kingdoms the gift of peace. Yes, I worked to achieve certain ends. When you hear what I have to say, you will understand why I have done so.” He stood then, walking about the table in a slow and purposeful gait.
“You are the Council of Kings,” he said. “You represent the whole of your world, yet you do not know that this world you rule is part of a greater whole.”
“Spare us your riddles,” said Vireon. His face was grave. Sharadza shot him a glance of concern, and he seemed to soften.
“To put it simply,” said Iardu, “there is another world on the opposite side of our own. And it is coming to claim us.”
“Another riddle,” said Undutu. His black arms had grown thick with muscle. His golden armlets were the very likeness of coiling cobras. Tyro had last seen him as a skinny boy sitting on a throne of opals that was far too large for him. Now the young King was a grown warrior. The calluses and scars of martial training lay upon his knuckles and forearms. His golden cutlass in a scabbard crusted with topaz and pearls was not a thing meant strictly for show. It was a killing tool. His voice rang deep, no trace of the boy remaining in it. “Do you speak of the Southern Isles… or the Jades?”
“No, Majesty,” said Iardu. “Perhaps Sharadza will explain the true nature of the world.”
Sharadza did not stand, but she took a pomegranate from an ivory bowl and held it above the table. She explained that the true world was made in the shape of this purple fruit. That it was a round thing, with two separate hemispheres separated by vast expanses of ocean. “Never have the two sides of this sphere met or mingled,” she finished. “Until now.”
Her eyes fell upon the pacing Iardu.
“A threat greater than any war in history approaches us,” said Iardu. “Only by uniting the whole of your forces can you hope to survive what is to come.”
“What is to come?” D’zan echoed the wizard’s words.
“Invasion,” said Iardu. The Kings and their advisors stiffened. Mendices glanced at Tyro. Was that fear or disbelief in his eyes? A little of both.
“You speak contrary to the wisdom of our greatest scribes, historians, and explorers,” said Tyro. “Show us your proof of this outrageous claim.”
“I will do you one better,” said Iardu. “I will show you the future. It is within my power to catch a glimpse of What Is To Come.” He spread his hands and a cloud of golden mist sprang from his fingertips to hang over the table. “Look hard into this golden cloud,” said Iardu. “Look with your eyes, your minds, and your hearts. See the truth of what approaches.”
The sparkling cloud shifted and writhed with contrasting colors. Shapes moved and gleamed behind a veil of luminous vapor. All eyes at the table were transfixed by it. Now the golden curtains parted and Tyro felt he stood before a great window, gazing into some part of the world that was far from the shores of Khyrei. Images came clearly into focus as he watched.
Between a wide-open sea of dazzling green and a sky full of scattered clouds, a fleet of strangely made ships moved across the world. Their sharp keels did not touch the waters below, yet the wild winds filled their sails of blue, green, red, and violet. On the sides of each lean sky-galleon, two more sails hung horizontally, wafting up and down like great featherless wings. An unkown sigil, sharp and heavy-lined, lay upon the sail of each aerial vessel. Men in baroque armor stalked about the decks, faces hidden behind slitted visors, the implements of war gleaming in their mailed fists. Spearmen stood in a shipbound forest of upright shafts, their blades ornate and barbed, the inventions of master blacksmiths. Each of the vast soaring warships carried an entire legion of grim warriors. And there came thousands of the impossible vessels.
The host numbered in the millions. Their armor gleamed in the dull silver way that only steel can shine. Their swords were man-length affairs of intricate hilts and cobalt blades. The brightness of their shields dazzled the eye, and the sheer numbers of their ranks pricked Tyro’s heart with awe and fear. No longer did he gaze into a golden cloud of vapor, but he looked at some very real part of the world whose existence he had never guessed.
Among the sails, the shields, and the glittering corselets, one symbol united the multitude of exotic warriors and the
ir incredible skyfaring galleons: the stylized sigil of a square-jawed face with flaming eyes. The visage of some terrible War God, the sovereign who drove the monolithic armada across the circumference of the world to conquer in his name.
“Zyung.” Vireon breathed the name quietly, his eyes still lost in the glowing vision.
Then came a second wave of airborne entities, a flock of winged lizards with tapering skulls and gilded beaks like the prows of ramming vessels. Upon their narrow backs sat more of the armored warriors, these bearing lances and longblades. Twenty thousand flying reptiles at least, each with two clawed legs like those of mighty hawks. They screeched and flapped and filled the bowl of the world in the wake of the great armada.
Tyro tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry as a bone. His fingers felt across the table for his goblet, and he guzzled wine without taking his eyes off the vision. Here was an invasion force that made his triple alliance seem a boy’s collection of toy figurines for playing in his father’s garden. Here was a conquering horde that terrified even Iardu in its sheer vastness.
Here was the other side of the world. It was real.
“These soldiers are the Manslayers of Zyung,” said Iardu. “More ruthless and ready to die for their God-King than any force in all of antiquity. They live only to serve Zyung and to slay in his name. By their might, second only to his own, Zyung has forged an empire whose size encompasses every realm, province, and island of the far hemisphere.
“The God-King rules half the world, Majesties. And he comes now for the other half. What you cannot see here are the many sorcerers who also serve him. They ride in those skyborne ships, the Holy Dreadnoughts, each of which is larger than our greatest trireme. He is not only King of all the nations he surveys, he is their living God. His empire is built on faith and fear, and it is far older than any of your kingdoms.
Seven Kings bots-2 Page 38
