Angrid spoke first in his antiquated dialect. “Little One,” he said, voice like grinding icebergs, “you already es {ou on its shocaped my grasp. Now you give yourself to me?”
“I do,” said Vireon, raising his voice above the shrieking wind. “On one condition!”
Angrid the Long-Arm lifted his axe and rested it on his brawny shoulder. His tigers growled and strained at their chains. The shaman stared from the black depths of his hood.
“What do you ask, killer of Udvorg?”
“These deaths are regrettable,” said Vireon. “They sadden my heart. Here is my condition. Fight me, Angrid! I make the Challenge of Hreeg. We face each other as Uduru – arm to arm, chest to chest… no metal in our way. If I win, you must declare me of Uduru blood – your cousin – and accept my offer of peace.”
The Ice King glared at him with ruby eyes. The gems in his crown cast a blue gleam across the snow.
“What if you lose?”
“If you best me, my life is yours. I will not protest. I will slay no more of your people.”
A moment of silence fell thick as the snow between Vireon and Angrid. Then the Ice King threw back his head and laughed. His chest rumbled, and he bent over to smack his knee. His tigers writhed in their collars, sniffing and gnawing at his iron-shod boots. Shards of ice fell from his beard as he chuckled. When he looked back into Vireon’s face, his thick blue lips were split in a wide smile. His teeth were the saffron color of the tigers’ fangs.
“There is no need,” he said. “Only a true Uduru… would make such a challenge. For surely I would… grind you beneath my heel. You face death like… a proud Udvorg. You use the ancient name of Hreeg, first King of Uduru. Only an Uduru raised by Uduru… would know of this tradition. You come back… to the lands of the Ice Clans… walking without fear to the Palace of Blue Flame. I do not need to fight you, Little One… Only an Uduru would do these things. I call you… cousin!”
Vireon stood speechless as the King’s escort and the crowds along the wall cheered Angrid’s announcement. He had not expected this: he had expected to fight, and possibly to die, in order to prove his blood. These Udvorg were not as savage as he presumed. Their King was wise.
Angrid dropped his axe and came forward with open arms. He offered his great hand to Vireon, who took it in both of his own. Then the King bowed to embrace him.
“Tell me again… the name your father gave you,” said the Ice King.
“Vireon.”
“Come, Vireon,” said the King. “We will feast, and you will tell me of the southlands.”
That was all the apology the King would offer. Likewise, Vireon would never again need to apologize for the warriors he’d slain. The ways of Uduru and Udvorg were not so dissimilar.
These were, after all, his cousins.
Drums throbbed between the blue-green pillars of the King’ {f teigs dining hall. A chorus of Udvorg sang low-pitched hymns to the Gods of Night and Cold. The great ice table lay heavy with mammoth beef, thawed fruits from deep cellars, gelatins of bear fat, and spiced ale from palace breweries. All the fare was served cold and raw. A hundred soldiers sat along the King’s table, most of them male. Not all of the folk of the Ice Clans were warriors, or were expected to be. This society offered far more variety than the Uduru. Of course, most of the Uduru were dead. The survivors of Old Udurum were the most hearty and warlike of the Giant folk; the rest had perished a quarter-century ago. Vireon’s people may have been more like the Udvorg before the Serpent-Father destroyed their ancient city.
The Ice King peppered him with questions. Vireon sat at his right elbow; at his left sat the shaman, who pulled back the hood to reveal the face of a handsome Giantess. She wore a bronze hoop through her nose, six more through each ear, and the marks of ritual scarring ran along her high-boned cheeks. Her hair was black, unlike most of the Udvorg, whose hair was the color of snow. He noticed a few other blue-skins with black hair. Either white or black; there were no in-between shades. All their eyes were crimson, all their skin blue, so this duality of hair color was interesting. The shamaness – whose name he learned was Varda the Keen Eyes – said little as Vireon spoke with the King, but she eyed him curiously. If she harbored feelings good or ill toward him, he could not tell.
“Your mother rules the Uduru since Vod has give himself to the Great Water?” asked Angrid. Vireon followed the Udvorg accent easier now, but some words still took a moment.
“Queen Shaira,” Vireon said, “rules the City of Men and Giants.”
“She is… human?”
“She is,” said Vireon. “Yet the Uduru love her. They respect her wisdom. Fangodrim the Gray, my father’s brother, is First Among Giants.”
“Why does your uncle not take the throne?” asked Angrid.
Vireon shrugged. “He loves my mother, too. And I think he does not want the weight of the crown. The Uduru do not care. They… they are dying.”
Angrid put down the joint of mammoth meat upon which he gnawed. His frosty brows furrowed. “What do you mean dying?”
“I told you how my father killed the Lord of Serpents,” said Vireon. He drank a gulp of the bitter black ale. It was not bad, and it was the only thing in this feasting hall that warmed his bones. These Udvorg had become one with the cold over the centuries – they were as comfortable in frigid conditions as he would be on a sunny spring morning. He was glad of his tiger cloak. “When the beast died, he put a curse on Vod’s people. The women are barren. No child has been born to the Uduri since that day.”
The shamaness Varda whispered something in the Ice King’s ear, and the monarch turned back to Vireon. “How many of our cousins still stand?”
“More than a thousand,” Vireon replied. “Perhaps twelve hundred.”
The King did not understand his Uduru numbers, so Vireon rephrased his answer. “Only a fraction of your people. Perhaps ten t {Per
Angrid and Varda conversed in low tones, and Angrid nodded. Varda gave orders to a nearby sentinel, who marched off on some mission.
“This is why our people must reunite,” said Vireon. “It is why I risked my life to win your favor, King of the North.”
Angrid nodded, chewing his meat. A trio of male shamans entered the room, each bearing a staff lit with the blue flame. Udvorg shamans were the guardians of the cold fire; they conjured it and spread it among their people as needed. Angrid told Vireon it came from the Night God. The God visited them ages ago, when they first entered the frozen north. He taught the secret of the cold flame to spare them from the God of Darkness. It was their own hereditary magic.
Twelve clans dwelled in these mountains. Angrid the Long-Arm ruled over them all, and they rarely warred against one another. They thrived in the land of ice and snow, meeting once a year at Spring Thaw to trade wives and barter other precious things. The women of the Udvorg were not hard-bitten she-wolves like those of the Uduru; they were more like human women, despite their great size. Vireon watched them move about the chamber and found them comely, beautiful even, possessed of their own savage grace. The Uduru would find them irresistible.
“Tell me, Great King,” said Vireon, accepting more of the ale. “Why did our people divide? My cousins have never spoken of the Ice Clans. Could they have forgotten?”
Angrid grunted, washing down a mouthful of mammoth flesh with a great horn of foamy ale. That which he spilled froze immediately on the rim of his beard. “It happened long ago… after Hreeg the First led the Stoneborn against the Serpents and brought them north across the Black Mountains.”
The Grim Mountains, Vireon understood.
“Hreeg’s brother, Udvorg the Dreamer, wished to go farther north. But Hreeg saw a great stone city in his mind and set to building it near those mountains in the Southern Forest. Udvorg challenged Hreeg, and they fought for three days. In the end neither could prevail. Both were mighty warriors. So Hreeg called his cousins about him and said, ‘Who will go north with me to find the White Mountains of my dreams?’ Th
ere was much arguing, and not a little fighting. After a day, the tribe of Uduru split, and Udvorg’s followers took his name. This was in the days when our skins were all the same color.
“Udvorg led his people into these mountains, for he knew they were the ones in his dream. Here he found the ancient temple of the Night God, and became the first shaman. He called up the first of the blue flames, and it is from that light all our fires are lit. You have seen this in the chamber of my throne. This palace Udvorg’s people built on the very spot of the ancient temple, so that our home is a holy dwelling.
“When Udvorg the Dreamer finished this shrine, the Cold God came on a great wind and gave his people the blue skin and purple blood that makes us strong. Over the ages, we have honored these Gods and kept the holy ways. Our shamans keep alive the blue flames, which are the heart of our kingdom.”
Vireon considered the tale and found hi {anf our kimself drowsy as the drummers kept at their mesmerizing beat. “Then truly we are of one people,” he said. “Uduru and Udvorg – two races that are one, like Udvorg and Hreeg, brothers of equal might.”
The Ice King smiled. “Not so equal if what you say is true,” he said. “It saddens my heart that our cousins bear this curse.”
“Perhaps there is a way-” began Vireon, but the King cut off his words.
“Ah, here they are!” He waved his great arms about the table, and Vireon watched a line of lovely Udvorg Giantesses line up directly across the table. All were of the white-haired variety with skins the shade of a cloudless sky, eyes sparkling vermillion. Some wept gently as they looked upon him. There were six altogether, and behind them stood eight or nine sullen blue-skin children with their heads lowered. The eldest of these young ones stood a bit taller than Vireon.
For a moment, he expected some kind of performance. He had no idea what the King meant by this until Varda the Keen Eyes spoke.
“These are your wives, Vireon the Small,” said Varda, her voice icy yet feminine. “And your children…”
Vireon sat his goblet of ale down hard on the table, spilling it. A few of the warriors laughed, while others scowled jealously at him.
“I do not understand…” he said.
The Ice King spoke now. “You killed five sentinels today… The rest will live and have learned a painful lesson. But of those five, three had wives. Some had more than one. All these wives had children, as you can see.”
Vireon stared at the King.
“It is our custom,” explained Angrid, “that a man’s slayer be given his wives and children. They are yours now. Treat them well.”
Vireon had no words. The Udvorg laughed at his uncomfortable silence. A few rose from the table and stomped away, unhappy with his newfound wealth.
“Forgive me, Majesty,” said Vireon. He stood and bowed to his new wives and their brood. “This is not the custom of my own people. I was unprepared-”
“It does not matter,” said Varda. “The King has declared you one of us. So our customs are now yours.”
“Sit, Vireon, sit,” said the Ice King. He waved a hand, and Vireon’s adopted family went back to their individual chambers. “I think you begin to understand us well, Cousin.”
“Better than I ever thought to,” said Vireon.
“These women are your property… as ill-fitted to their frames as you may be. Still you must serve as master and husband.”
“He cannot handle an Udvorg woman!” shouted a warrior. The table roared. Another spouted something about a “tiny sword,” and more mirth ensued.
Vireon smiled, recognizing the good nature of their ribbing. {eireigThis, too, was common among the Uduru. He must laugh at himself or be ill-mannered. He laughed and drank more ale. Much more.
“The customs of my cousins are my customs,” he said. Glances of approval told him he spoke well.
“Hear me, Cousin,” said the Ice King. “Did you not say your cousins to the south are in need of child-bearing brides?”
“I did,” said Vireon. “Most urgently.”
“Then understand… There are other ways to win the women of Udvorg,” said the King. “A warrior can gain the heart of a free woman by words and deeds. This is how most wives are taken – by mutual agreement. Only one who is shaman cannot be wived. These are married to the Gods, or to other shamans. Also wives may be given… the most precious of all gifts.”
Vireon nodded, understanding. “Tell me, Great King, what happens to the children of a woman who is a gift-wife?”
Angrid smiled. “The children follow the mother, of course. None can separate the she-tiger from her cubs. This is our law.”
Vireon laughed. “You have made me wealthy and happy this night.”
He thought of Fangodrim… of Danthus the Sharp-Toothed, Ohlung the Bear-Slayer, Dabruz the Flame-Heart, and even old Rockjaw in lonely Steephold. All his cousins, lonely and in need of female companions… many who lost their families to flame and chaos when the Old City crumbled. These Udvorg brides and their strong broods would be fine gifts indeed.
But there would need to be more, far more, if the Uduru race were to preserve itself. Every willing male giant must couple with the unwed daughters of the thriving Udvorg. Otherwise, the pale-skinned Giants would fade from the earth. In these cold halls he had found salvation for his people. Now he must seal the compact that would make that salvation complete.
“Great Ice King!” he announced, standing tall upon his seat of iron and stone. The ale sang in his veins. “I will take my wives and children south and reunite our peoples. The descendants of Hreeg and Udvorg will drink together again. This I have seen in my dreams!”
He raised his cup, and the Giants roared their approval.
“But more than that!” said Vireon. “Let our kingdoms of north and south become one united realm. Let all the land between the Black and White Mountains rejoice at this historic unification! Let our children, blue-skins and pale-skins, sing together of the heroes and battles that make us strong! Let us come together!”
A round of cheering broke like thunder inside the feasting hall. Only the shamaness Varda did not cheer. She retained her frosty composure. Vireon could not tell if she disapproved of this unification. But King Angrid rejoiced and led his warriors in an ancient anthem. After three rounds of listening, Vireon was able to join them. His dancing feet upon the table rivaled the pounding of the drummers.
The next morning he awoke on a pile of furs. Watery sunlight filtered through the viridian walls. Someone had {So pounding carried him to this chamber, though too much of the black ale had stolen the memory of everything after his unity speech. He remembered his six wives and nine children. He smiled, imagining his uncle’s face when he returned to Udurum.
He stood and made himself ready for a morning audience with the King, but a great sadness fell upon him like a cloud before the sun, robbing the earth of its golden glow. He sat down upon the furs, listening to the silent creep of the ice all about him. A pain in his heart grew from a dull ache to a stabbing sensation, and he lost his breath. He lay back, gasping, a fish suddenly cast out of water.
Tadarus…
He moaned his brother’s name. Tears flowed from his eyes. An emptiness filled the hollows of his chest and stomach. He knew, somehow, with a certainty he had never felt before. His brother was gone.
He closed his eyes. The handsome face of Tadarus swam into his vision, conjured from memory. Then other visions: Tadarus picking him off the floor when he fell as a waddling infant; Tadarus showing him how to swim in a cold lake within sight of the palace towers; Tadarus guiding his hand to perfection with sword, spear, and axe. Wrestling him, laughing with him, running at his side, embracing him. Their father’s hands sitting on both their shoulders, standing side by side before the cheering city… Men and Giants shouting his name, and that of Tadarus. His mother hugging both brothers at the same time. Even young Fangodrel, smiling slyly at one of Tadarus’ jests.
His brother was dead.
How could he
know?
Yet he did.
As he pulled on the tiger-cloak, one of his wives came into the chamber. She gave him meat and a slab of green cheese. “I am Trylla,” she told him. “I was the wife of Dolgir the Stoneheart.”
She stood three times his height, but she kneeled so that her face was even with his. He took her great head in his hands, and kissed her forehead gently.
“Trylla, I am sorry for the loss of your husband.”
She stared at him, masking her emotion as the shamaness had done.
“Gather all my wives and children together,” he told her. “Prepare for a journey. We leave this very day.”
Trylla had a single child, a young boy of five, who was nearly as tall as Vireon. His name was Dolmun, and he responded eagerly when Vireon asked him to lead him to the King’s hall. In the throne room Vireon explained his vision to Angrid, that his brother was in jeopardy or had already died, though he knew secretly that the latter was the truth.
“Go then,” said the Ice King. “Let our cousins know that our gates are open to them… and our hearts. Let them come, Vireon. Let them find happiness with the Udvorg.”
Vireon bowed low before the King. “It shall be so,” he promised.
“But remember,” said the Ice King. “No humans will be welcome here {weeon bowed. Let them stay in Vod’s city.”
Vireon agreed. This was no land for frail humans. Once again there would be a realm exclusive to Giants. In truth, there always had been. It had been rediscovered. He thanked the Ice King again and vowed to return.
At midday they set out across the plateau: Vireon, his six wives, and his nine children. Wrapped in furs dyed to shades of ebony, snow, and scarlet, they marched down the slopes in quiet resignation. The day was storm free and well made for travel.
Alua came to him at dusk, when they stopped at the rim of the snow-dusted foothills. She came as a white fox, gliding up a hill on four paws, but when she reached him she stood on two legs. Her arms wrapped about him, and his blue-skin wives turned away. The children stared in wonder at this transformed creature.
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