Seven Princes bots-1

by John R. Fultz

  Tyro stroked the light stubble on his chin. “You send him because you believe he will gain Shaira’s sympathy.”

  Dairon smiled. “Now you begin to use that head of yours.”

  “If Udurum stands with us, and Shar Dni, will we be prepared for war?”

  Dairon leaned back in his cushions. Black clouds had swallowed the sun, and a curtain of cold rain fell beyond the veranda roof. A slight spray of mist cooled Tyro’s skin. The city now lay in the shadow of the booming clouds. Lightning kissed the distant fields, turning black to emerald for a brief moment.

  “War is a test for which no nation can ever be fully prepared,” said the Emperor. “But I have seen the Uduru on the march. I have seen the spectacle of a thousand Giants striding across the desert, heard the thunder of their feet and the clashing of their steel. They nearly brought down the walls of Uurz before you were born. As it was, they conquered the city in three days. Only Vod’s intervention saved my life and thousands more who would have been crushed into dust.”

  “I’ve read the stories, Father,” said Tyro. “I know the tale of your rise to power.”

  “It was Vod who made me Emperor,” said Dairon. “He had the city in the palm of his great hand, Tyro. He could have kept it, smashed it, or ruled it forever. But he gave it to me. Someday I will give it to you.”

  “But Vod is gone.”

  “So they say. But men have said such things before.”

  “Men say the Giants are a dying race.”

  “That may be… but they are long-lived. No longer do they breed, it’s true.”

  Thunder roared above the palace, and Dairon rose stiffly, walking back into his chambers. Servants rushed to prepare a fresh seat for him, and Tyro followed him. He smelled the water of a scented bath, saw the steam of hot water.

  Dairon placed a hand on his son’s broad shoulder.

  “I know you wish to prove your manhood on the field of battle. But trust an old warrior who loves you. The Uduru are essential. We cannot face the combined might of Khyrei and Yaskatha without them. There is also the question of Mumbaza… but we’ll discuss this later.”

  Tyro nodded his understanding, and Dairon embraced him, slapping his back. He turned away and servants came to remove his royal vestments.

  “Let me lead the cohort, Father,” Tyro said. “Let me accompany D’zan to the Giant-City.”

  The Emperor raised his gray-flecked eyebrows. “Why?”

  “Because we could not protect him under this roof. We owe him.”

  Dairon sighed. His bare sunken chest was bronzed by the suns of many desert treks. Tyro glanced at the familiar scars along his father’s ribs and stomach – reminders of old wounds, mementos of battles won with no small cost. Once Dairon had been a huge well-muscled man. In his old age those wounds still troubled him, but Tyro never heard him complain.

  “Go then,” Dairon said. “Speak with Captain Jyfard. Keep D’zan safe… and your brother.”

  “Lyrilan?” asked Tyro. “Why does Lyrilan go to Udurum?”

  “Why else?” answered Dairon. “He’s writing a book.”

  Tyro laughed. Dairon joined him.

  Before servants led him off to the bathing chamber, Dairon’s face grew serious once again.

  “Watch over them, Tyro.”

  Tyro bowed before his father.

  When he looked up, the opulent chamber was empty but for servants darting about the pillars and preparing the Emperor’s dinner raiment.

  Tyro walked back So w Em to the veranda, letting the cool air and rain-mist wash his face. It was too long since he’d last seen the City of Men and Giants. Six years at least. He remembered the Uduru in their armor of black and violet. Their greatswords and axes. Their hammers of stone and steel, their laughter like the very thunder that shook the earth. He had seen a hundred of them at most during that trip. He tried to imagine a thousand of them marching into battle.

  He smiled, watching the storm.

  If there must be war, let it come, he thought. I will lead these Giants into the south, and all the glory of myth will flow in our sweat and our blood. We will crush the Usurper of Yaskatha and the Bitch of Khyrei. Lyrilan will set it all down on the pages of history .

  He closed his eyes and listened to the sweet song of thunder.

  7

  Lessons

  Sharadza found the cave just before sunrise. The night was still cold and full of glittering stars. She wore a cloak of sable fur and clothes made for riding, though she went on foot. A warm fire flickered in the depths of the dark cleft. Halfway up the side of an overgrown hill the cave sat trimmed in vines and hanging blossoms. Her breath puffed out in clouds of white fog as she crushed briar and bramble beneath her boots. The moon was only half full, and she’d nearly lost her way among the twisted rootscapes of the Uyga trees. But it seemed Fellow’s directions had served her well after all.

  Slipping out the window of her palace room that night had been easy. Her guards had no reason to believe she was not still inside and sleeping fitfully. They had not seen the rope she smuggled from the stables, or how she shimmied down its length onto a parapet leading to the palace’s outer wall. Clinging from the top of that wall by her fingers, she dropped twenty feet to land gracefully on the thick grass of an exterior garden. She kept her face hidden in the folds of her cloak as she crept through the sleeping city. The booming voices of Giants in distant taverns were the only sounds except the barking of stray dogs. At Udurum’s main gate two gold coins in the gatemaster’s hand kept him from asking questions. Then she was out of the city and heading north into the woods, the opposite direction of the wide Southern Road.

  In the morning Mitri and Dorus would enter her chambers with a bevy of serving girls and discover the rolled parchment upon her empty pillow. One of them would read it before it made its way into her mother’s hands, even though it was addressed to Queen Shaira. Her mother would be furious. The note was brief:

  Dear Mother,

  I’ve gone to rescue Father. I have help and wisdom to guide me. Do not worry, for the blood of the Uduru runs in my veins. The journey may be long, but I will return. Please do not punish the guards or servants; they had no part in my leaving.

  Your Loving Daughter,

  Sharadza

  Already she regretted not writing more. But what was there to say? She could not speak of her plan to seek sorcery; her mother would call her foolish and naive. She already called Fellow a contemptible fool. Shaira never had a taste for adventure; she was born and bred in a gentler, more civilized land. But Sharadza was her father’s daughter. She thrilled to stories of his youthful exploits, when she had been able to pry them from his lips. She read the sagas of Kings and heroes and wizards in the royal library. She practiced riding and archery, disdaining the feminine arts her mother impressed upon her. Shaira had nicknamed her “Little Uduri” – tiny Giantess. Giant women were hardly any different from their male counterparts, excepting their physiques. The Uduri were as wild and foolhardy, as mirthful and stubborn, as quick to wrath and prone to violence as any of their menfolk. They too had fought against the Serpent-Father when Old Udurum fell, and their boldness inspired Sharadza.

  Morning sunlight limned the hilltop with orange flame, and the frosted slope twinkled as Sharadza approached the cave. Behind her the forest stretched in all directions, a mix of Uyga and lesser trees extending to the horizon. She had walked all night to find this grotto, but she was not tired. The thrill of the unknown sparkled along her scalp. She climbed the last few spans, her heart beating wildly. Beneath the cloak, her hand closed about the hilt of a long dagger.

  A shadow darkened the cave mouth, silhouetted by the fire’s glow. A figure stood there, hulking and dark of aspect… a great bear rearing on its haunches or a Giant waking to greet the morning. She could not tell. Sunlight broke over the hill’s summit, blinding her.

  “Come, child,” said an ancient voice. “This is the place you seek.”

  Sharadza stepped
upon a rocky lip to stand directly before the cave mouth. An old woman stood before her, a withered crone. Her frail limbs were wrapped in a bearskin tunic and her white hair was tied into long braids. Feathers and the skulls of tiny animals hung from her pale locks. Her face was a wrinkled mass, toothless with wide cheekbones. Her eyes gleamed bright as the morning.

  She raised a bony hand toward Sharadza, who had not moved. She took the Princess’s hand gently and drew her into the cavern. A small fire was the only source of light, so Sharadza could not see how deep the crone’s domain went into the hill. Bronze talismans and woven rugs hung from the walls, along with copper pots, knives, and various implements of survival.

  “Sit,” said the crone, and she motioned toward the fire. A pot of steaming liquid hung from a spit over the flame. Sharadza did as she was bid, and the crone poured steaming tea into a wooden cup for her. The Princess bowed, and blew on the cup, hesitating to drink.

  “Fellow sent me,” Sharadza said. She felt utterly foolish. The crone knew this already, for had she not greeted her upon sight? What else should she say? Who was this hermitess?

  “I know who you are and why you have come,” said the crone. “There is no need to explain. Drink…”

  Sharadza drank the hot tea and a pleasant warmth spread throughout her body.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I am who you need me to be,” said the crone. Her eyes glimmered like fire opals.

  Sharadza drank again, and a blanket of calm settled over her.

  “You seek sorcery,” said the crone.

  Sharadza nodded.

  “This journey changes forever the one who takes it,” said the crone. “Are you prepared to become someone new? Will you accept the death of your old self, so that your new self may be born?”

  Sharadza thought of her father, walking alone across the bottom of the sea, wearing the chains of the Sea Queen or languishing in some deep coral dungeon.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then finish the cup,” said the crone.

  Sharadza drank and asked another question. “How is it that a human woman lives so deep in the woods of Uduria?”

  “Am I human?” asked the crone. “Or Giantess?” She stood up from the fire and now her height filled the entire cavern. Her wizened head bobbed alongside a gray stalactite. Her shadow blotted out the cave mouth. Sharadza blinked.

  “Perhaps I am an old she-bear that you have awakened,” said the crone. Now she was a black bear, dropping to her four claws and opening a fanged maw to growl in Sharadza’s face.

  The Princess spilled tea across her leggings as she scooted across the floor in panic, but when she looked back the little old woman sat again where the bear had stood.

  “Or am I a stone sitting alone in this cave that you have stumbled into?” said the crone.

  Now she was an odd-shaped boulder sitting before the fire, nothing but a worn slab of gray granite that vaguely resembled a woman.

  Sharadza looked into her cup. The tea must be affecting her perception. She had drunk wine before, but this was no drunkenness. This was something altogether different.

  “Drink,” said the slab of granite, and again it was an old crone sitting near the fire. “And ask yourself… What are you?”

  A Serpent of steel, bronze, and gold wound its way between the black mountains. The wind howled along the twisting pass and cold sunlight glinted from the tips of spears, spiked helms, and gilded shields. The Serpent was in truth a company of men garbed in the metals of war. Three riders comprised the Serpent’s triangular head, the three Princes Tadarus, Fangodrel, and Andoses. At their backs flew the twin flags of Udurum and Shar Dni, a spiny crest blooming from the Serpent’s skull. Two hundred mounted Udurum elite mingled with a hundred cavalrymen of Shar Dni, whose blue shields bore the cloud insignia of the Sky God.

  Tadarus rode a black charger at the head of the company, a broad blade of Udurum steel across his back. At his right rode his cousin Andoses, whose great scimitar hung from the saddle of his spotted stallion. [ed acrFangodrel the Pale rode behind them, brooding and silent as the mountain wind whipped at his crimson cloak. This troubled Tadarus. He was used to Fangodrel striving to take the lead in all things, pressing the seniority of his birth. He should be riding at the head of the column on his own insistence. Yet Fangodrel had said hardly a word to him or anyone else for the first three days of their journey. Did he know what Mother had instructed Tadarus to say and do? Perhaps she had spoken to Fangodrel in private, letting him know that Tadarus was in charge. Or perhaps the eldest brother was only sulking. Tadarus would never understand the moodiness of poets.

  The roar of a mountain cat rang along the ravine, and Prince Andoses turned his green eyes toward the high escarpments on either side.

  “Do not worry, cousin,” said Tadarus. “No tiger will dare approach a force of men this size.”

  Andoses’ eyes searched the frosted peaks. “It is not in my nature to know fear,” he said. “But these mountains are an uncomfortable place for my men. The sun’s warmth cannot reach us here, and the wind never ceases to blow.”

  Tadarus laughed without humor. “Before my father carved this pass, there was no getting over these mountains at all. You are too used to the green valleys and gentle beaches of your homeland.” The Prince of Shar Dni had sailed north from his city into the Far Sea, coming to ground on the eastern shore of Uduria. This was his first time traveling Vod’s Pass. Tadarus felt his cousin’s tension and respected his bravery.

  Andoses lowered his gaze to the bracken and rubble along the walls of the pass. “I admit I prefer the pitch and roll of the open sea to this burrowing through the earth,” he said. “I’d like to see you upon the deck of a ship, Tadarus. Then I’d have cause to laugh at your nerves.”

  Tadarus smiled. “True, cousin, true,” he said. “If our errand is successful and there is war against Khyrei, you will have your chance to laugh at me.”

  “They say the Old Wyrms still haunt these mountains,” said Andoses. “Is it true?”

  Tadarus shrugged. He glanced back at Fangodrel, riding a black mare in solemn thought, his personal servant Rathwol following directly behind on a horse whose flanks were piled with bundles, coffers, and flasks. Fangodrel would not relinquish his luxuries, even on a trek such as this. Tadarus did not judge him too harshly. Fangodrel did not have the constitution of his younger brothers. Why Vod’s great strength had skipped over his first-born son only the Gods knew. Even Sharadza, the baby of the family, had more strength in her narrow limbs than Fangodrel. Yet Fangodrel was intelligent, and that counted for much. He was a prolific writer despite his dark sensibilities.

  “Tadarus?” asked Andoses. “Did you hear me?”

  Tadarus turned his head. “Forgive me,” he said. “I worry about my brother.”

  Andoses glanced backward, shifting in his saddle. “He seems fine.”

  “Yes,” said Tadarus. “He always seems fine. But never so quiet.”

  “Perhaps it’s the mountainous gloom,” said Andoses. “It penetrates the soul.”

  Tadarus chuckled. “You haven’t even scaled the cold heights yet.”

  Andoses shivered, pulling his yellow cloak tighter about his shoulders. “What about the Wyrms?”

  “There are a few of the old beasts left,” said Tadarus. “But they delve deep into the earth and rarely emerge. At times a quake will disturb their slumber and one will rise up storming through the pass, spitting fire and hatred.”

  Andoses’ eyes grew large, but only for a moment. “Have you seen one?”

  “Never,” said Tadarus. “The Giants of Steephold keep the pass secure. They deal with any Serpents that crawl from their holes. I’ve seen bones, mind you. The Giants make armor and helmets from them sometimes. Spear-tips from their fangs.”

  Andoses was quiet for a moment, his voice replaced by the sound of clattering hooves and the clamor of mail, shield, and spear. Someone back in the line was singing an old war song of
Uurz, a deep voice half obscured by the wind. Tadarus knew that Andoses was imagining a reptile whose teeth were as large as spear heads. He thought of his father, who killed the Lord of Serpents and tamed these mountains. His heart felt heavy beneath the crest of New Udurum, the silver hammer engraved on his breastplate.

  Earlier he went to an oracle in the city, an old seer whose powers were rumored to be great, and he gave her more gold than she had seen in her seventy years. She burned the sacred herbs and sacrificed lambs to the Gods of Sea and Sky. But still she had failed to answer the questions Is my father alive? and Will Vod return to his kingdom? She had only one bit of wisdom for him after all her spells and divinations: “The sea holds many mysteries, and none know what secrets dwell in its depths save the Sea God and his finny peoples.” She gave back most of his gold, shamed by the failure of her own magic, and Tadarus never spoke of the attempt to the rest of his family. They must learn to accept that Vod of the Storms, father, King, hero, legend… was gone. Tadarus was the first to admit this, for he knew the court now looked to him as its next sovereign. Even if Fangodrel was the eldest, it was tall Tadarus that everyone approached for strength and guidance. So he bore his sadness in silence and tried his best to replace his father.

  Now this campaign to unite four kingdoms in a war the likes of which had never been seen in modern history. He was glad for the chance to remove himself from court, to dwell upon the journey, the diplomacy, and the warfare that would follow. By distracting himself with bold endeavors, he might forget the pain of his loss. He must forge a new set of legends and stories to rival those of Vod. He must become his father by doing great things, by shaking the world into new forms and shapes.

  Vireon was different. He held no ambition, and he lost his pain by losing himself in the glory of nature, the thrill of the Long Hunt. Tadarus envied him. In many ways, Vireon was still only a boy. He knew the throne would never be his, so he was free to be a child of the forest. There was little responsibility on Vireon’s shoulders, though they were as wide and strong as Tadarus’ own. Tadarus loved his younger brother and missed him even now, but the throne rooms and [ne as battlefields of distant lands were no place for Vireon. Besides, Tadarus did not know when he would return to Udurum, so Vireon had best keep their mother safe.