Seven Kings bots-2

by John R. Fultz

  Five years.

  Or sooner, if Tyro died on the battlefield. “When do you sail?” he asked.

  “In seven days,” said D’zan, “when Undutu’s Swan Fleet reaches my shores. We’ll have a force the likes of which the world has never seen. Sail with me, Lyrilan!”

  Lyrilan shook his head. His black curls were unkempt and wild from days of sea winds. “As you say, I am no warrior,” he said. “I grow too old for such adventures.” He was only thirty, the same age as Tyro. But D’zan said nothing of this; he knew the twins were not of one make.

  “Very well,” said D’zan, shrugging his broad shoulders. “You will find the Royal Library at your disposal, as well as the libraries of the temples. And there are plenty of hot-blooded women here in the palace eager to soothe the pain of your loss. I trust you will keep busy while I am gone.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Lyrilan. His thoughts turned to the candle and the mollusk.

  The blood.

  Five years to plan my vengeance.

  “To friendship,” he said, echoing D’zan’s words from earlier in the evening. He raised his cup and stared at the dark ocean as if toasting its deep mystery. He swallowed the last gulp of wine as D’zan did the same.

  The King of Yaskatha refilled both chalices and made his own toast.

  “To friendship, war, and the deaths of our enemies.”

  They drank deeply of the ancient vintage.

  15

  Stairway to Glory

  When the Giants returned to Uurz, they brought with them an end to the long drought. Sages and drunkards alike praised the name of Vireon Vodson. As his father’s sorcery had shattered the Desert of Many Thunders and birthed the Stormlands, so did Vireon’s power bring the thunderstorms rushing back to the City of Sacred Waters.

  Vireon had no conscious designs on the weather, yet Men and Giants had long told him that Vod’s sorcery was his birthright. Certainly his sister had displayed a command of such magic, and now Vireon considered the possibility that he too might possess hidden reserves of power. His great strength, speed, and durability were already legend, so if Men chose to call him sorcerer then he no longer cared to deny it. Yet none accused him of this to his face.

  The Giants came in a great marching horde, flattening the fields of brown grass as they filed out of the Grim Mountains through Vod’s Passage. The cold air flew before them as if to announce their coming. The Men of Lakehold first saw Vireon’s advance, and they shuddered behind the walls of their tiny fortress. Behind the King of Udurum on his great black charger came a personal guard of forty Uduri spearmaidens, followed by two legions of Men on horseback and seven more legions on foot.

  After the Men of Udurum came the sight which struck fear into the hearts of the most grizzled warriors: a legion of blue-skinned Ice Giants numbering three thousand strong, fronted by the hulking form of King Angrid the Long-Arm. At the Ice King’s side walked a single Uduri, a blue-skinned shamaness bearing a staff topped with living blue fire. This was Varda the Keen Eyes, a guardian of the blue flame which did not singe wood or give warmth. All of them, Giants and Men alike, marched or rode beneath the Hammer and Fist banner of New Udurum.

  The mountain waterfall that fed the Uduru River had diminished to a trickle, as had the young river itself. The army of Men and Giants had followed the river’s sluggish course from the mouth of the pass to Lakehold, leaving a swathe of trampled grass along its western bank. When Vireon approached the village and its modest fortress, he looked upon the low waters of the dying lake. A cold wind rushed before him and rattled the stones of the keep.

  By the time the Giant-Kings spoke with the Lord of Lakehold and assured him of their armies’ peaceful passing, a gentle rain had begun to fall. The fortress gates opened and a mass of citizens, formerly terrified of being crushed to death or eaten by Giants, rushed into the village streets in a state of madcap jubilation. They danced in the rain, cheering and laughing; they filled buckets and hats and bowls with it. Some took off their clothes and bathed naked in the rainfall. The ranks of Udvorg, camping within full view of the village, chuckled at the antics of the tiny rain-loving folk. Still, no villager would approach the blue-skinned warriors, even when the sound of jovial laughter mingled with the low thunder above the lake. The Men of Udurum set up tent and pavilion outside the village, preparing for a warm yet sodden night. The blue-skins set up no tents; they were heedless of the elements. While Men huddled about their tent fires and struggled to keep their polished metal dry, the Udvorg slept beneath a blanket of roiling sky.

  The forces of the north rested for a single night outside Lakehold. From his own tent a sleepless Vireon watched the lake waters rise all night long. He had heard many tales of the long drought and its pain. If his coming improved the lives of the Stormlanders, so be it. He was his father’s son.

  The northerners resumed their southward march under a gray dawn, leaving behind them a raging storm. A night rider had been dispatched from the fortress to carry word of Vireon’s coming to the newly ordained Emperor of Uurz. The hoofprints of his galloping steed were still embedded between the endless stalks of tall grass. Soon they were obliterated by the slogging feet and hooves of Men, Udvorg, and Uduru.

  The blue-skins did not grumble much, but it was plain to see they missed their frozen lands. They had left behind all heavy furs, save for loincloths, kilts, and woolly tunics. Most retained their mammoth-hide boots, although some had chosen to walk barefoot through these foreign lands. The icicles had long ago melted from their white beards and hair. At night they built no normal fires, but gathered about several blue bonfires set by the staff of Varda. They basked in the waves of cold emanating from these azure blazes as surely as Men relaxed in the warmth of their cookfires. The Icelands Giants were hardy and adaptable; Vireon learned this quickly. The lack of cold air was uncomfortable for them, but not debilitating. In fact, they seemed to miss the frigid air less and less the farther south they marched. They were born from the ancient stones of the earth, which weathered heat and cold with equal strength.

  Among the blue-skins was a cohort of bronze-skinned Uduru, about half the total number of those who had gone north eight years ago to start families with blue-skin wives. After so many seasons living among their cousins, these black-haired Giants were fully accepted among the Udvorg tribes. Vireon’s uncle, Fangodrim the Gray, stood among the council of chieftains left in charge of the Ice Clans by Angrid, just as Vireon had left Ryvun Ctholl in command of Udurum’s affairs. Ryvun retained a guard of over fifty Uduri to watch his back and help keep order in the City of Men and Giants. Ryvun would serve faithfully, and the loyal Uduri would ensure that he kept the city secure. Who would dare attack Udurum, even with its monarch abroad? The city’s only known enemy lay south in distant Khyrei.

  Storms rolled ahead of the northern armies, as if to announce the coming of Vireon and Angrid. When Vireon rode within sight of the walls of Uurz, the sky was its own leaden empire casting thunderbolts and sheets of cool rain upon the thirsty earth. He had passed dead farms, one after another, victims of the drought and heat. Peasants came out of their withered fields to bow and worship the Giants as they passed, and the Udvorg found this another hilarious sight. Men, to them, were little more than creatures of legend. They expected violence and savagery, but found instead only spectacle and gratitude.

  Behind the city’s massive granite walls the populace rejoiced, yet they grew restless at the approach of the Giant host. Over thirty years ago a lesser host of Giants came and conquered Uurz in a matter of days. Yet the Emperor Tyro rode from the main gate in a white chariot followed by a legion of mounted cavalry. Citizens and guardsmen lined the outer ramparts, trying to catch a glimpse of this meeting of Kings.

  Tyro received Vireon on the brown plain before the high gate, while the welcome rain fell upon soldiers and monarchs alike. Tyro bowed and took Vireon’s forearm against his own in the traditional Uurzian handshake. Then he bowed before the Udvorg King, gifting him doubly
with a cask of aged wine and a strongbox brimming with frosty diamonds. These formalities concluded, Vireon rode into the green-gold city to spend a night at the palace with Dahrima and Angrid at either side. The host of Men and Giants pitched their encampment in the fields outside the gates of Uurz, leaving only the northern and western roads clear of their tents and pickets.

  Dahrima had been Vireon’s first choice to rule Udurum while he was away, but she had refused. In fact, ever since the deaths of his wife and daughter she would not leave his side. He soon grew tired of trying to rid himself of her constant company. Every King must have a personal guard, he reckoned, so why not this faithful Uduri? He had grown accustomed to her handsome face and the glittering gold of her braided hair. She spoke little, and when she did there was wisdom in her words. So she walked on his left as he rode next to Tyro’s chariot, and the people of Uurz gathered along the muddy avenues, the rainslick tops of walls and roofs, and the burnished platforms of temples. They cheered the rain and the Giant-Kings as one.

  Vireon knew not if they loved him merely for the storms, or simply because he was the son of the legendary Vod. He shifted the weight of the greatsword across his back as he rode, a steely reminder of his purpose. He kept a solemn face as the procession entered palace grounds, and thunder rolled above the city’s golden spires.

  Tyro’s best artisans had built a great chair for the King of the Icelands. Angrid and Vireon sat with the Sword King about a table piled heavy with whole roasted pigs, fowl, and oxen. The best of his wines had been hauled from the cellars. Since this was a war council, Tyro had banished the bulk of his court from the Feasting Hall. Twenty legionnaires bearing golden shields stood between the columns, and Generals Mendices, Aeldryn, and Rolfus sat at table with the monarchs. Dahrima stood, leaning against a fat marble pillar behind Vireon’s sculpted chair. Servants offered her wine, but she would take only water.

  “Your coming is the greatest honor of my life thus far,” Tyro told his guests. He wore his lion’s head corselet of gold with a necklace of blood-bright rubies to rival the green jewel of his crown. “Uurz welcomes you as brothers, allies, and liberators. Together we shall bring an end to this long-standing Khyrein oppression of land and sea. Never has the world seen such a force gathered as ours. Let us raise our cups and toast the Alliance of Five Nations.”

  Vireon and Angrid followed Tyro’s gesture.

  “Both D’zan and Undutu have joined our cause?” asked Vireon.

  Tyro’s handsome face beamed. “How could they refuse? What we are doing will change the entire known world for the better. We are about to make history.”

  “What plans have you drawn?” asked Vireon.

  Tyro related the pincer movement his generals had decided upon: the fleets of Yaskatha and Mumbaza would swing around the southern edge of the continent, striking at Khyrei from south and east, while the three armies of the north approached from the west by braving the Eastern Marshes.

  “Already I have sent forth work crews,” Tyro said, “to carve a great stairway in the face of the Earth-Wall, so that both Giants and Men may climb easily into the forests of the High Realms. This shall be done along the great cliff a hundred and fifty leagues inland, so avoiding word of its construction reaching Allundra. The seaport still endures occasional trade with the Khyreins, mostly out of necessity.”

  A low peal of thunder resounded above the palace walls as the rain continued. Vireon sipped at the wine but had little appetite for meat or bread. Angrid, however, tore into the meat with gusto. The Udvorg were accustomed to eating their meat raw, since their blue flame did not blacken or scorch. Yet the Long-Arm seemed to relish the taste of cooked flesh, if the grease on his mighty beard were any indication.

  “The Southern Kings have long refrained from such enterprise as this,” said Vireon. “How did you finally win their allegiance?”

  Tyro frowned. “D’zan’s affection for my poor brother made him amenable to certain agreements. His kingdom lies closest to Khyrei, so he could not hold out forever in the face of its menace. Undutu pledged his own navy as soon as he heard that D’zan had committed the Yaskathan fleet. I believe the King on the Cliffs feared to miss such a historic conflict. This is Undutu’s chance to win renown and rid himself of the title of Boy-King once and for all. At the age of nineteen he is more than ready to spill the blood of enemies… and his mother no longer controls his fate. Of course, a few treasure casks delivered to his door helped to sway his mind.”

  “I know none of these strange names,” said Angrid, chomping the bones of his meal into powdery grit between his molars. “Yet show to me the face of our enemy, and I will crush it beneath my heel.”

  Tyro grinned at the blue-skinned Ice King. “Lord of the Icelands, your presence brings honor to both our races. Yet your people have known only the northern climes for all of history. Why do you now decide to join our noble crusade?”

  “Blood,” answered Angrid. His scarlet eyes turned to Vireon across the table. “The Son of Vod is blood of my blood, as are all of the Uduru. Vireon it was who brought the pale-skins to our lands, where they give our women strong and healthy babes. Vireon it was who united our long-divided peoples. Vireon’s enemies are my enemies. We Giants are carved from the stone of a single mountain. We are Uduraal.”

  “I know this word,” said Tyro. “You are family. The oldest bonds are the strongest bonds.” He raised his cup again and made another toast, this time to the holiness of family bonds. His face grew grave, and he spoke to Vireon in a voice laden with sorrow. “I mourn for the loss of your wife and child. Long have I suspected the continued existence of the Claw. Now that it is a proven fact, there can be no other course but to root her out and destroy her once and for all. Along with her fiendish son… or grandson… or whatever this Gammir might be.”

  “We will bring justice to a land that knows only blood and terror,” said Vireon. “My father cast the Palace of Khyrei into ruins when he was young. His mistake was in allowing the Claw to rebuild it and maintain her power. He should have razed the entire city and made the world safer for his descendants. Vod did many great things, but the one feat he left undone his son will do for him. The fact that all nations stand united on this course only proves its worth.”

  “Indeed,” said Tyro. “I’ve prepared twenty legions of strong Uurzian soldiers. Sixty thousand well-trained warriors. Add to that the legions of Men and Giants you bring southward, and we stand a hundred thousand strong. And the might of Giants cannot be measured as that of Men, so our true strength is far greater than our numbers. In the might of Giantkind lies the true greatness of our force, and with the world’s two greatest navies at our side, we cannot fail.”

  “Have you any word of my sister?” Vireon asked. He had received no message or news of Sharadza in months. There would be sorcery in Khyrei, and she would be an asset if he could bring her to the field. Or perhaps she decided to sail with D’zan.

  Tyro sighed and called for a servant to refill Vireon’s cup. “Has no one told you?” Vireon stared at him. “It seems Sharadza has left D’zan. He has taken a second wife, who now carries his child. They say Sharadza fled into the night, perhaps on some errand of sorcery. Yet no one really knows the truth of it. I would like nothing better than to see your sister among our company. Perhaps she will join the crusade as it moves south.”

  Vireon grimaced. The news did not sit well with him.

  “When the slaying is done,” he said, “I will speak with D’zan.”

  The armies of three kingdoms moved south and west across the rainswept plain. A train of ten thousand civilians followed the triple host: armorers, bowyers, fletchers, blacksmiths, weaponers, cooks, wagoneers, squires, minstrels, harlots, and shepherds driving flocks of goats, sheep, and cattle. Some foraging would be done in the High Realms, but even then the supply train was needed to ensure enough food for the host. And wherever soldiers made their way, women of opportunity were never far behind. Poets and musicians strove to set the u
nfolding history into verse, while earning small fortunes in the process.

  The Men of Uurz had not marched to war in fifty years, when an earlier generation of warriors had joined King Trimesqua’s host in the War of the Southern Isles. As the green-gold legions departed with the northern host, the city broke into furious celebration. The rebirth of their dying land lent it a special fervor. The voices of those who still spoke out against the war were ignored or silenced in the teeming streets. The return of storms to the Stormlands was a sign from the Sky God that the new Emperor’s cause was righteous. Vireon cared little for such sentiment, but if it served his ends, let the Uurzians enjoy their own fancies. Let them believe it was Tyro who commanded the triple host; without his northern allies he would never dare this great march.

  Every village along the way offered food and comfort to the armies, and at night the great camp seemed a small city all its own. The Giants dined on roasted steer and drank barrels full of Uurzian ale. Like their King, the blue-skins were fast acquiring a taste for cooked meat. By day the host moved in three long files stretching parallel across the Stormlands: Udurum legions, Giants, and Uurzian legions.

  The three Kings traveled together at the head of the vanguard, where Dahrima insisted on pacing alongside Vireon’s steed. She seemed as tireless as Vireon himself, and if he had five thousand like her at his back he might leave the main host and run all day and all night to reach the black city sooner. However, this war must be fought by both races, so he must travel at the speed of Men. The great legs of the Giants ate up the leagues and, unlike Men, they did not complain of sore feet and fatigue after a long day of marching. They were the Stoneborn, and they knew little pain in this life. On the third day’s march Vireon sighted the peninsula of the highlands, that section of the Great Earth-Wall known as the Promontory. The Giants would have rushed forward and climbed the great cliff right there if Vireon had given the word. Instead, Tyro turned the entire host directly east, where his work crews had gone weeks earlier. The triple host marched now with the Stormlands on their left and the rugged Earth-Wall to their right, its heights lost among the leaden stormclouds. After five more days of gentle rain and kind winds, the host came upon the site of the Great Stair.