Sorcery. Love.
Love and sorcery.
Does any living Man truly understand such things?
18
War Plans
Tadarus lay upon a bier of silk, gold, and snowflowers. A shirt of silver mail hung over his fine robe of purple and sable. His gauntlets gripped the hilt of a jeweled sword upon his breast, and his face was obscured by the winged helm of an Udurum soldier. Tyro watched Vireon, dressed in armor of blackened bronze scales, place a Giant’s hammer at the side of his dead brother.
“It was the last gift I ever gave him,” Vireon said.
Tyro had no words for the grieving Prince. He looked instead at his own brother. Lyrilan was the only Prince who did not wear mail or plate this day. Lyrilan’s robes were cloth-of-gold trimmed in green, the colors of Uurz. His black curls were oiled and held from his brow by a golden band set with emeralds. The persistent stubble that never quite became a beard was gone. Lyrilan’s chin was shaved to the cleanness of boyhood, which almost made Tyro laugh. Lyrilan was his other half, the thought to his action. Each twin had mastered the skills his counterpart lacked. Together, they were body and mind. To lose Lyrilan would be to lose himself. Such thoughts kept Tyro from meeting the sad eyes of Vireon. Alua, dressed in a black gown of mourning, remained at Vireon’s side, a steady presence to guide him through the service. For the first time Tyro realized how beautiful this strange girl was, despite her lack of finery and jewels. Or perhaps because of it? Her eyes gleamed, yet they were darker than her funereal silks.
Andoses stood tall in gilded mail and turban-helm, scimitar gleaming at his waist. D’zan, poorest of the Princes, had been given a shirt of bronze links and a black tabard by his Udurum hosts, and the great sword hung on his back as always. Tyro had supplied him with a new pair of spotless boots for the occasion – since he claimed the throne of Yaskatha, D’zan must look the part of a King. His cloak of fine brown fur was washed and groomed, and a circlet of fine silver held back his thick blonde mane. He looked presentable enough, if somewhat out of place this far from home.
Fangodrim and fifty Uduru sentinels in full armor formed the heart of the procession, and Queen Shaira arrived last of all. Servants had draped her in black: a flowing dress, shawl, and a cloak pinned by a silver brooch in the shape of the Udurum hammer. An elaborate headdress replaced her usual crown of slim silver. Twelve rays of a platinum sun spread outward from her brow, radiating from a faceted amethyst at the center of her forehead. Her green eyes glimmered through the delicate lace of a veil. Her feet were bare in the traditional Sharrian mode of mourning. The day was cold, so this was a bold choice. Perhaps the chill could be no worse than the pain of losing her son.
A quartet of Uduru lifted her chair onto a broad palanquin hung with black silks. Another four Giants lifted the bier of Tadarus. At noon four priests representing Earth, Sea, Sun, and Sky filed from the palace gates swinging censers full of incense. The Dead Prince came next, followed by the Living Queen, both held high on the shoulders of the solemn Giants. Next came the five Living Princes, Vireon and Alua at their head. Fangodrim and his fifty Uduru marched at Vireon’s heels, then a hundred spearmen in silver helms, purple cloaks, and black mail. At the rear of the procession rode a captain on a black stallion, holding high the banner of New Udurum.
The procession went first along Giant’s Way, the city’s main avenue, toward the Great Gate, which stood closed for the funeral. The procession turned north andrne he made a circuit along the Outer Ring, a road running in the shadow of the city wall about the entire city. A frigid wind blew, but the streets were largely clear of snow. A drab sky hung above, heavy with cloud, as if the sun refused to look upon the Dead Prince. No rain or snow fell, but the tears of the gathered Udurumites rained from their eyes to stain cheeks, chins, and chests. Vod’s people lined the streets by the thousands, climbing onto the roofs of houses, stables, and taverns to catch a glimpse. Some wailed aloud, lamenting Tadarus the Brave, Tadarus the Strong, Tadarus the Mighty… Tadarus the True Son of Vod.
Mournful Giants and Giantesses gathered among the crowds. More Uduru than Tyro had ever seen – hundreds of them standing with heads bowed along the avenues. Some wore the accoutrements of war – helms, armor, and shields – while others wore the smocks of blacksmiths and builders. Obviously, plenty of the Uduru chose not to make the warrior’s way their focus.
So very like humans. Like my brother and I.
Tyro had seen grand funerals in Uurz, but never one with such honesty on display. These people had loved their Prince. Some even shouted the name of Vireon – Vireon the Hunter… Vireon the King. They thanked the Four Gods for sparing Vireon. Some cried vengeance for Tadarus. The Uduru kept silent in a show of respect, but human men and women could not restrain their grief, their anger, or their tongues.
All afternoon the procession wound slowly about the perimeter of the city. Sentinels upon the walls looked down upon the funeral march, their sadness no less than the multitudes lining the streets. Foreign traders stood solemn among the populace, mimicking the mute Giants. At the end of the third hour, Tyro was glad to see the gates of the palace looming ahead. So much weeping and moaning could wear on a man’s soul. It reminded him of his own mortality, and that everyone he knew would some day die and be mourned.
Once inside the palace courtyard, the procession wound toward the Royal Mausoleum. The Queen’s tears flowed as she neared the granite tomb. Tadarus would be the first of his line to inhabit the death-house. Tyro swallowed hard to contain a surging grief that had lain dormant in his stomach until now. The royal father had built this house for himself and his Queen, but the son would lie in it before either of them. The Queen descended from her palanquin to weep over her son’s body, to embrace Tadarus for the last time.
The priest of the Sky God spoke a litany over the body, then a Giant pulled open the marble door of the vault. Vireon and a crouching Fangodrim carried the dead Prince inside and lowered his body into a sarcophagus along the far wall. Other coffins lay empty and waiting. By the size of this tomb, Tyro realized that Vod had intended to be buried as a Man, not a Giant. There were no sarcophagi here large enough to house a Giant’s bones. He wondered if Vod were truly dead, or if he might return some day to reclaim his throne. Yet he feared the world had seen the last of Vod. Vireon would rule the City of Men and Giants now… as soon as his mother relinquished the throne or joined Tadarus in the vault.
The ceremony ended with the singing of a dirge by the Uduru. It was the song of a warrior who died in battle, a plea that his soul be taken into the House of the Gods. When the last of their umbling basso voices faded, the calm of winter filled the courtyard, and the Princes gathered in the dining hall.
A banquet in Tadarus’ name began without the presence of the Queen. The Princes sat about her empty chair while captains, advisors, and chancellors lined the rest of the long table. Servants brought dish after dish of steaming poultry and meats, glazed vegetables, fine cheeses, towers of skewered fruit, and carafes of blood-dark wine. None would touch the food until the Queen arrived. By that time the men had been drinking for an hour, Vireon and Fangodrim sharing their memories of Tadarus. The specter of sorrow, while not completely gone, had faded like smoke into the air, and wistful laughter began to slip across the board.
Queen Shaira emerged in a plum gown and a slim silver crown bearing diamonds. The black shawl still hung about her shoulders. Her eyes, though wiped clear of tears and lined with kohl, were red and swollen. She accepted a cup of the rich wine and drank deeply from it.
“Eat,” she said in a gentle voice. “And drink to the memory of Tadarus.”
“To Tadarus, Prince of Udurum, True Son of Vod!” toasted Fangodrim. Along the great table, sixty cups were raised and sixty voices joined him.
Tyro sat to the left of Vireon, who kept Alua on his right. Tyro asked why there were no other Giants present.
“This feast is for immediate family and the persons of court, those who served Ta
darus,” said Vireon. “Fangodrim is our uncle. Also, the Uduru usually do not eat for several days after a funeral.”
Fangodrim the Gray drank deeply but touched none of the fine food. The rest of the attendees were not so shy. The day had been long and most were famished. As for the Princes who had come across the Grim Mountains, this was the best food they had eaten since leaving Uurz. Even lean Andoses ate like a starved man. His recovery from the ordeal at Steephold was nearly complete.
Alua picked at her food, eating only a little meat, despite Vireon’s prompting. The girl was most strange. There must be quite a tale behind Vireon’s love for her. Tyro would ask for it later.
The Queen seemed restless and barely touched her food. After a few more toasts in the name of Tadarus, she turned to quiet D’zan.
“Do you miss your homeland, Prince?” asked Shaira.
D’zan washed down a mouthful of fowl with a gulp of wine. “Very much, Majesty,” he said. “I miss the sea… the people… my father and uncle.”
“Tell me how you lost the throne, if you will.”
D’zan described the terrible night of Elhathym’s assault on the city. Those near him lost their appetites when he spoke of the dead rising from their tombs. He praised the Stone, whom he called his uncle, and described their narrow escape on a northbound vessel, their arrival in Murala, their trek across the Stormlands to Uurz. He seemed unable to stop talking, as if telling this tale was a great relief, a burden lifted from his shoulders. Finally, he told her of his first night in Uurz, when the Death-Bringers of Khyrei stole the life of Olthacus the Stone. Tyro still felt the shame of that attack burning in his own breast. It should never have happened under Dairon’sders o roof. All the more reason to make Khyrei answer for its actions.
“You have suffered much,” said the Queen. She leaned across the table and took D’zan’s hand. “More than one of your age should have to bear. That you survive is a testament to your strength of mind and body.”
D’zan seemed lost in his thoughts, reliving all that he had related. Andoses spoke for him. Tyro glanced at the Sharrian, hoping he would not seem too eager. The Queen was in a fragile state now. They could not press her into war. They must be subtle and let her come to the decision on her own. He trusted that Andoses understood this.
“Prince D’zan’s journey thus far is the stuff of legends,” said Andoses. “Why, Lyrilan here is writing it all into his book.”
The Queen looked at Lyrilan. “True,” said the Scholar-Prince. “I joined D’zan because I wish to chronicle his life in as much detail as possible.”
“When he regains the throne and tosses the bones of this Elhathym into the sea,” said Andoses, “what a terrific ending your book will have.”
“What of you, Tyro?” asked the Queen. “Your brother seeks the preservation of knowledge through art. Why do you join D’zan?”
Tyro considered his words carefully. “Justice,” he said. “D’zan is the rightful heir to one of the world’s greatest kingdoms. Yaskatha is the jewel of the south. It pains me and my Lord Father to see a crime such as this. We seek justice not only for D’zan, but for his people. Surely they suffer under this black-handed tyrant.”
“A sorcerer,” said Vireon. He looked across the table at D’zan, who remained quiet. “Such an enemy is to be feared. Prince D’zan, I apologize. Yesterday I spoke out of grief and rage.”
D’zan grinned at Vireon. He raised his wine cup. “To new friends,” said the Yaskathan. The entire table drank to his toast. Alua nestled close to Vireon’s shoulder, her keen eyes smiling at D’zan.
“Shar Dni is the kingdom of my brother Ammon,” said the Queen. “The Raiders of Khyrei have all but crippled their trade. The island kingdoms of the East fear to enter their waters. Many of Ammon’s ships have been lost, and the Men of Shar Dni have perished in these sea battles… including Vidictus, another of my brothers. Khyrei is the enemy of Udurum because it is the enemy of Shar Dni.”
“So Andoses has explained to me,” said D’zan. “There is… too much death these days.”
A silly thing to say, thought Tyro. But D’zan speaks with a pure heart. The Queen likes him already.
Andoses responded to the use of his name. “There is no doubt that some covenant exists between the Empress of Khyrei and the Usurper of Yaskatha. Why else would Khyrein assassins travel all the way to Uurz and attempt to kill D’zan? This Elhathym obviously fears the return of the rightful Prince. He knows, as any tyrant should know, that the people will stand behind their true King, no matter his age. When D’zan returns, he will foster a rebellion to end this sorcerer’s rule.”
“Is this your intention, D’zan?” asked the Queen.
Answer well, young Prince, thought Tyro.
D’zan sat quiet for a moment. “I must do now what my father would do,” he said. “I follow a path laid for me by Olthacus the Stone. This sword I bear was his, and I will raise it as a banner to rally my countrymen. I will take back the throne that my father lost… or I will die in the trying. I can do no less.”
“Well said, Prince,” said the Queen. “You are your father’s son indeed.”
“He will need the backing of all our kingdoms,” said Tyro, seizing the moment. “A rebellion of peasants will achieve little. The power of Uurz, Shar Dni, and Udurum must be the first to rally beneath this banner. Yours is the final word, Majesty.”
“Before you answer, Shaira, consider this,” said Andoses. “Fostering revolt in the name of D’zan will divide the forces of Yaskatha and distract the tyrant. During a time of insurrection Khyrei will not be able to rely on Yaskathan aid. We will be three kingdoms united against one mutual enemy.”
“There remains the matter of Mumbaza,” said the Queen. “They are a mighty nation. If they ally with Khyrei’s Empress or the tyrant of Yaskatha, it will not go well for us.”
Andoses slammed his hand against the table. “Sister of my father!” he said. “We do not need the hordes of Mumbaza! We have the Uduru! Three armies of men and a fourth of giants! Who could stand against that?”
“A sorcerer,” answered Lyrilan, ever the voice of reason. “Or a sorceress. Do you forget that both Empress and Usurper wield the powers of darkness? You heard D’zan’s tale – what other horrors might this usurper call upon to cut down an army of living men? And Ianthe the Claw… her wizardry is legend itself. They say she feeds on the blood of the living and consorts with demons. There is more to power than marching feet and waving spears…”
Tyro noticed Fangodrim glancing at Vireon, who nodded.
“I have spoken with the Uduru since Vireon’s return,” said Fangodrim. “We have a duty that precedes all else. We will go north into the realm of the Ice King, there to join the Udvorg and make families. If we joined this war instead, there may be no more Uduru to preserve our line. The Queen has granted us permission to go… and so we will.”
Tyro was speechless. He turned to Andoses, who was just as surprised.
So Vireon told the tale of discovering the Udvorg. Because of his uniting this fractured people, the Uduru no longer faced extinction. Yet because of that same heroic act, this war had lost an army of Giants.
This changes everything, thought Tyro. We do need Mumbaza. We need… we need…
Andoses guzzled the dregs from his cup. “You mean every last Giant refuses to fight?” he asked. “I thought the Uduru relished any chance for war.”
Fangodrim nodded. “Most do,” he said. “But not now. Our duty is to future generations. However, there is a group of my people who refuse to make the trek northward. They would likely join your battle.”
“Superb!” said Andoses. “How many will march?”
“Ninety-nine,” said Fangodrim.
Andoses’ jaw dropped. “There are at least twelve hundred Uduru in this city! And only ninety-nine will go to war?”
The Queen stared at Andoses. “Do you not understand, nephew? Fangodrim’s people are dying. Reuniting with the Udvorg is the only chance
they have. Why accept the death of their race and march off to war when the Gods have offered them life instead?”
“Ninety-nine Uduru is still a powerful force,” said Tyro. He must not appear ungrateful or disrespectful. That might destroy the entire alliance. Andoses was a blood relative of the Queen, but the Uduru held no relation to him.
“ Uduri, actually,” said Fangodrim.
Tyro’s brow narrowed, and Lyrilan chuckled.
“Uduri?” asked Tyro. “What does that mean?”
“Female Giants,” said Lyrilan. “The ninety-nine are Giantesses.”
Andoses looked from face to face, and back to Fangodrim’s grim visage. “You’re giving us your women?”
“No!” said Fangodrim, displeased with Andoses’ manner. “Our women will not come with us. They can bear no children, and they understand this. They have chosen to stay and ordered us to go. They are giving us… to the fertile Udvorg women.”
“Andoses, have you read the Uduru Sagas?” said Lyrilan. “The Uduri are every bit as fierce and terrible as Uduru. After all, these ninety-nine survived the death of Old Udurum, the Coming of the Serpent-Father.”
“So we will have three armies of men,” said Andoses, tugging at his braided beard, “and ninety-nine Uduri.”
Tyro nodded. “Where the south has two armies, each led by a sorcerer. Have we any sorcerers?”
Lyrilan laughed. No one else did.
Vireon whispered something in Alua’s ear. Shyly, she raised a hand over the table. A white flame sprang from her open palm, dancing and twisting with life.
The feasters leaned back in their chairs.
“Alua…” said Vireon. “She is a sorceress.”
Andoses smiled. “Will you join our cause, Great Lady? Will you go with us to-”
“She goes with me, Cousin,” said Vireon. “She goes wherever I go.”
Andoses grew calm. “And where dnd›me you go, cousin?”
Vireon held back his words and turned his eyes to meet those of Alua. She closed her palm, and the flame was gone without a trace of smoke.
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