Vireon stared into the depths of the red jungle.
“Khyrei will be enough.”
The poison jungle enclosed them in its endless corridors of leaf, root, stem, and fern. Vireon was glad to leave the stink of the marsh and its rotting dead behind him. The jungle was full of perils: every berry, blossom, or sprout that grew here would bring a quick death. The host would find no easy game to hunt in the sweltering wilderness. Quickly passing through was the northern Kings’ best chance of limiting fever and death among the Men.
Mendices had returned to camp shortly after Tyro, announcing a similar victory in the south. Vireon gave him two hours to rest, then called for the breaking of camp and resumption of the march. The hawk-nosed Warlord of Uurz had survived thus far without a single wound. Here was a man skilled at letting others do the fighting for him. Unlike Tyro, Mendices had held back and directed his ranks from a vantage point of security. How he had managed this even in the depths of the Swamp God’s terrain, Vireon had no idea. He would not underestimate the war skill of Tyro’s general. Even the Udvorg now spoke of him with respect.
With only an hour of daylight remaining, the triple host entered the deep jungle. Vireon took his man-sized form again and rode alongside Tyro on a sable charger. The crown of iron and sapphire shrank to fit his head, along with his new tunic and sandals. The Giant-blade in its new scabbard on his back did not change its size; his strength as a human was still that of an Uduru. Like his father, he was now both Giant and Man. What that would ultimately mean, he could only guess. His skin had already healed to its customary shade of bronze. A corselet of boiled leather, black with golden trim, held the clasps of his purple cloak at the shoulders.
The Uduri formed an unofficial vanguard, scouting ahead and clearing the overgrown road. Even a Giant could not run full speed through the dense undergrowth without falling face first into a thicket, a ravine, or patch of stubborn mire. The hidden road was an ancient one, likely cut from the jungle fresh every few months for the passage of Khyrein troops or supply trains. Yet the forest crept quickly back to reclaim the ground every time. The Uduri were skilled trackers and hunters: they followed the road with little difficulty, carving it free of encroaching vegetation with axe and sword.
Behind the two mounted Kings came Varda and a cohort of Udvorg calling themselves the King’s Guard. Where they had served Angrid, they now served Vireon. When more than half their number had died along with the blue-skin King, other Udvorg stepped forth to fill the ranks, anxious to serve their new monarch. Vireon reckoned they had never seen such power as he wielded against the leviathan. This was true of himself as well, though none would believe it if he told them so. He kept his wonder at his newfound powers to himself, bearing the gift of his father as he bore the crown of the Icelands. Both were only tools. Weapons he must carry to win this war.
Hordes of carmine bats flitted between the massive trees. The roars of tigers filled distant glades, yet none of the great cats was foolish enough to approach the host. Behind the first cohort of Udvorg came the legions of Udurum marching shoulder to shoulder with the Uurzians. Despite their losses and the cloud of weariness that hung about them, morale was high. All of these Men and Giants had witnessed a miracle tall enough to shake the foundations of the world. Was this how Men had regarded Vod in the glory of his youth? Did they expect Vireon now to follow Vod’s course, to reshape the landscape of nations? Perhaps he was already engaged in such a bold venture. He chose not to think of destiny and fate and the future, but to concentrate on the bloody road before him.
At the rear of the host came a second cohort of Udvorg, with the few surviving Uduru mixed among them. Here Mendices rode with his honor guard. If any Khyrein forces were to approach them from behind, however unlikely this was, Vireon trusted that Mendices would be up to the challenge.
The jungle might be a wonderland painted in a thousand shades of magenta, were it not for the poisonous nature of its flora and the unknown menace of its fauna. As night spread its wings over the vanguard, shades of glimmering scarlet turned to deepest black, and the jungle lost its eerie color. The host proceeded by torchlight. In the grip of constant shadow, Vireon found it easy to imagine himself traveling the road of some northern forest, albeit in a time of great heat. The muggy air had cooled only slightly with the falling of night.
Midway through the night march Tyro wavered in his saddle like a drunken man. Vireon called for a brief respite. Men lay down upon the rough road and slept for perhaps an hour, while the Giants traded war stories and swapped kegs of wine from the downed watchtowers. Varda went among them scattering the coolness of the blue flame. It revived the Udvorg far more than a full night’s sleep would have done for the Men.
Vireon discussed siege plans with Mendices while Tyro lay slumbering by the side of the road, a guard of twelve Uurzians stationed about his pallet. Varda examined his wounds while he slept, calling for a new set of bandages. She prepared a fresh poultice for the worst of his lacerations. When she was finished, she breathed on the blue flame and it flashed in Tyro’s face, waking him as surely as a toss of cold water.
The triple host marched on through the night, surrounded by the curious and indecipherable sounds of the dark jungle. A viper crawled across the road and bit the leg of a horse, which had to be put down. The archers among the Men began a grim game then, watching with nocked arrows for any sign of viper or crawling vermin. Before dawn broke over the scarlet canopy, seventeen such reptiles had been skewered by feathered shafts, along with nine venomous toads. Hundreds of soldiers stumbled in the grip of fever now. It spread slowly through the ranks, but the host moved onward. The heat of day returned swiftly, and the jungle came alive in a thousand shades of red.
In the hour after dawn, with the jungle stretching away in all directions, the Uduri came back from their scouting with three Khyrein captives. The warriors spoke only Khyrein, and there were few interpreters among the triple host. The northmen had not come south to speak, but only to slay. Yet Vireon could tell from the motions of the Khyreins’ hands and faces that they had fled the black city in the wake of something terrible. Tyro questioned them for a while, but could gain nothing of any use. He ordered them put to death, since the traveling host could not spare resources to escort prisoners.
In the second hour after dawn, Dahrima reported to Vireon that other Khyreins were fleeing southward. Some of these groups were as large as military cohorts, but they marched in fear, fleeing into the mazy deeps of the jungle when they saw the Uduri. Vireon ordered one of his warriors to climb a lofty tree–the highest here grew three times the height of Giants–and the scout reported seeing the Golden Sea on the distant horizon. A pall of black smoke hung between it and the jungle’s edge. The climber felt sure the black city must have lain within his sight, if only smoke was not obscuring the vista. Another day, perhaps a day and a half, and the triple host would reach its destination.
Vireon was ready to call another respite when the crimson canopy split beneath the wings of a golden eagle. It flapped down to perch in the road within a knife’s throw of Vireon’s horse. The great bird seemed unnatural both to the climate and the color of the jungle. It stood tall as a man, proud beak and black eyes focusing on the Giant-King. Vireon called the host to a halt. Tyro, who had ridden in silence, raised his head to stare at the eagle. About the two Kings rang the sounds of swords being drawn from their scabbards.
A flash of light blinded the vanguard for a moment. When Vireon’s vision cleared seconds later, a Giantess with a familiar face stood where the eagle had been. Her long black hair stirred in a wind that he could not feel. Green eyes flashed against the copper gloom.
“Sharadza…” He called out the name of his sister with sudden certainty. There was no doubting that face or those eyes, though he had never seen her standing at the height of an Uduri before now. This double height must be the mark of their inheritance. She also shared Vod’s gift. He could not help but smile at the sight of her.
Far more than that. A sorceress.
“And King of the Icelands,” added Varda from somewhere behind him. “Lord of the Giantlands.”
Vireon leaped off his horse and rushed to wrap Sharadza in his arms. A sudden burst of emotion brought tears to his eyes as he grew to match her Uduri tallness. The pain of it was barely noticeable this time. She laughed and squeezed him desperately. He pulled back to look at her. She wore only a gown of golden silk. It matched the feathers she had worn as an eagle, and her feet were bare. Her body seethed with a great heat, as if she were the antithesis of Varda’s blue flame.
“You’ve grown taller,” he said, grinning.
“And you!” she replied.
Again they embraced, and Vireon felt the host milling and clanking with restless activity behind him. He turned round and called for a fresh respite. Men dismounted and found their places to rest. Tyro stayed alert upon his gray stallion, his eyes focused on the Giant brother and sister.
“Why are you here in this forsaken place?” Vireon asked. “You should be in Yaskatha.”
She frowned, then smiled. “I come from the liberation of Khyrei. We have much to discuss.”
He waved Tyro forward. The three of them, along with Dahrima and Varda, sat in a circle upon a square of muddy blankets. Sharadza told them of the great rebellion, the burning of the fields, the taking of the city, and the crowning of a humble slave as the King of New Khyrei. She spoke of Iardu, and the eyeless Sydathians that poured out of the jungle to foster the liberation of an oppressed people. Finally, she spoke of Gammir, who had been their brother Fangodrel in another life. Gammir, whose head Vireon had removed eight years ago. Yet he had lived again in a new body formed of blood and shadows.
“I have burned his life away,” she said. “He will trouble us no more.”
“What of Ianthe?” Vireon asked. His heart pounded.
Poor little Maelthyn.
“She drank the blood of Iardu,” said Sharadza, “and it destroyed her. She, too, is no more.”
Vireon stood and paced about the road. An abiding emptiness yawned in his stomach. His fingers and toes felt numb. His own sister had stolen his vengeance. Somewhere among the ranks a Giant’s voice bellowed a hunting song.
Tyro stared at Sharadza in disbelief. “Surely this is some trick,” he said. “How do we know you are truly Vireon’s sister, not some minion of the Claw? You might tell us anything.”
“Have you not seen the black smokes rising in the north?” she asked.
Tyro had no answer.
“And the refugees fleeing south,” said Dahrima. “Yes, we have seen them.”
“I speak only truth,” said Sharadza. “Khyrei has fallen. Tong the Liberator now wears the crown. It happened only last night. The black city is no longer in the hands of Gammir and Ianthe. The last of the Slaving Empires is broken. There is only the black city and a multitude of freed slaves. They will decide what happens next.”
“No,” said Tyro, rising painfully to his feet. “We have come to storm the black city and storm it we will. What should we do–turn round and march home? Dishonor our fallen comrades with cowardice? No, our crusade must continue. We will show this Slave King mercy, but his city must fall before Uurz and Udurum, not before an army of beasts and slaves.”
“There is more,” Sharadza said. Her emerald eyes turned to Vireon. “Iardu sends me with a message for you and your host. You come to fight a war, and war you shall have. But Khyrei is not your enemy. Not anymore. The true enemy comes from across the Golden Sea. From the other side of the world.”
Tyro tossed his wineskin to the ground. “What nonsense!” He turned as if to plead with Vireon. “What enemy could be greater than Khyrei the Wicked? The other side of the world?” He turned back to Sharadza. “You speak in riddles, woman. Stand aside and let us pass or be trampled ’neath our hooves.”
Vireon’s hand reached out to grab Tyro’s shoulder. “You speak to my sister and the Queen of Yaskatha. Be mindful of your tongue.”
Tyro stared at him in disbelief. “Surely you don’t believe this mummery? Not you, Vireon. Can you not see a snare when it is set at your very feet?”
“Follow me to the black city,” said Sharadza. “See for yourself. Speak with Iardu and let him show you what the future holds. Your enemy comes from beyond the sea, not from the black city.”
Tyro turned his angry face to her again. “I will hear no wizard’s words! We’ve come south to slay two wizards, not to fall for their tricks.” A feverish heat burned in the Sword King’s face. Vireon saw this, even if Tyro himself did not. For all his courage, all his might in battle, he was still only a Man, with a Man’s weaknesses.
“We will hear Iardu,” Vireon said. If Ianthe were dead already, what else could he do? And yet… she had been dead before. Hiding in the womb of Alua… waiting to be reborn. Perhaps vengeance was beyond his reach. Perhaps justice had already been delivered by Iardu, Sharadza, and a horde of eyeless monsters. The tale seemed incredible, yet this was surely Sharadza, and she surely would not lie to her brother.
Tyro scowled at Vireon. “You may hear the sorcerer, but I will not.”
“You will,” said Vireon, glowering at him.
A moment of awkward silence hung between the two Kings.
“You are not the Emperor of Uurz,” Tyro whispered. Beads of sweat glistened on his red face.
“No,” said Vireon. “I am the Lord of the Giantlands. If you were not my friend and ally, I might slay you this moment and take your legions for my own.”
Tyro’s hand hovered above the pommel of his broadsword. His nostrils flared and his dark eyes smoldered.
“You would not dare,” he said, voice ringing with a stubborn defiance.
“Come and hear Iardu’s words,” said Vireon. “Then make your decision.”
Tyro folded his bandaged arms and gritted his teeth. He stared into the tangle of vines beneath the great red trees. “It seems I have little choice.” He wiped at the sweat streaming from his brow.
Sharadza smiled, raising her voice to dispel the tension.
“A Council of Kings, then,” she said.
Tyro stalked away to find Mendices. Vireon watched his green cloak flapping among the restive Men and Giants.
“What is this new enemy?” he asked.
Sharadza looked at him. She had his mother’s eyes and kindly face. He loved her. Had he ever told her so? Suddenly he missed Tadarus, his dead brother. He longed for the sweet faces of Alua and Maelthyn.
The world was filled with death, an endless ocean of it. Tiny islands of joy floated on that sea of woe. He stood on such an island at this very moment, knowing the dark waters would soon rush in to drown him once again.
“Zyung,” she said, and would say no more until they reached the gates of the black city.
21
A Council of Kings
Two hundred sable warships with prows like horned devils lay at anchor in the Khyrein bay. Galley slaves had set fire to the five ships nearest the wharves after breaking the chains of their rowing benches and rushing the decks. The burning hulks sank slowly into the turquoise water, sending plumes of black vapor to join the great pall hanging between city and sun. The bodies of strangled Onxy Guards floated like driftwood or sank to watery graves. A crowd of slaves milled about the docks, liberating trade goods from the vessels.
Along the seaward horizon more smoke rose into the cerulean sky. A forest of white and crimson sails stretched as far as the eye could see. The navies of Mumbaza and Yaskatha had arrived with deadly force, sinking nineteen outward-bound Khyrein reavers since sunrise. No more of the black ships
would flee the liberated harbor to face the jaws of the double fleet.
Tyro sat uncomfortably on the back of his mailed charger and scanned the ocean vista. According to figures presented by Mendices, this accounted for more than half the entire Khyrein fleet. At least a hundred more reavers plied the waters between the mainland and the Jade Isles, or roamed the high sea in search of traders to board and plunder.
Had revolution in the black city not occurred when it did, these two hundred rammers in the bay would be sailing now to engage the armadas of D’zan and Undutu. As it was, the sea battles were already done. The outlying ships had been overwhelmed by numbers far superior to their own. The double fleet sailed closer to the shore, skirting the smoking debris.
Tyro’s eyes could not see all the ships approaching in a double wedge formation, but he counted at least three hundred of D’zan’s golden triremes and four hundred of Undutu’s glistening swanships. Gods of Sea and Sky, what a battle it would have been! Enough to turn the Golden Sea crimson. But the two Southern Kings, like Tyro, had been robbed of the chance to wage a full-scale war.
Instead of storming the city, the northerners must make peace with a ragged army of slaves. If not for the eyeless apelings moving through the cluttered streets, sniffing like half-wild hounds, these ignorant rebels could never have succeeded in throwing off the yoke of servitude. If not for the intervention of Iardu the Shaper and Sharadza Vodsdaughter, who was apparently the wizard’s apprentice–or lover–none of this would have turned out the way it did. There would have been a river of blood spilled here, and the glorious legend of Khyrei’s fall at the hands of Uurz would have ensued.
Tyro’s wounds itched beneath his many bandages. The heat of the delta was oppressive, so much so that he doffed his war helm and golden corselet. What need of these things when there would be no more battle? For a moment he considered commandeering one of D’zan’s ships and taking to the open sea in search of any absent Khyrein vessels. Now the bulk of fighting would be out on the Golden Sea, where crews of black-masked raiders had yet to recognize the end of the empire they served. Some would return and perish in a mad attempt to drive off the invading fleets. Others would roam the waves for decades, mercenaries and pirates without King or country. Still others would desert their broken fleet and find new lives in the Island Kingdoms.
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