Seven Princes bots-1

by John R. Fultz

  A scream rose in the bleeding man’s throat, but Olthacus’ next sword-blow took off his head. D’zan lay paralyzed and bloody, barely conscious of what was happening.

  Then the Stone’s voice filled the chamber, shocking him into alertness. “Up, D’zan! Run for the hall! Call the guards!”

  D’zan rolled out of bed, nearly vomiting. He landed atop the headless, leaking carcass. The clash of metal met his ears from the other side of the bed, and he glanced up to see Olthacus kill another man. Like the headless one, he wore tight-fitting garments of black silk, his face obscured by a smooth mask of ebony.

  The dead man’s knife lay on the floor, and D’zan grabbed it. From hilt to point it was carved of a single jade piece. The blade was smeared with purple flakes, some kind of venom. He ran for the door as Olthacus screamed.

  Two spearmen rushed in to protect the bloodstained Prince. Their corselets gleamed silver-gray in the moa lay in tonlight.

  The Stone sank his great sword point first into the belly of a third assassin, and the man died without a sound. Three dead men lay across the chamber, and Olthacus stood near the open window, his hands now empty and dripping red.

  More guards rushed through the door, but there were no more assailants. The Stone had killed them all. Someone pulled D’zan out of the room, but he pushed his way back inside. Olthacus sat on the couch where he had been sleeping. The green hilt of an assassin’s knife protruded from the big man’s chest just above his heart. His sword lay across the chamber, still embedded in the body of his last opponent. The Stone’s mouth was open, and he gasped for air like a landed fish.

  D’zan shoved his way through the guards. The Stone’s eyes focused on the ceiling, ignoring the poisoned blade protruding from his chest.

  “Olthacus!” D’zan cried, but the Stone remained silent. His eyes fixed on the patterns of the ceiling, swirling traceries in the shape of grape vines spreading from wall to wall. D’zan grabbed the jade hilt and pulled the dagger free. Someone announced that the royal physician was on his way.

  D’zan shook the Stone by his shoulders. The veins in the warrior’s neck and face stood out starkly purple. His eyes were orbs of cloudy glass.

  D’zan shouted his name again, but the Stone never moved. He sat as still as his namesake on the blood-spattered couch in the blood-drenched chamber.

  Even when the physician arrived with bandage, elixir, and stitching, the Stone’s wide eyes remained fixed on the golden grape-leaf ceiling.

  They stayed that way until the physician’s gentle fingertips pulled them shut.

  4

  Evening in Udurum

  Thousands of books lined the shelves of King Vod’s library, and hundreds of scrolls from every kingdom known to man. The pelts of wild beasts hung between the towering bookshelves, and the fanged skull of a great Serpent lay on a central pedestal beneath a dome of transparent quartz. A dozen torches flickered in sconces like the yawning mouths of gargoyles. The room was spacious enough for a Giant to comfortably peruse the shelves, but Giants did not read. Only their shamans knew the magic of capturing ideas into runes, and all their shamans were dead for two decades now. Sharadza sat in her father’s reading chair and pored over tome after tome, finding only frustration in the musty pages.

  She sighed as she closed the most recent volume, re-clasping its lock of bronze and staring at its embossed cover. If The Codex of Ancient Knowledge did not contain the secrets for which she searched, what hope did she have of finding it anywhere else? She had read at least a hundred such works in the month since her father went marching westward to give himself to the Sea Queen. Her mother made daily offerings to the Four Gods, Earth, Sky, Sea, and Sun, but Sharadza held little faith in her mother’s religion. Queen Shaira had learned her faith during a childhood in distant Shar Dni. Sharawiddza could never admit it to her mother, but she did not believe at all in those faceless Gods.

  Unseen powers of earth and air would not help her father, any more than his army of men and giants could. This was a matter of deepest sorcery, a curse that haunted Vod from before the birth of his children. The only way to fight it was through sorcery. In all the tales she’d ever read in the history texts, in all the legends told her by Fellow, even in the tales of traveling singers who visited Udurum, there was never any story of a sorcerer defeated by anything less than a more powerful sorcery. Her father was a sorcerer of legendary reputation – he rebuilt the crumbled city, slew the Lord of Serpents, and brought green life to the Old Desert – but he had given himself over to this curse and would not fight it. He was a man of honor, and that she understood. But she was not bound by the curse. If she could only learn sorcery, she might aid him in his time of need. She might defy the vengeance of the Sea Queen.

  Had Vod reached the ocean shore yet? She checked the date on a nearby calendar. Any day now Vod’s chariot would come upon the Cryptic Sea, and he would cast himself into the lightless depths. Time was running out. Unless… unless his magic prevented him from drowning. Would he walk the sea bottom for leagues until he reached the Sea Queen’s aqueous palace? If the sea itself did not rob his life instantly, there might still be time for her to learn. Time to call up some dark power and send it to redeem her father.

  She lowered her head to the dusty cover of the book, and tears welled in her eyes. She was tired of weeping; she felt dried up inside. But there was nothing in this damnable library to tell her, nothing that opened her mind to the secrets of sorcery. Why did her father keep all these books if they had nothing to do with his sorcery? Her grief turned suddenly to anger. She tossed the heavy book to the floor and kicked over her chair as she stood and wiped at her cheeks. This place was useless. Her brothers might accept that their father was doomed, but she would never believe it.

  Damn them for being so chained to his will! Their sense of honor prevents them from defying him, even to save his life…

  She called for a servant to darken the library, gathered up her cloak of purple wool, and stalked into the hallway. Tadarus and her mother were in the council chambers meeting with members of the giant and human populations, discussing taxes, tariffs, and other meaningless minutiae. Let them waste their time with such trivial notions; she would not sit and pretend that her father was not approaching death at this very moment. Signaling her personal escort, two soldiers by the names of Dorus and Mitri, she exited the palace through the lesser gate. The two men gathered up their shields and followed, but knew she was in no mood to wait so left behind their winged helms. She could not enter the city proper without their presence, or a single Giant guard. But the Giants drew far too much attention. She preferred these man-sized guardians; the fact that they were dumber than giants was a plus.

  Evening in the City of Men and Giants was pleasant. Orange sunlight warmed the black stone of the towers. The lanes were dry today, and the sky was blue, filled with scattered cotton clouds. Since Vod had departed, there was hardly any rain, and no storms at all. It appeared that an age of warmth and sunlight had fallen on New Udurum, but Sharadza knew it for what it was: a drought caused by her father’s absence. The weather of Vod’s kingd CVodNewom had always reflected his moods. Now an absence boiled in the azure sky, a smothering lack that nobody seemed to feel but her. Laughter boomed from open doors, and the drinking songs of Giants rang inside vast taverns as she walked the Street of Grains. Such jollity only made her more angry. The entire city should be in mourning, but life seemed to go on as if Vod had never gone off to die.

  “Majesty, would you rather we call up a coach for you?” asked Mitri, clomping along beside her in bronze-plated boots.

  She shook her head. She didn’t feel like reminding him that he wasn’t supposed to talk to her. Or that doing so while she was in this mood was even less of a good idea. She did not want to say anything cruel, so she remained silent. They turned onto the Avenue of Legends, where the crowds were thicker. Along this wide thoroughfare the number of taverns, wine shops, and entertainment venues increased dramatica
lly. Several Giant-sized drinking houses rumbled with mirth, although some of the human taverns grew even louder. Jugglers, musicians, and street performers lined the avenue. Peddlers pushed carts full of sweetmeats, apparel, or souvenirs in the form of figurines shaped like Giants. Ladies of the evening stood in doorways or windows, flaunting their fleshy wares. When visitors came from the southern lands, as they often did, they flocked to this wanton part of the city. Sharadza did not like it here, but it was the one place where she was sure to find Fellow.

  She entered a plaza hemmed by enormous bronze statues of heroes (Giants) lifting spear, axe, and shield to the sky. This was the Square of Storytellers. A dozen groups of men, women, and children, and even a few Giants, gathered around the various tale-spinners here. Most of the orators stood on low wooden platforms, some on the bases of the great statues themselves, telling the stories of whichever hero loomed above.

  Fellow sat on the rim of a marble fountain at the center of the square, beneath the pinions of a winged horse bubbling water from its muzzle. Fellow’s gaudy robes set him apart from the general crowd. Those gathered about him wore the simple garb of farmhands, laborers, artisans, and craftsmen. A handful of foreigners bore the sand-yellow garb and jeweled turbans of Shar Dni. This was a good crowd for Fellow. His upturned hat was full of bronze and silver coins, and even a sealed bottle of southern vintage. Sharadza bade her guards stay back as she crept to join Fellow’s audience – she did not wish to disturb his story or those enraptured by it. Nevertheless, the old man’s eyes turned to meet hers immediately. He always knew when she came into his plaza, as if he had a sixth sense for comely Princesses. She forced a wan smile at him as he continued telling his story.

  “So the Men of Diiranor came to the lost city of Maethos, and since they had lost their King, they were determined to avenge him. A great battle began as a horde of Ancient Terrors crawled up from below the broken walls. It is said this battle lasted for three days, and its heroes were young Tagyl and his cousin Gyrid, whose swords spilled the blood of a thousand Terrors. So I will tell you of these two heroes and how they liberated the lost city from evil… if you return here tomorrow when the sun sets.”

  The crowd moaned and pleaded for more while Sharadza grinned at their backs. Fellow always did this; in fact, every storyteller did. It seemed the audience forgot every single time and always tried to cajole or bribe the teller into continuing the tale. But Fellow waved th Clloencem away with smiles and yawns, saying he was an old man and could only tell one bit of a saga per evening. “Besides,” he told some of the younger listeners, “if you are respectful to the Gods, the rest of the story might come to you in your dreams tonight.” Sharadza doubted if this ever actually happened, but it soothed the passions of disappointed children.

  The crowd dispersed, and Sharadza approached Fellow. He emptied the jingling contents of his hat into a shoulder pouch. The bottle of wine he kept in hand… It would not last long. “Princess!” he greeted her with a slight bow. “Our next meeting was to be tomorrow at midday… or did I forget?”

  “You never forget, I’d bet on it,” Sharadza said. “I wish to speak in private. Is there some place?”

  Fellow motioned toward Dorus and Mitri. “What about the royal goons?” he asked.

  “I am forced to endure their protection,” she said. “But I can order them to sit away from us that we may talk.”

  Fellow nodded, sat his patchwork hat atop his white head, and led her across the way toward a small tavern. Above the door hung the image of a silver bird perched on a burning branch. “I have a standing table in the Molten Sparrow,” he said. They walked down a set of narrow stairs into a small deserted common room. Certainly no Giant could fit in here, and any other day she would have laughed at Dorus and Mitri as they struggled to squeeze themselves through the narrow entrance. She handed Mitri a gold coin and ordered them to drink on the other side of the room. They knew well enough her temper not to argue with her.

  Fellow and she sat at a curtained booth in the back. “Best leave the curtain open so they can see me,” she advised. Fellow ordered two clean cups for the wine he’d just earned. He studied the bottle, popped the cork and sniffed the vintage. “Aaaahhh… this one is from Yaskatha,” he said. “Someone was feeling generous today.”

  Sharadza did not wait for the wine to be poured. She had waited long enough.

  “Fellow, you are known to tell stories about sorcerers.”

  Fellow poured them both a generous portion of the deep red vintage. The cups were bronze, but Sharadza’s was studded with imitation garnets. The innkeeper knew he had special company and this was the best he could do on short notice. He came forward to offer more services, but Fellow waved him away.

  “You have heard a few such tales from me,” he said before taking his first sip of the Yaskathan wine. He closed his eyes a moment, savoring the flavor. Sharadza ignored her own cup.

  “Have you any stories – any at all – about how these sorcerers gained their terrible powers?”

  Fellow pondered the question, swirling the wine, inhaling its bouquet. “How does a Giant become a Giant? Or a man become a man? Why ask such an obscure question?”

  Sharadza sighed and tasted the drink. It was biting, but excellent. The sunlight of a distant land had worked its magic on these grapes and cast a delicious spell. She licked her lips.

  “I have been over and over the texts in my father’s collection,” she said. “There is nothing there that gives me any clue to his learning magic. Are you implying that he was… born a sorcerer?”

  Fellow drank again, slowly, transfixed by the sun magic. “He was born a Giant, and Giants have sorcery in their very bones. It swims in their blood. Some say it was sorcery that created them.”

  “Not the Gods, then?” she said.

  “Who says the Gods created Giants? Or Men, for that matter?”

  “My mother.”

  Fellow smiled. “The Gods of Shar Dni are credited with mighty works, as are all the Gods of Men. The truth might be more evasive than priests and sages suspect. The world is a series of stories, Princess, and the tellers are often forgotten.”

  “Do you know how my father learned sorcery?”

  The old man stared at her, dark pupils fixed on her green ones. One hand stroked his pale mustache. Cheap rings of bronze and glass lined his bony fingers.

  “He made a bargain,” Fellow whispered, “with someone who knew far more than he did. It was a bargain he regretted even to this day, I’m told.”

  “Who was it?” she asked. “I want to make such a bargain.”

  “No,” he said, drinking deeper now. “You do not.”

  “You said Giants were created from sorcery. Well, my father was a Giant, and my father created me.”

  “He and your mother,” Fellow corrected.

  “Some say my mother is a sorceress. But I don’t believe it.”

  “Nor should you,” said Fellow. “Your mother is a fine woman, a brave Queen, a heroine to her people. Now she bears the burden of rulership like a bronze yoke on her shoulders. It is no easy task to rule a kingdom.”

  “Answer my question,” Sharadza said. “I love my mother, but I’m not made in her image. There is more of my father in me.” She picked up the bronze cup and squeezed it hard. The metal crumpled like paper in her fist. Wine ran across the table, dripping onto the floor like dark blood. “I have his strength… or some of it. Like Tadarus and Vireon.”

  “You believe that you might possess some of his sorcery.”

  “I know I do,” she said. “And if I am right I can save him, Fellow! I can deliver him from the Sea Queen’s curse!”

  Fellow said nothing.

  “Can you help me? Will you?”

  Fellow drank deep, emptying his cup, then wiped his stained lip with a sleeve of triple colors. “You cannot learn sorcery from a book,” he said. “No more than you can learn strength from a book Ch f of. Or compassion. Or love.”

  She stared at him
. She sensed it now… this storyteller knew the path she must walk.

  “You already have strength, compassion, and love,” said Fellow. “To master sorcery you must live it, as you live these other things. Because you have the first three, I think you may be able to gain the fourth.”

  She smiled. Here was what she had been searching for in all those moth-eaten old books. She was at the threshold of a new existence. Her skin tingled.

  “Are you willing to accept the pain of Knowledge?” he asked. “For there will be pain.”

  “For my father’s sake, I am ready.”

  “You may not save your father, even if you master the arts of which we speak. The Sea Queen is ancient and powerful.”

  “And my father may already be dead,” she whispered. “I know this.”

  “Are you willing not only to succeed… but to fail?” he asked.

  “If I never try, then failure is certain.”

  Fellow poured himself more Yaskathan wine. “Another cup?” he asked. She shook her head. He drained the cup in a single draft, then sighed and leaned his head back against the wall.

  “First you must leave the city,” he said. “And none can see you go. They will search for you, and your mother’s heart will break.”

  “I will leave her a letter,” said Sharadza. “She will understand.”

  “She will not,” said Fellow, shaking his head. “Never.”

  “Where must I go?”

  “North,” he said. “Into the woods.”

  She could hardly believe the hot spark of hope that burned inside her where cold gloom had lingered for weeks. She trusted Fellow, and she would follow him anywhere for a chance to save her father.

  “Alone,” said Fellow.

  The Queen of New Udurum received her brother’s son not in the grand throne room, but in a smaller and more intimate hall. Tapestries of velvet covered the walls with scenes of Giants battling leviathans and toppling mountains. Fangodrel found the Uduru’s ancestor worship boring and offensive. How many of these Giant heroes truly existed, and how many were the figments of dim imaginations? The Giants were dying off anyway, so it made sense they would look backward instead of forward. They had a history but no real future. The dumb brutes were being replaced in their own kingdom and they did not even realize it.