“And where does one find a Maker of Mountains?” asks Sharadza.
I want to take her in my arms and hold her close, but I cannot do this.
Instead I answer her question.
“At the blazing heart of the world.”
7
Valley of the Dead
The sea cliffs lay far behind her. The land spread green and flat to the west, and the Golden Sea reflected sunfire to the east. Dahrima walked between the two worlds of steppe and ocean, alone but for the parade of memories in her head. Her boots left deep tracks in the wet sand. The sound of the rushing surf had become a soothing refrain, a song of water meeting earth that rose and fell in ceaseless rhythm. Somewhere leagues ahead of her the River Orra rushed along the haunted valley and poured itself into the sea.
Once it had been called the Valley of the Bull, when its slopes were filled with terraced croplands. In those days not so long ago the towers of Shar Dni stood white and strong between the blue temple-pyramids of the Sky God. Dahrima had never seen it in person, only in colorful landscapes adorning the halls of the palace at Udurum. Queen Shaira, Vireon’s mother, was born a Sharrian and retained the pride of her heritage. Dahrima did not know Shaira well–certainly not as she had known Vod himself–but she understood Shaira’s love of her homeland and respected her for it. Scenes of the Sharrian valley were common throughout Vod’s palace, whether rendered in oils, woven in tapestries, or crafted into stone murals. Men said the deep green of the valley’s grass could be seen in Shaira’s eyes. Sharadza Vodsdaughter had those same eyes, though she was a child of Udurum.
Shar Dni was only a pile of cursed ruins now. Ghosts and devils were said to roam the valley. Perhaps these rumors accounted for why no living men had resettled the valley after Gammir and Ianthe destroyed and plundered it. Dahrima recalled the blood-shadows that had crept into Vireon’s chambers and fed upon the blood of her spearsisters. The ghosts had nearly claimed Dahrima’s life as well, but Vireon had saved her by driving out the witch who wore the shape of his daughter. Dahrima could not imagine the pain of losing a child to such dreadful sorcery. Vireon had lost Alua as well. This war had begun with bloody betrayal inside the Giant-King’s house, and the revelation of Ianthe’s rebirth inside poor, doomed Maelthyn.
Vireon had lost all that he loved on that night. The burden of a King was heavy, and loneliness was his usual recompense. Dahrima realized days ago that it must be loneliness, an unshakable sense of loss, that had driven Vireon into the arms of Varda. Even cold arms must provide comfort to one who suffered as Vireon did. Yet Dahrima, in a fit of rage, had robbed her King of that small comfort. For this she hated herself, even though she knew that Varda’s comfort was a false one. Nothing more than a strategy for gaining Vireon’s trust.
Dahrima would atone for her crime somehow. She must stay alive at least long enough to do this. Let Vireon’s justice fall upon her if it must, but first she would stand against his enemies. She may have broken the vow of service with her hands, but not with her heart.
He needs me.
On the second day, her flight had turned into a scouting mission. She decided on reaching Shar Dni before the forces of Uurz and Udurum. Alone she could run faster than any marching legions. Let her spearsisters stay behind and march with the Udvorg–they had not sinned against the blue-skins. If Dahrima had stayed, her sisters would have risen to protect her from any reprisals. Slaying Varda was a matter of personal honor, every Uduri would argue. This was the way Uduri had always settled their conflicts, with strength of arm and, if necessary, naked steel. It was Varda who drew steel first and thus sealed her own fate; otherwise the witch might have endured only a sound beating. Of course, the Udvorg might not see it this way. Perhaps Vireon would not either. Yet by moving ahead and scouting the way for the northern hosts, Dahrima could still be of service. When the battle began, she would be there, ready to slay and die for her King.
Her running had slowed when she approached the harbor town of Allundra. At the foot of the Earth Wall it nestled above a small bay. Trading galleons from all the great cities were moored at its wharves, along with a dozen Jade Isle traders. There were even a few Khyrein reavers docked there, having escaped the revolution that placed the black fleet into the service of Tong the Avenger. They were likely pirates now, expatriate seadogs who would rather sail the main preying on merchant vessels than pledge fealty to the King of New Khyrei. Allundra was a haven for any ship that dared its port, no matter its nation or purpose. The town had long been neutral in affairs of state, even allowing Khyrein slavers access to its taverns and warehouses. Though it lay at the southeastern edge of the Stormlands, it was not claimed by either Uurz or Khyrei. Despite Allundra’s important position as a crossroads for seagoing merchants, it was little more than a haven for smugglers, pirates, and outlaws.
Dahrima had not liked the smells of raw fish, human waste, and rotting seaweed that wafted from the seaport. The jumble of red-tiled roofs leaked a thousand gray smokes. She decided against braving the muddy streets to seek ale and fresh meat. Instead she rested until sundown and ran on, skirting the edge of the town. She crossed the inland road under cover of night.
The following sunset she discovered a cluster of fishing villages girding the delta of the Eastern Flow. Tiny two-man boats dotted the ocean here, and children in brown tunics played along the beaches. These settlements seemed more wholesome than Allundra, but again Dahrima hid herself from those who might gawk at a lone Giantess and carry word of her far and wide. She waded across the delta by moonlight and sprinted away from the villages.
The next day rains rolled off the sea, cool and heavy. Dahrima slept a little beneath a crag of chalky stone overlooking the waves. She was far enough from the river delta to avoid the fisherfolk. Upon waking she killed a hare with a throw of her knife, and built a small fire to cook it before resuming her northward run.
Another day of moving along the coast brought her to a sheltered cove, where she stopped to pick oysters from the shallows. She ate them raw and drank from a rocky stream feeding the inlet. She slept there in the damp shadows of the cove.
Now she walked the eastern edge of the Stormlands once again. Looking out across the peaceful turquoise waters, she could not envision the great armada sailing above it. Perhaps Zyung’s forces had already reached the haunted valley. If so, Vireon must know. This was another important reason why she must scout ahead. What human could travel as far and as fast as she could with as little nourishment or rest? Knowing that she was close now, Dahrima picked up her speed. Her memory of maps was keen, and she estimated that another day of running would bring her to the Valley of the Bull which was now a valley of death.
The sun was an orange disk of flame hovering at the blue sky’s zenith when Dahrima topped a ridge and found her destination. The land fell away from her in graceful curves, green and pleasant despite the rumors of evil that hung about it. The broad, flat valley narrowed as it approached the seacoast. The Orra was a silver ribbon winding from misty highlands to pour itself into the sea at the mouth of the vale. Dahrima had left the rain behind when she departed the oyster cove; this was no longer the Stormlands with its daily showers. Yet plenty of white clouds floated above the valley, reminders that storms were not unknown here.
Across the silver river lay the shattered stones of Shar Dni. In the eight years since its doom, the city’s jumbled remains had been smothered by a multitude of mosses: green, brown, ochre, yellow, and azure. In the bright sunlight it seemed a scattering of jewels lay among the weedy pavements and toppled walls. The great stones that were not covered by moss had faded from white to gray, and nothing remained of the city’s towers but the jagged stubs of splintered foundations. They stood here and there among the devastation like the toothy stumps of fallen Uyga trees. No trace of the blue temple-pyramids remained, or if they did the creeping mosses had blanketed them entirely.
White gulls flew in flocks above the river, picking fish from the shallows. The rotte
d husks of warships and trading vessels lay half buried in sand about the crescent bay. One pointed prow stuck up from between the reeds of the delta, the rest of its bulk having been swallowed by mud. When Dahrima looked carefully, she saw the white glimmer of scattered bones beneath the moss and weeds.
A great arched bridge of stone had once straddled the river, connecting the western road with the threshold of the city gate. A few of the bridge’s great stones protruded from the river’s placid surface. Only the eastern and western ends of the crumbled bridge remained intact, each one arcing now into thin air. All the Sharrian wall gates were gone, leaving hollow gaps in the disintegrating ramparts. The damp sea air ate away at the mortar slowly. In a few more years what sections of the city wall that remained would be nothing more than piles of broken stone, like the rest of the city.
Dahrima was pleased to see that the grasses of the valley were as verdant and healthy as legend insisted. She walked down the hillside toward the shattered bridge. The ruins did not seem haunted from this vantage. Sad, perhaps, but not cursed. It reminded her of Old Udurum when the titanic Serpent-Father had reduced it to rubble. Yet the Valley of the Bull did not fill her with the foreboding and unease she had expected.
Memories of Old Udurum played through her mind as she waded across the cool river. Thirty years as Men counted the calendar had passed since the oldest enemy of Men and Giants had risen from beneath the Grim Mountains to destroy the old City of Giants. In those days the Uduru dwelled apart from their small cousins, as they had for three thousand years. Fangodrel the First, father of Vod, had ruled the city then. Those were days of lasting peace, long hunts, and endless revelry.
Dahrima had lived for eight centuries behind the walls of Hreeg’s City. Often the wilderness of Uduria had called her to the hunt. She had known a dozen lovers in those days. She had never blamed King Fangodrel for the curse of barrenness that had fallen upon her kind. The wise among them said it was mighty Hreeg’s fault, for the original Giant-King had driven Omagh the Serpent-Father back into the deep earth without killing him. Sleeping in his underground haunt for two thousand years, the Lord of Serpents had dreamed a curse upon Giantkind. The curse of gradual extinction borne by the Uduri. Sterility.
When Fangodrel’s first son was born, an exception to the growing curse, the City of Giants had erupted in celebration and song. Yet it was only a few days later that the infant Vod was stolen away by a great black eagle. King Fangodrel had trekked south for years to search for him. While he was away, new Serpents began to crawl out of the mountains and devour Giants. Fangodrel returned eventually to stand against Omagh himself, when the Serpent-Father awoke from his long sleep and fell upon the city. Fangodrel had failed to find his lost son, and he failed to protect the city from Omagh’s wrath. Vod’s father died in battle, impaled by one of Omagh’s great fangs, and the behemoth tore the city to pieces.
Thousands of Uduru had perished in that battle. The race was already dwindling in numbers due to the lack of birthings, but now multitudes were crushed, burned, and devoured by Omagh and his brood. Dahrima had killed Serpents for days on end, and like all the Uduru she learned to skin the beasts and use their black scales for armor. In the end it was Ghaldrim the Golden who saved them all. He gathered the last of the Uduru, some twelve hundred Giants, and led them south into the lands of Men. Ghaldrim was the first to realize that there would be no reclaiming shattered Udurum with such tiny numbers. The Serpent-Father made his nest in the piled ruins, large as a mountain, while Ghaldrim led the Uduru across the mountains into the Desert of Many Thunders.
If Ghaldrim had not led the Giants to assault the gates of Uurz in their desperation, Vod would never have discovered his lost heritage. The Uduru would never have regained their lost King. And Vod would never have marched north to slay the Serpent-Father, in the process altering the shape of the world and giving birth to the Stormlands. Vod later rebuilt Udurum stronger than it had ever been, and he opened its gates to Men.
Dahrima had lain with Vod when he rediscovered his Giant heritage. Soon after their night together, he won rulership of the Uduru from Ghaldrim. She had hoped Vod’s royal seed in her belly would give her the child that she had never been able to conceive. But not even Vod’s magic could quicken her empty womb, and her charms were not great enough to hold his attention for long. Vod loved a human girl; he had even taken the form of a Man to win her hand. Shaira of Shar Dni would bear his strong sons, not Dahrima the Axe.
Vireon had been the proud result of Vod and Shaira’s union. Dahrima understood now that it was all for the best. If she had claimed a child fathered by Vod, he might never have taken Shaira as his Queen. Then Vireon would never have been born to unite the Uduru with their cousins the Udvorg. He might not now wear the crown of Udurum, as well as that of the Udvorg. Vireon was in all ways the Son of Vod, heir to greatness. The King of All Giants.
The greatest honor in Dahrima’s life had been to serve him.
She walked among the mossy stones of the dead city while the sun sank toward the sea. The shadows grew long and she found an arch of pale granite under which she might sleep. There was no sign of creeping bloodshadows, foreign ships, or other threats. She would wait here for the armies of Vireon and Tyro, watching the sea for signs of enemies. She would run and carry news of Zyung’s arrival, should it come before Vireon’s. She was the Giant-King’s eyes in the valley of death.
In the glow of twilight she began a search for wild game among the stones. Instead she found the imprint of a human foot in a bed of orange moss. It was freshly made, and she sensed the odor of Mansweat on the breeze. She could not be sure if there were more than one set of tracks, but she knew now that she was not alone in this forsaken place.
There was no trace of hare, squirrel, or other wildlife among the ruins. It was as if animals avoided this place altogether. Except for the seagulls that came close enough to fish in the delta. The absence of game was not as troubling as the presence of a man, or men, in the dead city.
She lay beneath the arch, pretending to take an early sleep. The sun hovered low above the purpling ocean. Shadows filled the nooks and crevices of the ruins. It was not long before she heard the scrape of a foot upon bare stone. Something climbed a nearby block of granite large as a fisherman’s hut and crouched atop it. Dahrima felt the subtle caress of eyes upon her.
She opened her own eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of her observer: a man-shaped silhouette limned in twilight. It squatted like an ape on its stony perch. A glint of metal or precious stone glimmered below its round head.
She heard shallow breathing now. Smelled the stench of filthy flesh.
Her knuckles tightened about the handle of her knife as the shadow leaped.
The armies of Uurz and Udurum set camp for the night on the plain southwest of the Eastern Flow. The glow of a thousand cook-fires painted the tents in shades of red and orange. The moon cast its silver across the tall grass and the distant ocean. Tyro sat in a folding chair in his royal pavilion drinking yellow wine from Yaskatha. Mendices had taken a cadre of Uurzian soldiers into the cluster of fishing villages to purchase fresh seafood, vegetables, and hearth-baked bread.
The sound of grumbling and laughing Giants wafted over the tents to the Sword King’s ears. Vireon had furnished them with a hundred kegs of ale when the armies passed Allundra. All it took was red meat and good ale to keep the Giants happy. Unlike the dour, grim-faced soldiers of Uurz, the Udvorg did not dread the great battle that lay ahead. While the Uurzians oiled their blades, sparred, and mended the straps of their armor, the blue-skinned Giants continued to jest, sing, and wrestle about their fires. A visitor to the camp would never know the Giants had lost both their King and their shamaness. The Udvorg were not mourners.
Yet Tyro had heard their complaints to Vireon, and he admired the grace with which the Giant-King dismissed their concerns. Losing Varda of the Keen Eyes was a personal inconvenience for Vireon, but he proclaimed it an Uduri affair. Dahrima’s slay
ing of the blue witch was just by Uduri Law, which allowed for personal duels. When Vireon had replaced Angrid as King of the Udvorg, his word had become incontestable. In private, Vireon brooded over the loss of the two Giantesses who were foremost in his confidence. Dahrima, the murderess, had fled into the sea, or along the northern coast. No one seemed quite sure which was the case. Tyro did not question Vireon’s judgment on the matter, although if Dahrima had slain one of his own warriors, the act would have had far greater ramifications.
Tyro propped his feet upon the low table. Two days of nonstop riding from the bottom of the Great Stair had not made up for the time lost by marching inland to use it. Yet there had been no other way to get the northern host down from the High Realm into the bosom of the Stormlands. The Udvorg might have climbed down the Earth Wall–in fact several of them did so on a dare–but the Men and horses and supply wagons could only return the way they had come in the first place. Tyro took solace in the fact that the legions were far closer to the Sharrian valley now than to Uurz. Another three days of marching should bring them to the ruins.
Vireon’s faith in Iardu’s word was unquestionable, so Tyro kept any doubts to himself. The wizard had said Zyung would beach his horde at Shar Dni rather than Khyrei, so Tyro had little choice but to accept this northward journey. Mendices warned him constantly against taking the Shaper’s council, but Mendices did not trust the Giant-King either. Tyro had thrown in his lot with Vireon and increased the power of Uurz by doing so. Now was not the time to second-guess or defy Vireon’s decisions. Whatever their Kings’ personal squabbles might be, Uurz and Udurum were at their mightiest when allied. In truth, Tyro cared little whether they fought a battle among the Sharrian ruins or on the shores of Khyrei. Now that the black city was no longer an enemy, these invaders would serve well to test the mettle of the northern forces. Fighting a common enemy would strengthen the Uurz–Udurum alliance even further, as well as bringing glory to the victors for repelling the greatest invasion in history.
Seven Sorcerers: Book Three of the Books of the Shaper Page 13