The few Khyrein ships anchored at Allundra had quickly raised their sails and taken to the sea when the vanguard of Giants came marching out of the Earth Wall’s shadow. Tyro had enjoyed watching the black reavers flee like a startled flock of crows, yet it had reminded him of the triple fleet that sailed to intercept Zyung at Ongthaia. There had been no word since its departure. Had the battle been joined there yet? Would the Kings of Yaskatha and Mumbaza return alive to bring knowledge of their common foes, or were the Southern fleets doomed as Iardu had said they would be? Tyro did not know the full power of Khama the Feathered Serpent, but perhaps it would be enough to win at least a small victory. In his heart, Tyro did not believe they would save the Jade Isles. But if they could weaken the floating horde in some significant way–tear a few ships out of the sky and kill a few thousand Manslayers–that would provide some edge in the coming battle.
Since Varda’s death, Vireon had ridden in silence on a black warhorse, something he could only do at the size of a Man. When camp was made each night, the Giant-King brooded in his royal tent. Tyro had tried to speak with him three times, but in each case Vireon proved tight-lipped and surly. Let the Man-Giant work through his grief, Tyro decided. When they reached the dead city, Vireon must break his silence for a council of strategy. No use having that discussion before they set eyes on the landscape and evaluated its tactical resources.
So Tyro sat alone tonight and enjoyed the wine, occupying his thoughts with memories of Talondra. It had been many weeks since he departed Uurz. He imagined that her taut, brown belly would be lightly swollen by now. He looked into the future, imagining his son as a young lad learning the art of swordplay. Tyro would teach Dairon the Second himself if, Gods willing, he survived this war. His own father had entrusted Tyro’s training to old Lord Zormicus, who had done a fine job. Yet Tyro remembered wishing the Emperor would enter the training yard himself and show his son the proper way to hold and swing a sword. Or at least observe his son’s progress from time to time. However, Dairon the First had been far too busy running the affairs of Uurz to sit and watch a boy swinging a practice blade. Tyro promised himself that he would put his son first. Matters of state should never interfere with matters of family.
This reminded him of Lyrilan, and the bitter power struggle that had seen his brother exiled and his sister-in-law murdered. He poured another cup of wine from the flagon and drank deep. The irony of his own considerations was not lost upon him.
I had to put the good of the realm before Lyrilan. There was no other choice.
I will never do this with my own son.
Perhaps Mendices was right. Tyro’s best course of action might be to bring his legions back to Uurz and secure its walls, letting the Men and Giants of Udurum face the onslaught of Zyung by themselves. If he did this now, Tyro was certain to reach home in time to witness the birth of his son. If he maintained his present course, however, he might never see the boy. In the final analysis, it was a question of honor. He could not abandon Vireon without disgracing himself in the eyes of Udurum and its people, including the great folk of the Icelands.
Suddenly a new thought struck him: How many Giants remained still in the Frozen North? How many more legions of them could Vireon summon to fight for him? This was another reason why Uurz must remain allied with Udurum. If Zyung’s horde was as massive as Iardu’s vision showed it to be, the Land of the Five Cities might need more Giants to come to its aid. Putting aside the invasion of Zyung, Vireon might also be the only thing standing between the wild Giants and the gates of Uurz. Better to fight alongside the King of Giants than to oppose him, even if the war was costly. Having the united Giantlands as an enemy was unthinkable.
Tyro stood to unbuckle his breastplate when the sound of beating hooves cut through the clutter of camp noises. Someone spoke in a loud, urgent voice. A mount whinnied as it was led away to be groomed and fed. A soldier entered through the royal pavilion’s flap, his green cloak swirling in the evening breeze.
“Majesty, a herald arrives from Uurz.”
Tyro nodded. He knew the sound of a herald’s advent well. “Have him fed and washed. I will see him within the hour.”
“My Lord…” said the soldier, his eyes steady upon those of his King. Tyro recalled that his name was Aerodus, or it could have been Aerion. The two men were brothers and much alike. Another reminder of Lyrilan. There were so many of late. “This herald has ridden through the night. He says his message cannot wait. He wishes to see you immediately, if it please you.”
Tyro wished Mendices was back from his fish-buying to meet with the messenger. Politics never ceased to complicate his life, even hundreds of leagues away from the City of Sacred Waters. “Very well,” he said. “Admit him.”
Tyro settled back into his chair and filled a second copper goblet for the herald. Soon the man came stamping into the tent, mud and road-dirt dripping from cloak and greaves. He smelled strongly of horse, and the soiled state of his garments evinced several days of hard riding. An unkempt beard of several days’ growth obscured his chin; without the green-gold livery of an Uurzian official he might have passed as a vagabond.
The herald sank to one knee, clutching his tarnished helm in the crook of an arm. He carried no scroll or missive that Tyro could see. The message must be a private one, meant only for the King’s ears. Perhaps this was more than a political development that needed his attention.
“Rise,” said Tyro. “Will you drink?”
The worn-out herald shook his head. His breath was heavy, his eyes weary. Tyro realized this could only be bad news.
“Majesty,” the herald said. “I have ridden six days from Uurz to bring you ill tidings.”
Of course. Tyro nodded. “Speak then,” he said, taking another swig of wine. Someone must have died. Could the Green and Gold factions still be quarreling even after Lyrilan’s humiliation and exile?
The herald would not meet his eyes as he spoke. “Empress Talondra…” His voice became a stammer. In the early ages heralds who brought bad news were often slain immediately. “She was found…”
Tyro’s temper kindled. Let the man be brave enough to speak his message. Tyro was no barbarian chief to slit the throat of a loyal servant. Any man of Uurz should know that about him.
“Speak,” said Tyro. A hollow hunger yawned in his gut. He had not taken supper.
“The Empress Talondra was found… dead, Sire. In her bed-chamber. Seven days past.” The herald kept his gaze fixed upon the faded carpets of the tent.
Tyro stood up and grabbed the man by his throat, pulling him to his feet. The hunger in his belly was replaced by a black claw ripping at his intestines. The rider repeated his message at Tyro’s command. Tyro stared into his gray eyes, looking for signs of falsehood. The messenger wept, his tears carving channels through the grime of his worried face.
“I am sorry, Majesty,” whispered the soldier. “By the Four Gods, I am so sorry…”
Tyro dropped the man to the carpet. His own legs failed, but he found the seat in time to catch him. He drained the full cup of wine, spilling it on either side of his mouth.
“How?” he asked. There was no strength left in his voice. His eyes welled.
“No one knows,” said the herald. “Her flesh and bones were… crushed… as if by a heavy stone, or a constricting Serpent.”
Tyro grabbed the flagon and turned it to his lips. Wine poured bitter into his mouth while hot tears poured from his eyes. He tossed the empty bottle across the tent where it clanged off a round shield bearing the sun standard of Uurz. His head swam and his fists clenched. His body quivered with a sickening blend of rage and despair.
His wife and unborn son were dead. It seemed unreal. A nightmare. Was he lying on the cushions awaiting the return of Mendices and dreaming this tragedy?
Talondra. Crushed to death?
Sorcery. It must be. One of his many enemies. Could Zyung’s magic have raced ahead of his armada to slaughter Tyro’s family? If so, why not
slaughter the Sword King himself? Ianthe and Gammir had been destroyed by Iardu and Sharadza. Or so they told him.
My son will never be born.
He remembered Talondra’s sweet face, her eyes bright as sapphires, her touch hot as flame. His tigress. His Empress. She had survived the Doom of Shar Dni only to perish behind the mighty walls of Uurz. Madness rose like bile from the core of his stomach and thundered into his skull. He must not go mad with grief. He must be strong. Still it rose, like the ocean tide rising in the evening to drown the sand. It could not be stopped. No more than rushing blood could be stopped spilling from sliced flesh.
The Emperor of Uurz fell to his knees and screamed like a wounded animal. The herald rushed from the tent, terror on his face, tears in his eyes. The silks and fabrics of the tent became a blur of colors as Tyro ripped and tore them to ribbons. The clanging of metal implements and the splintering of wooden furniture were drowned by his wailing. A ring of soldiers rushed into the pavilion, standing about him like gilded pillars. He hurled himself against their raised shields, banging at the embossed metal with his fists until his knuckles were torn and bloody. He knocked men down, but others replaced them. They did not touch him, or offer him comfort–what comfort could they offer a raging Emperor?–but simply allowed him to bellow his pain and batter at their metal until he fell spent upon the carpets and cried like an infant.
Mendices found him like that. The Warlord quickly dismissed the soldiers. “Any man who speaks of this will be executed!” spat the Warlord. These were the cruel words that penetrated the fog of madness and brought Tyro back to his senses.
Mendices righted the overturned cot and laid Tyro upon it. Like a father tending a sick son, he leaned over Tyro and poured cold water between his lips.
“She’s dead,” Tyro whispered. “She’s dead.”
Mendices held him fast as fresh sobs brought fresh convulsions.
Tyro did not recall passing from grief into slumber, but at some point exhaustion and the weight of loss pulled him under. He welcomed the blackness, but not the dreams of flowing blood, pulped flesh, and cracked bone that replaced the waking world.
He tossed and turned, and finally opened his eyes to the gloom of the reordered tent. Mendices lay snoring nearby on a pile of pillows. A single brazier lighted the interior, sending a trail of black smoke to curl about the hole in its roof. The great camp was oddly quiet beyond the walls of mud-stained canvas.
At first Tyro thought the herald had returned to stand at attention in the corner of the pavilion. He raised his head, blinking blood-rimmed eyes, and saw that it was not the herald at all who stood watching him sleep. It was none of his soldiers either.
The figure wore a robe of sable with runes stitched in green thread about the sleeves and neck. Emeralds glittered somewhere among the dark folds. A mane of black wavy hair framed the head like a hood. The face that stared at Tyro was his own.
The scale is balanced, said the apparition.
Lyrilan’s voice.
Your wife and child have joined mine.
Tyro whimpered. He could not move arms or legs. To cry out was impossible. His broadsword lay upon the cushions ten handspans away. It might as well be ten thousand leagues from him.
Do not despair, brother, said Lyrilan. You will see them again when you enter the valley of death.
Tyro leaped up suddenly, as if a great stone had rolled off his chest.
Lyrilan was gone, if he had ever been there at all. The brazier’s flame was dead.
The Emperor of Uurz sat on the edge of his cot and wept in the darkness.
Dahrima’s fingers closed about the scrambling creature’s neck. It squealed and tore at her wrist with dirty fingernails as she raised the knife. This was no creature of the shadow world who stalked her, but only a hairy, disheveled wretch. She hesitated to call it a Man; it gagged and screeched like a dying pig as she dragged it into the moonlight to get a better look.
“Please,” gasped the creature. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!”
The moon on its face showed her a round head, bald on the pate but sprouting a dirty brown beard about the mouth, jaw, and chin. Its sunken chest and limbs were hairy as well, but no more than some northerners she had seen shirtless. A loincloth of dirty rags was its only garment. The beard was matted with mud, dried insect husks, and possibly blood. It was the tiny, desperate eyes that assured her it was a human after all. They were tarnished green, almost olive, bloodshot, and full of darting madness.
She held the blade of her long knife before one of those eyes.
“Name yourself,” she said in the language common to Men.
“I have no name,” blurted the wretch. “I lost it. I lost it among the shattered stones.” Foam dripped from his swollen lips. “I lost everything. I am nothing! Please don’t hurt me.”
Dahrima sheathed the knife but kept hold of the scrawny neck.
“All right, Sir Nothing,” she said. “Are there any more of your kind living among these ruins? Speak the truth and I’ll not harm you. Lie to me and I will roast your flesh and crunch your bones between my teeth.” She smiled to show him her teeth. Most humans south of the Grim were ignorant of Giant culture; this one might actually believe the old tales about Giants eating manflesh.
“Nobody!” said Sir Nothing. “They are all dead here. All dead…”
“Promise you’ll not run away and I will release you,” said Dahrima.
“I’ll not run!” wheezed Sir Nothing. The olive eyes watered and pleaded. “I’ll not run…”
She turned him loose and he fell back against the big stone, grasping his neck and drawing in ragged breaths. Below the tangled beard hung the gleaming stone she had noticed earlier. On a narrow strip of worn leather dangled a sapphire large as a robin’s egg. Some sigil or rune was etched into its surface, but she couldn’t make it out in the gloom.
Sir Nothing kept his ratlike eyes on her face. She loomed over him, and he smiled at her the way a child smiles at his doting mother.
“Such beauty…” he muttered. “Tall as the sun, bright as the sea. You must be the Queen of Giants.”
Dahrima laughed. “Flattery will not work on me, Sir Nothing. Are you Sharrian?” She recognized the brown skin, the dark hair, the green eyes. She already knew the answer.
Nothing’s eyes scanned the dark stones lying about them in jagged confusion. “I am of this place,” he said. His voice was faraway now, the voice of an old sage. Or a madman.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“All my life, Lady,” he replied. “I was born in the great palace that used to stand there.” He pointed a bony finger toward the center of the ruins. A cold breeze blew off the sea and he shrank toward the earth with sudden alarm. “You cannot stay here! Oh, no… nobody stays here. They linger beneath the stones, you see.” His voice fell to a guarded whisper. “They still hunger.”
Dahrima looked about the ruined landscape and saw nothing but the rising moon, the glimmering sea, and the hills of the valley being swallowed by darkness. If there were bloodshadows lurking in this place, they showed no sign of themselves. Perhaps they awaited the passing of the last rays of sun. The river glided through the gloom, a silent silver mystery.
“Come,” said Nothing. “I will show you out of the valley. You cannot stay here. They will come for you. The night draws them out like crabs from the sea. Delicious crabs, crawling and feasting…”
“If spirits haunt this valley,” Dahrima said, refusing to move, “then why have they not devoured you long before now?”
Sir Nothing grabbed the stone hanging from his neck. “This!” He whispered. “My savior, my protector. I found it in the basement of a ruined temple. Oh, the temples were so grand here once. Sky-blue pyramids topped with pearly clouds… Oh, the holy smokes that rose to honor the Gods!” He inhaled the night air, smelling memories. “They reeked of holiness and meadowflower, the sweet smokes. How I miss them, Lady.” His voice had risen to a poetic ti
mbre, but now it dropped again to a whisper. “This amulet belonged to a priest of the Sky God. I plucked it from his bones when the black slayers departed. I’ve worn it ever since. It keeps the hungry shadows from me, you see. Only me!” He drew away from her, suddenly afraid she would steal his magic stone. She understood then that it was a talisman, protection from evil spirits. At least to this deranged hermit. The sigil on its surface resembled a cloud.
“In the Giantlands we worship different Gods than Men do,” said Dahrima. “Or perhaps they are the same Gods with different names.”
Sir Nothing drew near to her foot like a fawning puppy, nuzzling her ankle. “The Gods have forsaken this place,” he said. “But I have not. And I never will.”
Dahrima wanted to push him away. His stink rose into her nostrils again. But she pitied him, so she endured his touch and his odor. The poor fellow had lost his mind long ago.
“Why don’t you leave these crumbled stones?” she asked. “You would find fellowship and comfort in Udurum or Uurz. Are you not lonely?”
He leaped away from her, curling into a ball. “Don’t take me away,” he cried. “Please don’t take me away! This is where I belong…”
“This is a place of death and foul spirits,” she told him. He gazed at the stars now, perhaps not hearing her words. “You can have no life here.”
Sir Nothing looked at her again, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. “This is my kingdom,” he said proudly. He tried to stand up straight before her, but his crooked back would not allow it. His long arms hung at his sides, and again he reminded her of a southern ape. “I am the last royal heir, you see.”
Dahrima smiled. “You told me you were nothing.”
“I am the King of Shar Dni,” he told her. “This is my realm. All the others are dead, but I still rule this place. The ghosts of my people serve me and call me Majesty. Nobody can hear them but me. They need their King.”
Seven Sorcerers: Book Three of the Books of the Shaper Page 14
