“We know that the Khyrein jackals are allied with this Yaskathan usurper,” said Tadarus, turning his attention from the tapestry to Andoses. “But what does this fugitive Prince’s presence mean for us?”
Andoses smiled. “Think, Cousin! He comes to seek our aid in reclaiming his throne. He may have no army of his own, but the people of Yaskatha who groan under the tyranny of this sorcerer, they will rally behind the last son of their true royal lineage. This boy may be our greatest weapon. To support his cause will cost us little besides a legion or two from each of our nations. We can use him to rally a rebellion among the Yaskathans, weakening any military support they have pledged to Khyrei…”
“So we pledge ourselves to restoring the rightful monarch of Yaskatha,” said Tadarus “and keep the usurper busy quelling internal strife.”
“Leaving Khyrei vulnerable to the assault of our three armies.”
“Four,” said Tadarus. “Mumbaza must join us or my mother will not endorse this war.”
“Even better! Four united armies – plus the power of the Uduru – against two. And one of those distracted by rebellion…”
“What if this Prince proves false?” asked Rockjaw. “What if the usurper crushes his rebellion?”
“It matters not to us,” said Andoses. “We will time our invasion of Khyrei so that the Yaskathan rebellion removes its ally. Whether this rebellion dies or succeeds, it draws the usurper’s attention and the bulk of his forces.”
“A diversion,” said Tadarus.
“If the young Prince reclaims his throne, then we’ll have a solid ally,” said Andoses. “If he fails… the usurper’s rule will have been weakened. He will either sue for peace, or we will march in and take his weary realm when we are done with Khyrei.”
Rockjaw grinned, baring his stone-like teeth. “Men plan for war in ways we Uduru would scarcely dream,” said the Giant. “All we crave is the joy of battle, the rushing of red blood, and the sweetness of victory.”
“Oh, it will be sweet, Rockjaw,” said Andoses. “And the world will be set right.”
“We will stay here at Steephold then,” said Tadarus. “Long enough to greet the Uurzian delegation and this Yaskathan Prince. Uurz must already support his claim or Dairon would not give him escort. So it falls to my mother.”
“Must we return to the Giant-city, then?” asked Andoses.
“No,” said Tadarus. “Her command was clear enough. We are to ally Uurz and Mumbaza with our cause. Only then will she send Men and Uduru to reinforce Shar Dni. I myself will pledge Vod’s House to the Prince’s cause. We will confirm this with Dairon when we pass through Uurz.”
“Then on to Mumbaza.” Andoses grinned.
“The final link in our chain of war,” said Tadarus.
“These are great days,” said Andoses. He raised a cup of red wine.
Rockjaw bellowed his mirth. He clanked his great goblet together with the cups of Tadarus and Andoses. “Let wine and blood flow,” said the Giant. “It has been too long.”
Tadarus turned then to Andoses. “To Mumbaza.”
“To Mumbaza,” said Andoses. The two Princes clinked cups and drained them dry.
Today Tadarus awaited with patience the arrival of the Uurzians. Sparring and martial training would fill the intervening days. Rockjaw suggested a tiger hunt for tomorrow, and Tadarus liked the idea. Andoses would find it exhilarating, and it would occupy their minds while the Uurzians climbed up Vod’s Pass. A week at Steephold would be a pleasant diversion from the monotony of days in the saddle. Time enough later for the road and its wearisome routines.
Still, it bothered him that Fangodrel stayed sequestered in the central tower. Tadarus contemplated sending his brother home in chains then thought of making another attempt at peace. His brother must have a beating heart somewhere beneath the venomous armor he wore. Surely his own flesh and blood could not truly hate him. Do I hate Fangodrel? he asked himself. No, of course he didn’t. I love my brothers, he told himself. Both of them. he asdth="27"› He wished his mother had sent Vireon in place of Fangodrel. He wondered if his younger brother had returned yet from the Long Hunt. Would Vireon feel he had missed the chance to do something great? But there was still time… Mumbaza must be won first. Then Vireon would lead the forces of Udurum to Shar Dni. If all went as planned, the brothers would meet there in less than a year. Together they would command the united armies of men and giants, lead them south to crush wicked Khyrei. Time later for Vireon to play a role. Now was the time for diplomacy, and Tadarus was far better at it than his younger brother. Let Vireon stay and enjoy the winter. Tadarus would march into the balmy kingdoms of the south and pave the way for a glorious war.
“Shall we go again?” Tadarus asked, pointing his longblade at Andoses.
Andoses shook his head, toweling his curly mane. “I have only a fraction of your strength, Cousin. There is no Uduru blood in these veins.” He called loudly for wine.
Tadarus laughed. “Enough swordplay then,” he said. He was not tired at all. “Which among you gaping Uduru will match arms with me?”
The men of Udurum howled and cheered as a bulky Giant stamped forward to wrestle their Prince. Giants gathered to watch the contest. Andoses stood with the Men, staring in awe as Tadarus locked sinews with an opponent three times his size. The yard shook with the impact of the Giant’s stamping; he could not catch Tadarus in his massive hands; Tadarus moved too quickly.
In the end, after an hour of rolling and slamming about the practice yard, Tadarus wrapped his legs about the Giant’s neck and stole the wind from his lungs. As the Uduru fell, Tadarus jumped from his massive shoulders to land on his feet like a cat. The applause of Men and Giants rose about him like the roar of a sudden squall.
“Who’s next?” Tadarus shouted, smiling at the crowd of warriors he would lead into battle in a few months. There would be glory enough for all of them.
These are great days.
Rockjaw’s words echoed in his ears, riding the current of his swift-flowing blood.
The Red Dream lasted all night and well into the morning. The hound’s blood ignited the fires of his mind, opening realms undiscovered. Fangodrel lay upon the bed built years ago for Vod, his arms and legs akimbo, his mind soaring above the jagged peaks outside the palace. In a haze of crimson he saw the black towers, climbing stairwells, and soaring battlements of the keep. He flew, disembodied and bloated with power, and the dog’s blood turned to sweetness in his mouth.
He looked down on the feasting Men and Giants in the great hall; he saw the tired soldiers quartering themselves in the oversized barracks, their horses lining the stables on the stronghold’s eastern side. He rose higher and flew across the dark mountains, skirting their ice-crowned summits. He observed stalking nocturnal beasts, tigers and stranger creatures roaming the wild slopes. He felt, rather than saw, open fissures like gaping wounds in the sides of the mountains, the openings to ancient warrens where the Old Wyrms dwelled in ages past. He sensed the lurking presence of entities that dwelled there still – shadow-things without name or purpose, lurking in the sunless sn t the depths.
The birds of night soared about the peaks, but he was invisible to them. Darker presences lingered here and there in the husks of abandoned towers and castles, the bones of forgotten kingdoms. He sensed now the incredible array of spectral life that inhabited these mountains. Ghosts and wraiths roamed here like tattered memories… Often they gazed up at his immaterial presence, some crawling after him as he passed. Dark and pulsing they gleamed through the scarlet film of his vision.
He flew back to Steephold and stood like a ghost himself atop the central tower’s roof. She stood there, flickering like a pale torch… Ianthe the Claw… Ianthe the Sorceress… Ianthe the Lovely, who had opened his mind to the true power of the bloodflower and a world of immortal shadows.
“Now you see?” she said, smiling her pantherish smile at him. Was she truly here? Or a manifestation of his elevated consciousness? He saw
the rim of the battements through her gossamer frame. This was her soul, speaking to him as it had in the Red Dream, but this was more than the Red Dream. It was his first lesson in her familial college of sorcery.
Blood magic.
“I see,” he said “all the things that were unseen… I see them now, Grandmother.”
“Yes, my Gammir. You begin to perceive, but there is much more.”
“What must I do?” He lusted for more of this power, more of this invincible freedom.
“Blood is the source of all life, all power,” she told him, stroking his phantom chest with her clawed fingers. Her eyes of black diamond sparkled close to him. He longed to kiss her, but there was no flesh here… only naked spirit… naked power. “From the lifeblood of a tiny mammal you have gained all this. How does it make you feel?”
“Like a God,” he said.
She laughed. “You have barely entered the gates of sorcery. But you learn quickly. Soon you will be ready to come to me. Now you must learn to call upon the Dwellers in Shadow – they will be your escort.”
“How?” he asked.
She whispered more impossible words into his ears, and made him repeat them.
“The blood of a living man will be required,” she said.
“My servant?” he asked.
“Whoever you wish,” she breathed. “Only do not hesitate. The Shadow Dwellers in this place have noticed your presence. You must call them together soon…”
He awoke in the King’s Room, his vision still wrapped in vermilion gauze. Rathwol lay on a nearby rug, snoring horribly.
Fangodrel who was now Gammir rose to his feet, reveling in a fresh and heady vitality. He still tasted the sweetness of the animal’s blood on his tongue. How much sweeter must be the blood of a man? Even a poor wretch like Rathwol…
The body of the slain hound lay spitted and roasted over the hearth fire. Rathwol was not one to waste edible meat.
Fangodrel/Gammir smoked five petals of the bloodflower from his jade coffer, then took up his dagger, whose blade he had licked clean. Midday sun limned the curtains drawn over the windows, and it pained his eyes. He ignored the discomfort and approached the sleeping form of Rathwol, the dagger clenched in his fist. A stray sunbeam sent a spark of fire leaping from the blade as it hovered above the sleeper’s throat.
Fangodrel/Gammir paused. He weighed the value of Rathwol’s continued service against the value of the potent blood flowing in his veins. Against the power that blood would bring him. In the corners of the room, shadows shifted and flowed, watching him with expectant non-eyes. A trail of spittle drooled from the sleeping man’s lips.
A heavy knocking at the chamber door disturbed Rathwol’s slumber. He rolled over onto his stomach, still snoring.
Fangodrel/Gammir kicked him awake.
“Ah! Master! What is it?”
“Get the door.”
“Aye, My Lord.” Rathwol crept across the chamber. His blearing eyes lingered on the dagger in his master’s hand.
Fangodrel/Gammir placed himself to the left of the entrance, well out of sight.
“Prince Fangodrel!” came a commanding voice from the other side of the door, followed by more knocking. “I bring a message from your brother!”
“Yes, yes,” said Rathwol, unchaining the door and sliding back an iron bolt. He opened the door enough to poke his head out. “Good morning, Captain Jyfard.”
“ Afternoon,” corrected the captain. “I must speak with your master. Immediately.”
“I shall relay the message,” said Rathwol.
“No,” said Jyfard, pressing his way into the chamber. His mailed chest bumped Rathwol, knocking him on his rump. Rathwol cursed. Jyfard stepped over him. “Where is-”
Fangodrel/Gammir brought the dagger down swiftly, sinking it into the captain’s neck while his free hand went round to muffle the man’s mouth. Jyfard struggled, twitched, and finally shoved himself free of Fangodrel/Gammir’s grip. He fell to the floor in a gush of blood.
Rathwol, needing no prompt, sped to close and latch the door. When he turned around, his master knelt over the dying man as if to kiss his lips.
Fangodrel/Gammir pressed his lips against the seeping wound and sucked, drawing the captain’s lifeblood into his mouth, swallowing in thirsty gulps. The blow had been fatal, severing the jugular, and Jyfard was already dead. Rathwol hesitated, watching the grisly feast. His master continued slurping, licking, and drinking. Fangodrel/Gammir paid him no mind. He squeezed the neck and pressed on the torso, as he had often squeezed the juice from a ripe pomegranate.
“Prince Fangodrel?” Rathwol asked, when he was sure the captain was dead.
Fangodrel/Gammir lifted his face, red-stained and dripping.
“My name is Gammir,” he said. “Call me Prince Gammir.” Drops of blood flew from his smacking lips as he spoke.
Rathwol nodded, his terror obvious.
“Help me lift him,” said Prince Gammir. “Hold his neck over the fire.”
As he had done with the dog last night, Gammir held his victim over the bowl of blazing coals and the last of Jyfard’s blood smoked and steamed into the brazier. At last he tossed the body to the blood-drenched floor and sang a terrible song above the scarlet flames.
The shadows in the corners of the chamber crept closer, and Gammir raised his arms, his eyes, to the ceiling. His spirit soared once again into the sky, a flaming eagle defying the light of the sun. Dark clouds gathered above the keep, and he entered them, broke through on the other side, and soared over the mountainscape once more.
Dark things climbed up from the deep ravines and the cellars of ancient ruins, straining toward the sky. A storm broke over the mountains, and Gammir flew unhindered through the roaring center of its wrath. Thunder sang in his veins. Lightning bolts played about his ethereal presence.
He felt them all now, down there below him in the lost and forgotten places… the Dwellers in Shadow… and he called them toward him.
Come, he told them. Your Lord has arrived.
Come. There is blood for all of you.
Come…
Atop the tallest tower of Steephold, the shade of Ianthe laughed into the raging storm.
“Your time is almost here, sweet Gammir,” she whispered.
Far away, he heard her words.
Heedless of the howling wind and rain, a horde of shadows crawled toward Steephold.
The storm broke suddenly and without warning, spoiling an otherwise pleasant day in the yards. Tadarus and the Men rushed for cover as the downpour began. Thunder rolled like an earthquake across the citadel. The Giants laughed, fearing no storm, and walked leisurely toward the tall archways. They took great amusement from the sight of Men scurrying like rats, running from a bit of rain. Tadarus considered for a moment staying out in the tempest. He loved a good storm as much as any Uduru. But here was chance to come inside and prepare for the evening’s activities. In his spacious chamber he bathed, then dressed himself in a sable tunic and purple cloak as the storm raged against the castle walls.
He thought of the Yaskathan Prince on his way to plead for alliance. How terrible it must be to lose a throne and a father at the same time. At least Tadarus had kept his kingdom. Offering help to the Yaskathan heir, though sheit of the Yserving his own interests, was the right thing to do in any case. If someone stole the throne of Udurum, he would do anything to regain it. So he would give whatever honest help he could to this desperate Princeling. Besides, if the boy were intelligent at all, he would understand how he fit into the existing war plans. There was no need to disguise the reason for Udurum’s support.
He pondered the skeleton of an Old Wyrm mounted along the eastern wall, held together with clever wires. It was at least four horse-lengths, with a dozen clawed legs digging into the stone wall. The triangular skull bore fangs large enough to impale a man. Living, it might have swallowed men whole between those snapping jaws. If it didn’t singe them to ash first with flaming breath. Near to t
he Wyrm’s bones hung an Uduru sword, a Giant’s blade of antique steel. He studied its length, the polished metal, the murky gems set in pommel and hilt. The weapon stood a head taller than Tadarus, but he lifted it off the wall easily, brandishing it in his right fist.
There was time before dinner, so he practiced wielding the Uduru sword. He carved figure eights, ellipses, and spherical patterns in the air, thrust it like a spear. This was the blade that killed this Wyrm. Somehow he knew it. How long ago was this beast slain? The blade was centuries older than the keep. These relics must have been stored in the vaults of the castle that stood here before the building of Steephold. He marveled at the perfect balance of the big blade. It felt good in his hands. Often the swords forged by Men seemed little more than sticks to him. Perhaps he would keep this Giant-blade. It would serve him well on the field of battle. His men would stand in awe of its size. When the melee began they would not lose sight of him with this great steel thing in his grasp.
Thunder rolled as rain pelted the thick glass of arched windows.
Yes, he decided. This blade comes with me to Mumbaza. Then to Shar Dni. Then to sweltering Khyrei, where the song of battle would break loose and shake the sky. He studied the shallow runes along the spine of the metal… Perhaps there was some lingering enchantment in the sword as well.
A commotion rose outside his door, and he heard the booming voice of the sentinel at the head of the corridor. Someone had escaped his grasp and was running toward Tadarus’ chamber. Whoever it was, he wept and grunted with panic. Now came a pounding against the door, followed by the plodding of the sentinel’s huge feet.
Tadarus opened the door with the Giant-blade in hand. A bloody figure stumbled upon him, grasping at his chest, smearing it with red. A small man dressed in servant’s livery, stained to black by the gore splattered across arms and chest. He recognized the bleating, weeping figure: Rathwol, his elder brother’s servant. He reeked of dog flesh, filth, and fear.
“Majesty!” screamed Rathwol, clutching at Tadarus’ belt. “Majesty! The darkness! The blood! Majesty!”
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