Seven Kings

by John R. Fultz

  The host numbered in the millions. Their armor gleamed in the dull silver way that only steel can shine. Their swords were man-length affairs of intricate hilts and cobalt blades. The brightness of their shields dazzled the eye, and the sheer numbers of their ranks pricked Tyro’s heart with awe and fear. No longer did he gaze into a golden cloud of vapor, but he looked at some very real part of the world whose existence he had never guessed.

  Among the sails, the shields, and the glittering corselets, one symbol united the multitude of exotic warriors and their incredible skyfaring galleons: the stylized sigil of a square-jawed face with flaming eyes. The visage of some terrible War God, the sovereign who drove the monolithic armada across the circumference of the world to conquer in his name.

  “Zyung.” Vireon breathed the name quietly, his eyes still lost in the glowing vision.

  Then came a second wave of airborne entities, a flock of winged lizards with tapering skulls and gilded beaks like the prows of ramming vessels. Upon their narrow backs sat more of the armored warriors, these bearing lances and longblades. Twenty thousand flying reptiles at least, each with two clawed legs like those of mighty hawks. They screeched and flapped and filled the bowl of the world in the wake of the great armada.

  Tyro tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry as a bone. His fingers felt across the table for his goblet, and he guzzled wine without taking his eyes off the vision. Here was an invasion force that made his triple alliance seem a boy’s collection of toy figurines for playing in his father’s garden. Here was a conquering horde that terrified even Iardu in its sheer vastness.

  Here was the other side of the world. It was real.

  “These soldiers are the Manslayers of Zyung,” said Iardu. “More ruthless and ready to die for their God-King than any force in all of antiquity. They live only to serve Zyung and to slay in his name. By their might, second only to his own, Zyung has forged an empire whose size encompasses every realm, province, and island of the far hemisphere.

  “The God-King rules half the world, Majesties. And he comes now for the other half. What you cannot see here are the many sorcerers who also serve him. They ride in those skyborne ships, the Holy Dreadnoughts, each of which is larger than our greatest trireme. He is not only King of all the nations he surveys, he is their living God. His empire is built on faith and fear, and it is far older than any of your kingdoms.

  “Zyung the God-King is coming to expand his domain with blood, sorcery, and terror.”

  The vision faded along with the cloud of golden vapor. The Kings sat silent before the untouched board. Even the inscrutable Slave King seemed moved by Iardu’s revelation.

  Tyro’s head swam. Something in the wizard’s nature and the reactions of his fellow monarchs told him this was undiluted truth. This vision of the near future was sure to unfold. And when the hosts of Zyung reached these shores, what a war would begin. A war to rewrite history and reshape the world in all its ancient, spherical immensity.

  A war like none other.

  I wanted war.

  But this…

  Could even six kingdoms united stand against such a horde?

  Here was the glory he sought, falling upon him like the shattered towers of Khyrei.

  A lingering silence settled over the board. The sun hung low in the sky, a crimson orb framing the sails of Mumbaza and Yaskatha. What had seemed a mighty armada now seemed a pitiful collection of wicker boats.

  Tyro’s head spun. The heat swelled in his brain. His blood boiled beneath the skin.

  “Majesty, are you well?” asked Mendices.

  Tyro swayed to left and right, strands of damp hair obscuring his eyes. His fingers grasped at the edge of the table. Swollen beads of sweat dripped from his brow.

  “He has the red fever,” said Varda the Keen Eyes.

  Tyro tumbled out of his chair. His face would have met the ground if the Warlord of Uurz had not been there to catch him. Voices rose about the table, an incoherent babble of alarm. The world faded from view, replaced by a haze of clashing colors.

  Someone carried him, dizzy and groaning, through the main gate of the black city. Clouds of smoke and fragments of blue sky swam crazily above him. A mélange of faces and noises he could no longer identify.

  Let me stand! he wanted to shout. We must prepare. We must fortify.

  He could not form the words. They boiled away like wisps of steam from his burning lips. He tried to raise his head but failed.

  War falls truly upon us.

  A war to shame all other wars.

  He breathed one faint word clearly before a sea of darkness drowned him in silence.

  “Zyung…”

  22

  A Bottle of Red

  Between the bastioned wall and the sun-dappled Golden Sea, a second ocean had engulfed the capital of Khyrei; one of armored Men in black and purple cloaks or green-gold tabards. Above the glinting spearheads and gilded helms rippled the banners of Udurum and Uurz. While the black city’s new King set about restoring order to his realm, the triple host picketed their vast encampment. Throughout the lines of Men and horses, blue-skinned Giants strolled as if wading through shallows of glittering foam.

  Vireon sat at ease in the captain’s cabin aboard the Kingspear. D’zan had invited him aboard the docked vessel so they might share counsel. For the first time since he awoke at the scarlet jungle’s edge, Vireon felt the weight of exhaustion on his shoulders.

  In the broad cabin sat a bed, desk, chair, and a cabinet stocked with Yaskathan wines. Vireon’s greatsword hung from a peg on the wall, his crown of sapphire and iron beside it. He sat in the padded seat and drank from a bottle of dark red. He did not bother to pour its contents into one of the cabinet’s jeweled goblets, instead pulling out the cork with his thumb and forefinger and swilling directly from the bottle’s mouth.

  Through the round porthole a lowering sun set the horizon aflame; the seven hundred sails of the double armada were cast into silhouette. He was glad that he could not see from this vantage the black ships of Khyrei sitting in the harbor, or the risen city that still smoked and roiled with the chaos of revolution. Such sights would only deepen his mood.

  As he brooded over the drink, his memory replayed the vision of Iardu’s golden cloud. He doubted none of the sorcerer’s words, yet the truth of it all disturbed him. How could two worlds exist for so many ages, yet remain ignorant of one another’s existence? It seemed the depths of time were bottomless, full of blood and terror, and mysteries beyond the understanding of mortal beings. He missed Alua fiercely. At times like this she would speak some gentle wisdom to him, quelling the storm of his consternation with tranquil hopes.

  A polite knock on the cabin’s door broke his reverie. His sister had come to him as requested. “Enter,” he called through the oaken door.

  Sharadza opened it and stepped inside. She closed the door behind her and smiled in a way that reminded him of their mother. She sat on the bed, her hands smoothing the wrinkles of her amber gown. Her lengthy black hair was tied at the back of her neck with a leather thong, and he saw no jewelry on her person. Not even the splendid wedding ring given her by D’zan.

  “How are you?” she asked him.

  “Alua is dead,” he said. “Killed by Maelthyn.”

  Sharadza’s jaw fell and her brow creased. “What? Little Maelthyn? How…” Her green eyes reddened and began to water.

  “Maelthyn was never my daughter,” he said. The words pierced his own heart as surely as a length of sharp steel. Air came thick and stifling into his chest. “She was… only a product of Ianthe’s sorcery. For seven years she grew among us, feeding on our love, and our ignorance. At last she came for our hearts.”

  Sharadza came forward to wrap him in a warm embrace. “Oh, Vireon, I am so sorry.” She wept quietly, and for a moment he joined her. Then he battled the tears away with the power of the red bottle tipped at his lips once again. He offered it to his sister; she declined.

  “You ca
me all this way for vengeance,” she whispered. “No. For justice.”

  She took his big hand, cradling it like that of a child.

  Justice had been done. Certainly not by his own hand as he had wished. Yet it was justice nevertheless. He must accept it. He had little choice.

  “Why are you not sitting in D’zan’s palace,” he asked, “ruling his kingdom while he sails?”

  She turned away from him, her hands slipping from his own.

  Now it was her turn to fight back tears.

  “Have you not heard the rumors?” she said.

  “I have,” he said. “Yet I would rather hear the truth from your own tongue. Before I speak with D’zan on the subject.”

  She faced him now with something akin to fear in her eyes. “No,” she said. “I beg you, say nothing to D’zan about this. It’s not his fault.”

  “Is it yours then?”

  “Yes,” she said. “No! I don’t know…”

  “What are you not telling me, Sharadza?”

  She lingered, hesitating to speak at all, while he took another swig from the bottle of jade glass. The wine was strong, a tribute to grapes emboldened by sun and rain.

  “It’s simple, really,” she said. “I could not produce the heir he wanted. So he chose someone else who can do so. I am still Queen of Yaskatha. Yet I must share my husband.”

  Vireon shook his head. “This is not our way.”

  “But it is the way of Yaskathans,” she said. “Some of their Kings have had twenty wives or more.”

  Vireon sighed. “So you will endure this humiliation to retain the crown and title?”

  “I don’t know. I came to Khyrei seeking Fangodrel and found him reborn as Gammir. A creature of hate, a drinker of blood, a beast made of shadow. And I have destroyed him. Stolen his kingdom.”

  Vireon chuckled without mirth. “There are those who would say that a slave named Tong has stolen Gammir’s kingdom.”

  Sharadza gave him a shallow smile, wiping at her eyes. “Former slave,” she said. “Just as well. It was all a part of Iardu’s plan.”

  Vireon sat up straighter in his chair. “Tell me what you know of Iardu’s plans.”

  “You saw what is coming. The force coming to claim our lands. The greatness of this Zyung. Iardu prepares our nations to defy him. That is my understanding.”

  “Who is Zyung?” asked Vireon.

  “Gammir knew,” Sharadza whispered. “He showed me in his mirror of sorcery. Like you, I have only looked upon the image of the Conqueror’s face. My guess is that spying on him directly would be far too dangerous. I know only what you and the other Kings know. That he is coming and there will be no making peace with him.”

  Vireon accepted this. He would speak with Iardu later. The Shaper must know more than he revealed. Such was the nature of sorcerers, sages, and madmen alike. They spoke in fragments of truth, forced their listeners to delve deeply for wisdom. It seemed they thrived on such games of the mind.

  “You wear a new crown,” Sharadza said. Her eyes fell upon the loop of iron and sapphires hanging on the wall beside his blade. “They say you are lord of both Uduru and Udvorg now.”

  “This is so,” he sighed. “Though I did not wish it. I hold the crown for Angrid’s eldest son. Someday it will be his to claim. Udurum is mine by blood. I am content with it.”

  She smiled again, and once more he saw the face of his mother in her own.

  “The world makes terrific demands on us all,” she said. Her eyes drifted toward the bloody twilight beyond the porthole. “I would tell you of the terrible things Gammir and Ianthe forced upon me. The killing, the tortures, the carnal crimes… yet I would spare even the glimmer of these things from your memory. Suffice to say that I was torn apart and rebuilt… then torn and rebuilt again. I am no longer… what I was.”

  “You seem far greater,” Vireon said. “Father’s power glows in your eyes. You have the strength of the Uduru in your veins. I have discovered this same strength. Father’s gift.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Already I have heard the tale of how you slew the Swamp God. How you grew like Vod against the Serpent-Father. I knew you carried this within you. Like it or not, we are both sorcerers, just as we are both Men and Giants. Creatures of two worlds, born to unite them as one.”

  “Unity.” Vireon examined the word. “Perhaps this was Iardu’s goal all along.”

  “I believe it was,” she said. “A dream he long held impossible. Now it must succeed, or we perish.”

  “How long do we have?” he asked. “Has the Shaper told you?”

  “Days. Perhaps weeks. No more than that.”

  Vireon took another pull from the bottle. Half empty already. His weary head swam.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “Fight. What else is there to do?”

  She had no answer for that, so she only hugged him again.

  “How is Mother?” he asked as she pulled away.

  “She ages well. The Yaskathan court suits her far more than Udurum ever did. The warm climate enlivens her. She has taken a lover. A master of D’zan’s royal vineyards. I believe she is happy.”

  Vireon smiled. “As she deserves to be. Thank you for taking care of her these past years.”

  Sharadza shrugged off his words. “She is my mother, and you are my brother. We are all that is left. I will take care of you both, as best I may.”

  “Only remember to take care of yourself,” he said.

  She kissed his cheek. “You are weary, King of the Giantlands. Take your rest now. We will speak more later.”

  Vireon stretched his arms toward the ceiling and moaned. “I had intended to wait here for D’zan and have words with him regarding your marriage.” Her eyes widened. “Yet I will honor your wishes and say nothing of it.” He stood up, took his greatsword from the wall, then placed the iron crown on his head. “I will sleep among my warriors. Not inside this gilded sea-coffin.”

  She walked beside him as he descended the gangplank and headed up the sloping lawn toward the first line of Udurum pavilions. Bands of Udvorg gathered about blue fires set by Varda, while Men gathered about their more earthly cookfires: evening meals were being prepared. Provisions from the city were granted to both armies by the Slave King, and the northern forces would soon rejoice at the flavors of fresh beef, roasted corn, black beans, and green cabbages.

  Instead of a bloody and devastating siege, they enjoyed a much-needed rest and the unexpected bounty of a rich land freed from tyranny. Some of the Men sought the attentions of Khyrein women, who pleased them mightily, if the cries of passion from the tents were any indication. Already the peoples of the six kingdoms were mingling their bloodlines. Vireon smirked at the lewdness of the observation. The wine in his bottle sloshed as he walked.

  Sharadza left him to seek out Iardu and assist in the city’s refortification. Vireon wandered through the grassy alleys between the tents of Men, returning their salutes as he passed. When he entered the precinct of the Udvorg camps, he grew almost effortlessly to Giant size again. Perhaps it was the fine wine that dulled the pain of his transformation. Or perhaps he had simply grown used to the magic of change. There were many pains he had grown accustomed to lately.

  The blue-skins offered him raw hocks of lizard meat hauled from the swamps and swigs of ale from Khyrein kegs. He refused them all with a smile and a wave, heading directly for the tent of Dahrima. There he found her shield and spear, but not the Giantess. She must be tending to some urgent business of the host. Or perhaps she lingered in the arms of a lusty Udvorg, having finally given in to the ancient call of the flesh. This thought struck a pang deep in his gut, a note of jealousy resounding dimly through his limbs and loins. He dismissed it as a passing phantasm of his fatigue.

  He turned to leave the tent and find another in which to sleep. A sudden cool breeze met his face, and Varda the Keen Eyes stood before the canvas opening. Her indigo flesh seemed a deep purple in the glow of dusk. The royal color
of Udurum. As ever, she carried her black staff with its dancing blue flame. It was that flame which cooled the tent’s interior as she walked inside it.

  “Majesty,” she said, bowing to one knee. Her black hair, so unusual among the blue-skins, gleamed like polished obsidian. The rings in her ears and nose twinkled in the glow of the azure flame.

  “Rise,” he told her. “No need for such ceremony. It wearies me.”

  She stood then, her eyes level with his own. Those eyes had been frosted rubies until this moment. Now they seemed to him like warm pools of Yaskathan wine. Their color matched perfectly the contents of the bottle from which he sipped.

  “I have explained the Shaper’s warning to the Udvorg as best I can,” Varda told him. “Yet they would hear it from the mouth of their King.”

  “They will,” said Vireon. “Tomorrow. Let them enjoy a night of peace while it lasts.” He tipped the bottle again, letting the wine pour down his throat until there was no more left. He tossed it into the corner of the tent.

  When he turned, Varda still stood before him. She did not blink. Her lean jaw was set and her free hand curled into a fist.

  “Speak, Witch,” he said. He felt her cold anger.

  “You are my King,” she said. “Yet I would speak with you as Uduri speaks to Udvorg, without crown or court to intervene. Will you allow it?”

  “Say what you must before sleep forces me from you.” He would have fallen onto Dahrima’s furs in that moment, if the mystery of Varda’s eyes had not held him standing there like a dimwitted boy. He took off the iron crown and dropped it beside the wine bottle.