Seven Princes bots-1

by John R. Fultz

  “You’d school me as Olthacus did?” D’zan asked.

  “Tonight, when we pavilion,” said Tyro, “we’ll begin. First we’ll build strength in your arms using rods of bronze instead of blades. After a few weeks of swinging metal, the Stone’s blade will feel as light as a rose in your grasp.”

  Lyrilan huffed. “A gross exaggeration.”

  D’zan smiled. “Thank you, Tyro.”

  Tyro ran a gauntlet across his stallion’s sodden mane. “I’ll teach you technique as well. If you have the willpower, you will learn.”

  Every night after a crude supper, D’zan joined Tyro in his wide pavilion, where the tables and braziers were cleared to form a practice space. He sparred there with Tyro using span-length cylinders of bronze. When they clashed metal against metal, D’zan’s bones trembled. The bronze was among other commodities to be traded on the streets of Udurum. The bronze of Uurz could in no way match Uduru steel, or southern iron, but it was the best bronze smelted anywhere in the north. The folk of Udurum used it for armor and implements, but not for weapons. Fighting with the bronze bars served D’zan well, sharpening his swordcraft, building his muscles, leaving his arms sore and aching every morning. After seven days he already felt stronger. Not strong enough to wield the greatsword – not even close – but enough to consider it more than some impossible dream.

  Now the smokes of a hundred campfires rose into the damp night air at the very foot of the Grim Mountains, directly east of the river. This would be their last pavilion before they entered the mountain pass. The Uurzians camped in concentric circles, with the three Princes and their servants nestled in the center. Tarps propped upo ks pain pasn cedar poles sheltered the fires, and soldiers gathered in units of four or five about the warm flames. Shifts of night guards patrolled the perimeter of the camp in pairs. D’zan felt safer in the midst of all these spear-bearing warriors than he had in the depths of Dairon’s palace. And with good reason, for hadn’t the Death-Bringers of Khyrei found him there?

  He sat on a folding chair in his pavilion, listening to the patter of rain on the canvas roof. Scattered rugs comprised a makeshift floor, providing relief from the constant mud of the fields. Except for one night spent in Lakehold, a fortress manned by the men of Uurz on the edge of Vod’s Lake, every evening was spent in such tents. Servants built them up and tore them down in minutes, and despite their mobile nature the pavilions gave him a measure of dry comfort.

  A single brazier lit the tent, fuming with sweet incense, and D’zan sat with the Stone’s blade lying across his knees. His eyes ran from the rounded pommel with its spherical amethyst to the two-handed grip, wrapped tight in oiled leather, to the flaring black quillions of the guard, spreading wing-like to either side of the blade. At the blade’s base were set a trio of fire opals, scintillating red in the light of the brazier. In the exact center of those gems he noticed an insignia or sigil of some sort. A circular impression radiating spokes like a sun, centered within a trio of inverted, overlapping triangles forming a nine-pointed star. D’zan ran his index finger over the engraving. Among the tiny arabesques and details of the hiltwork, he had overlooked this symbol until now.

  The guard outside his pavilion called out to him: “Prince Lyrilan approaches!” A dark shape stood before the tent’s entrance, and he recognized the tall, slim frame. The guard had no need to shout; who else could that shadow belong to?

  “Enter,” said D’zan, his eyes lingering on the trio of jewels and the mysterious character at their center. Lyrilan spread the canvas flap and walked inside. He carried the working tome under his cloak, safe from the rain, a white quill stuck into its pages like a feathery bookmark. A bottle of ink bulged in the pocket of his flared trousers; his muddy boots contrasted greatly with the fine silks that draped his legs, arms and middle. His long hair was an oiled mass of curls that fell free as he tossed back his hood.

  “Evenbliss,” Lyrilan greeted him.

  D’zan looked up for a moment. “Have a seat,” he said. “You have more questions for me, I suppose?”

  Lyrilan smiled, dropping into a pile of cushions. “An infinite number, Majesty…”

  D’zan nodded. “I have one for you actually,” he said. He motioned for Lyrilan to come closer. After spreading out his book, quill, and ink bottle on a well-placed rug, Lyrilan drew near to him. His eyes followed D’zan’s to the base of the heavy blade, into the triangle of crimson opals, and the sigil where Dzan’s fingertip pointed. “What do you make of this?”

  Lyrilan craned his neck, squinting his eyes, lowering them close to the blade. “It’s a rune,” he said. “Much like the Sun God’s symbol, but markedly different. Older, perhaps.”

  “A rune?” said D’zan.

  “Yes, I’ve seen this sigil before,” said Lyrilan. He snapped his fingers. “In The Codex of Ancient Icons. It’s a ward, I’m sure of it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A ward is a rune that protects its bearer from evil spirits.”

  “Evil spirits.”

  “Yes, some orders of the Sun God carve a ward like this on their talismans. Sometimes the priests inscribe them on the shields of warriors bound to a holy cause. The Sun is the eternal enemy of darkness, where evil dwells.”

  “So… some Sun Priest placed a ward on the Stone’s blade?”

  “Most likely… or it was engraved during the forging of the sword. Based on the pattern of these gems, I’d say that is most likely.”

  D’zan thought of the Stone carrying this sword across a blood-soaked battlefield, smiting terrible monsters and living men, wading through a swamp of black gore. If only it could have protected him from the assassins who finally took his life. But they had been living men, not spirits. Evil, yes, but flesh and blood.

  “This is a priceless treasure,” said Lyrilan. “My brother was right: it should be your standard… the icon of your cause. Guard it carefully.”

  D’zan nodded. He flexed his sore arms, more determined than ever to master the wielding of this weapon. Until then it would ride upon his back, symbol of all he strove to accomplish.

  Lyrilan shifted back to his cushions and took the book up onto his knees. He dipped his quill in the open ink bottle and looked up at D’zan. “So… where were we?” His eyes scanned the last paragraph he had written. “Ah, yes… You were six years old when your father returned from the Battle of Teryllope. What do you remember from that day?”

  D’zan slid the greatsword back into its scabbard and laid it down beside his cot. He poured black brandy from a bottle into two cups and handed one to Lyrilan.

  “I remember… the smell of my father’s cloak. Seawater, smoke… and blood. He gave me a little jeweled sea-beast, a trinket from the southern isles. A seahorse, he called it. I remember that he hugged me, and I cried when he put me down. Then he was off to matters of state. There was a victory feast… My cousins were there… I don’t remember much of it.”

  The night drew on with D’zan searching his memories and Lyrilan transcribing them, until the brazier guttered low and D’zan began to yawn. Lyrilan took his cue and departed for his own tent. “My brother’s training is wearing you out,” he said. “Don’t let him push you too hard.”

  D’zan smiled, giving birth to another yawn. “He pushes me less than I should be. Good night, Lyrilan.”

  “Sleep well, Prince.” And Lyrilan was gone.

  D’zan fell to sleep on a pile of blankets that turned the thin cot into a pleasant bed.

  He dreamed of the sable mountains towering over the encampment, ripe with boiling darkness and terrible groaning thunders. He soared above the frosty peaks, in the realm of moon and stars. He looked down across ravines and gorges, where sometimes blood-colored fires danced, then faded into the dark.

  A swirling shadow came up from the depths between the black mountainsides. It had waited there for him, at the edge of the range looking across the plains, inhumanly patient. A dark smoke in the shape of a winged thing… a great bat wit
h the body of a bloated eel. Its eyes were shards of gleaming amber… the fires of wicked desire… the naked hunger of a thing damned and roaming. The moon was lost behind the soaring pinnacles, and the eel-bat-shadow descended toward the concentric circles of mens’ fires beside the river.

  D’zan shifted restlessly on his cot, sweating, freezing, and could not wake up. He moaned, and the guard outside his tent looked in at him, shrugged, and returned to his post. D’zan saw all of this in his disembodied state, and he saw the dark smoke writhing through the rain above the scattered tents. Along the edges of the camp, the night guards stood oblivious to the terror that floated into their midst, dropping like a black fog from the clouds. D’zan tried to call out, but he was bodiless in the dream, and made no sound.

  He saw the black fog fall upon the guard outside his tent, soundless, covering his mouth and eyes with ebony coils. The wings flapped over him, and the guard struggled, convulsed, as the eel-thing tightened about his body. A peal of thunder drowned out the cracking of bones as the eel squeezed the life from him and dropped his pulped organs into the mud. It hungered terribly, but its feeding would have to wait. Now it flowed into the pavilion, and D’zan floated above his sleeping body, watched it crawl across his feet, wrap itself about his legs.

  Cold… the chill of the lightless void.

  His body moaned and shook, but did not wake.

  The black wings spread over him, and his face was lost in their shadow. The creature wound itself about his entire body, then his neck and mouth. Its triangular head rose at last to stare him in the face. Its eyes burned yellow, slits of smoldering flame, and it opened a mouth of purest darkness, hissing something unintelligible. Suddenly, as if fallen from a great height, D’zan was back in his body, dying in the grip of the eel-thing. His eyes opened and stared into its flaming pits.

  Somewhere, in some incorporeal netherworld or in the depths of night, he heard the laughter of Elhathym. The same wicked mirth he heard when dream-lost in the royal crypts of Yaskatha. Those flaming eyes, they were the eyes of the usurper. D’zan knew this as he knew he was going to die. The black coils squeezed him tighter, glistening like onyx.

  His right arm, which had fallen over the cot’s edge during his delirium, was free of the coils only from elbow to fingers. His fist closed and opened on empty air as the beast constricted.

  D’zan gagged, spit, vomited, but could not scream for lack of air. Soon his ribs would splinter, and his legs and arms, and he would be like the guard outside, a mass of torn flesh and shattered bone. Then the beast would devour his steaming remains. s ribs wouheight="0em" width="27"› His grasping right hand brushed against something cool, knocking it from his reach.

  The faint glimmer of amethyst caught his eye.

  The blade… the ward…

  Impossible to break the grip of those black coils, but he shifted the bulk of his and the beast’s body. The cot fell over. His hand closed about the grip of the greatsword. In his mind the Sun God’s sigil gleamed as the world faded.

  Thunder seemed to break inside the tent… The black fog exploded from his skin. The creature hissed like water thrown on coals, coalescing almost instantly back into its eel-bat shape, wings tearing at the canvas. D’zan gasped air into his lungs, wrapping both his hands about the grip. He pulled the blade from its scabbard, lifting it with terrific effort to the level of his waist.

  The shadow-thing flapped its wings and his brazier toppled, spilling coals and flame across the rugs. The beast lunged at him, but refused to touch him again while he held the blade. It was the sigil – the ward – that it detested. But it would not leave the tent. It hissed, spitting black smoke like poison.

  D’zan lifted the blade high above his head like an axe. He brought it down with no finesse, like chopping firewood, yet it clove the smoky beast in two and sliced deep into the rugs. The creature screeched and faded, now only a black fog again. A vicious hissing grew fainter as the black smoke dispersed.

  Soldiers ran into the flaming pavilion now, gathering about D’zan and rushing to put out the fire. A babble of voices that meant nothing to his ears. He struggled for an easy breath. They led him outside into the rain. He refused to let go of the blade, so he dragged it behind him. The cold rain on his face was bracing, and he breathed easier as it rushed into his gaping mouth.

  They led him into the pavilion of Tyro, who stood bare-chested, sword in hand, surrounded by a cadre of swordsmen. Tyro grabbed D’zan’s shoulders and shouted into his face. D’zan heard him, but the words made no sense. He swooned, and they set him on Tyro’s bed. Someone tried to take the blade from his hand, but his fingers were locked in a death grip about the hilt.

  So he lay there, one fist gripping the sword, the other hand lying numb beside him, and they forced him to drink hot brandy. At some point he became aware of Lyrilan and Tyro watching over him. Eventually he slept. His dreams were of a pale sun igniting the darkness, and ice-crowned mountains springing into orange life in the glow of dawn.

  When D’zan awoke it was truly dawn. He still lay in Tyro’s grand pavilion, and Lyrilan sat in a chair at his bedside. The sound of pouring rain was conspicuously absent, which made the morning strangely quiet. Tyro was out there somewhere in the early sunlight, giving orders. He heard the Prince’s voice ringing through the crisp air.

  D’zan tried to rise, but pain prevented him. He looked down to see his shirt gone and white bandages wrapped about his ribs.

  Lyrilan rose quickly. “Don’t try to move just yet,” he said. “You may have a fractured rib or two. Bruised at best. Be kd alan still…”

  D’zan asked for water, and Lyrilan brought him a cup.

  “The rain… it stopped,” said D’zan.

  Lyrilan waved his hands. “The Sun God smiles on us this day.”

  D’zan grunted.

  “He does indeed.”

  10

  A Storm of Blood and Darkness

  Tadarus called across the courtyard to Captain Jyfard, “Have you seen Prince Fangodrel this morning?”

  The captain took off his winged helm as he approached, tucking it under his arm. Tadarus’ sweat stood in glittering droplets on his forehead, arms, and chest. A few spans away, Andoses stood with hands on knees, catching his breath. The two had been sparring all morning, and Tadarus had gained a new appreciation for his cousin’s skill with the scimitar. Though he could never match Tadarus’ giant strength, Andoses had matched his longblade skills every step of the way. Once the Sharrian even managed to disarm him. Tadarus redeemed himself by later knocking the scimitar from Andoses’ grip a total of three times. A ring of soldiers watched their swordplay, and the yard rang with the metallic songs of a hundred other sparring matches. Jyfard broke through the gawkers and stepped near.

  “None have seen him since our arrival,” Jyfard said. “According to the Uduru sentinel, he has locked himself in the King’s Room. His body servant – that smelly Rathwol – attends to all his needs.”

  Tadarus frowned. “Does he know about the rider?”

  Jyfard shrugged. “Failing to reach the Prince himself, I gave his servant your message, Lord.”

  “What are you not telling me, Jyfard?”

  The captain looked about at the faces of the men. Andoses drew in closer. Jyfard lowered his voice. “The sentinel spoke of strange smells… and sounds… like the singing of a dirge in Prince Fangodrel’s chamber.”

  Tadarus turned his eyes past the towers of Steephold to the frosted peaks surrounding the fortress. “My brother has always indulged in strange proclivities,” he said. “There is nothing to be done about it.” He wiped the sweat from his breast with a soft towel. The morning air was chill and the promise of snow hung in the air. “Send another message. Tell Fangodrel he must attend tonight’s dinner to discuss our embassy. Tell him if he does not attend, I will send him back to Udurum.”

  Jyfard paled. “I will tell the servant.”

  “No,” said Tadarus. “Have the sentinel unlock Fangodrel’
s door if you must. But deliver the message to him in person.”

  Jyfard nodded. “Yes, Lord.” He marched away toward the tower where Fangodrel had hidden himself away.

  During yesterday’s feast celebrating their arrival, Rockjaw had informed Tadarus of an advance rider from Uurz come and gone three days earlier. The herald brought news of Emperor Dairon’s twin sons, the Princes Tyro and Lyrilan. They traveled the Northern Road, escorting the deposed Prince of Yaskatha to seek an audience with Shaira.

  Tadarus had discussed this with Andoses over roast mutton and dark ale.

  Andoses tugged on the triple braid of his beard. “Three Princes going south, and three Princes going north. It must be an omen.”

  Tadarus blinked. “Perhaps… but an omen of good or ill?”

  Andoses’ eyes twinkled, darker twins of the blue jewel upon his turban. “There can be only one reason for this audience. The surviving son of Trimesqua – his only son – seeks support to reclaim his throne.”

  Tadarus looked at Rockjaw, whose colossal eyes narrowed. Along the great table sat a dozen Giants and fifty Men from the Udurum and Shar Dni contingents. The Giants kept no servants here, so low-ranking Uduru cooked and served the hearty fare. It was not a graceful affair, but the atmosphere was pleasant and the food pleasing to a man’s appetite. A dozen roaring braziers turned the chill of night into a pleasant warmth. The dining hall was lined with tapestries depicting the heroes of Ancient Udurum smiting Serpents and sea-monsters. Centrally positioned among the hangings was a great black drapery showing Vod’s battle against the Serpent-Father. Tadarus’ father stood tall as a mountain, stitched in silver on the face of the fabric, and he smote the Lord of Serpents with his great axe. That same axe, forged by Vod’s dead father, lay even now in a vault beneath the Palace of Udurum, surrounded by the treasures of the realm.