Seven Princes

by John R. Fultz

  The King of Shar Dni was Ammon, brother to Shaira, and therefore Fangodrel’s uncle. That made this pompous blowhard, Prince Andoses, his cousin. Fangodrel had little appetite for the feast his mother had laid out for her nephew. Tadarus ate heartily, as always, stuffing his beefy frame with roast piglet, potatoes, and baked confections. Vireon was thankfully nowhere to be seen, and Sharadza was at her studies.

  Andoses came seeking favor all the way from Shar Dni with a retinue of two hundred warriors, only to discover the Giant-King had abandoned his throne and left it to his forlorn Queen. Fangodrel held a goblet of wine before his face and listened to Andoses’ obsequious rhetoric. He wanted something from Shaira, that much was certain.

  “Father wishes he could come himself to visit his beloved sister,” said Andoses, “but these troubled times demand his constant attention.”

  Queen Shaira nodded. She had fallen into a deep gloom after Vod’s departure, but she looked genuinely pleased to see her nephew after so many years. She kept to her chambers most days, unless some demanding matter of state called her down. The rest of the time it fell to Tadarus to wrangle with counselors, advisors, and viziers. She had even given Fangodrel some minor responsibilities, just enough to appear kindly. Shaira was too lost in her own sorrow to rule Udurum effectively, and by rights the throne should be his. But Tadarus was the favored one, confirmed by her choice of delegation. Fangodrel avoided looking at his brother across the table. He kept his eyes on Prince Andoses, the cousin who was three years younger than him, yet commanded a cohort of warriors.

  “I understand,” said the Queen. “A season of strife falls upon us all. But no matter the cause, it is good to see you again. How are my sisters?”

  “Fine, one and all,” said Andoses. His face was dusky, his eyes green like Shaira’s. A single emerald sat in the center of his turban, and his robes of yellow silk were strung with teardrops of silver. Servants had carried away his fine scimitar and war helm.

  “Dara speaks of you often,” said Andoses, referring to Shaira’s youngest sister. “She expects her first child next season.”

  Shaira smiled, a brief ray of light in a cloudy sky. “I miss my sisters most of all,” she said. “But what news of my brothers?”

  Andoses set down his cup. “Bad news, I’m afraid. Omirus thrives as commander of father’s fleet… but Vidictus was murdered.”

  Shaira caught her breath. Tadarus ceased his incessant chewing. Fangodrel listened closely, still hiding behind his goblet.

  Tears escaped the Queen’s eyes as Andoses explained. “He was killed at sea, leading an attack against southern pirates. They have plagued our shipping lanes for years. The Golden Sea is no longer a safe crossing for any ship. Twenty galleons lost in the last year alone. Agents bring us news that these pirate ships belong to the Empress of Khyrei. None can deny that war will soon be upon us.”

  Shaira spoke, dabbing her eyes with a silken napkin: “Vod nearly slew Ianthe the Claw twenty-five years ago. Later we learned she survived to rule Khyrei.”

  “The sorceress girds her jungle empire for war. Father will stand her nautical predations no more. That is why he sent me to call upon King Vod and his alliance with Shar Dni. If we are to stand against Khyrei, we will need the support of Udurum.”

  So there it was. The real reason for this family reunion. Shar Dni seeks the aid of Giants so it can march off to war against the south. Fangodrel sipped his yellow wine.

  “Of course we had no news of Vod’s leaving,” said Andoses.

  Tadarus spoke up. “My father left mother in charge of men and giants. We, her eldest sons…” He glanced briefly at Fangodrel, who said nothing. “… will command her armies in your service, if she so wills it.”

  All eyes turned to the somber Queen. She stared at her golden plate, where the viands lay untouched and cold. “War,” she whispered. “What has Vod left me to?”

  Fangodrel cleared his throat. A gentle prod in the right direction might make all the difference here. “Mother, if I may speak.” He waited for the Queen’s gentle nod. “Father long ago secured alliance with Uurz, did he not? Emperor Dairon will respond if you call upon him to aid your brother’s kingdom. Surely between the armies of Udurum, Uurz, and Shar Dni, Khyrei cannot stand. I have read much about that kingdom… the land is fertile and rich in precious stones. There is much to gain from such a conquest.”

  “Wars should not be fought for wealth,” said Tadarus, “but for honor. These Khyrein predators have none. But you speak truly. Their false empire cannot stand against our righteous alliance.”

  “Both of my sons speak wisdom,” said Shaira. “I will send an emissary to Uurz, to hear the thoughts of my old friend Dairon. And I must think upon this… and pray.”

  Fangodrel stiffened in his chair. Why must you pray? he wanted to shout, but held his tongue. Your Gods care nothing for war. War is the enterprise of men, and women should have no voice in it. If the fool Tadarus agreed with him, his mother would likely endorse the war. Perhaps I will command a legion if I speak in bold support for this conflict.

  “War means death and suffering for the innocent as well as those who fight,” said Shaira. “It must be carefully considered… avoided whenever possible.”

  Andoses slammed his goblet against the table. “Six hundred men have died already, Queen. The crews of those twenty ships had families, some of them onboard at the time of the raids. The Khyreins show no mercy. More will die in the coming months, as more battles are fought at sea. And how long until the Empress sends her armies north to take Shar Dni itself?”

  Silence filled the chamber for a long moment. Shaira looked at her nephew, unoffended by his bluntness. “I am aware that more than poor Vidictus have died. I will not let my grief intrude upon my judgment. Thousands upon thousands of lives hang in the balance, Andoses.”

  “There is something else,” said Andoses, tugging at his short, oiled beard. “Yaskatha has fallen to a usurper – another sorcerer if the tales are true. They say his powers are terrible, that he cannot die.”

  “Superstition and poets’ lies,” said Tadarus, quaffing wine. “Every man can die.”

  “It matters not,” said Andoses. “For this new Yaskathan King has allied himself with Khyrei. The Yaskathans are mighty on both land and sea.”

  “That does complicate matters,” said Fangodrel. “If they win Mumbaza to their cause as well, the entire south will stand united. What word on Mumbaza’s loyalties?”

  Andoses grimaced. “The Boy-King Undutu is but twelve years old. His mother, Umbrala, rules from behind the Opal Throne. She denies our ambassadors, as well as those from Khyrei and Yaskatha.”

  Fangodrel grinned. “Without Mumbaza’s interference we stand a much better chance at victory.”

  Shaira stood up. “You speak as if we have already committed our legions to war. We have not,” she said. “I have not.”

  Fangodrel seethed in his chair. Tadarus remained silent as well; as great and terrible as he was, his mother’s disfavor was the only thing he truly feared. Fangodrel hated that about him.

  “Since Mumbaza refuses alliance with the southern kingdoms, perhaps she will respond to the generosity and grace of Udurum.” Shaira sat herself back down and dismissed the servants who were bringing in a fruit flambeau. “If we sway Queen Umbrala to join us, we will be four nations against two.”

  Andoses nodded agreement. He had carefully led her to this line of thinking. Fangodrel saw it, even if his mother did not.

  “I cannot ignore my brother’s plea for help,” said the Queen, “or the suffering of my homeland. But I cannot commit the Uduru to war unless they agree. I am their Queen, but only at their sufferance. It was Vod they followed. He was one of their own.”

  “Let me speak with them, Mother,” said Tadarus. “Let me speak to Fangodrim.”

  “I will speak with them myself, Tadarus. You – and Fangodrel – must go to Uurz and speak with Emperor Dairon. You will have a sizable retinue. Once you have
secured Dairon’s blessing, go on to Mumbaza. You will take gold, silver, and other treasures of the north to lay at the feet of the Boy-King and his mother.”

  Her eyes met those of Tadarus. She never looks me in the eye, thought Fangodrel.

  “You must gain the alliance of Mumbaza. Only then will I commit to war with Khyrei.”

  Tadarus stood. “I will do this, Mother. Have no doubt.” He clapped Fangodrel on the shoulder. “My elder brother and I will do this!”

  Fangodrel wrinkled his nose. He disliked being touched, especially by Tadarus.

  “I will keep Vireon near at hand,” said Shaira. “And you, Andoses, will stay as our guest until they return. Then if the Gods will it and the Uduru support us, we will march east to Shar Dni… and south to Khyrei.”

  Andoses stood and bowed to his aunt. “This journey will take many weeks. I beg you: let me accompany my cousins on this errand. I cannot bear to sit here while others speak on behalf of my father and our kingdom.”

  Shaira placed her small hand on his shoulder, stared at his face. “You are so like my brothers… so like poor Vidictus… so like your father. Very well. Go then, you three Princes together. But Vireon stays here.”

  Tadarus huffed. “He will not like that, Mother.”

  “He is off on one of his hunts,” said the Queen. “By the time he returns, you will be long gone.”

  Back in his private chamber, Fangodrel’s mind swam, and his body twitched.

  Where is that cretin Rathwol? He should be waiting at my door. I’ll flay his hide.

  The Prince stripped off his fine raiment and stood naked to the waist before his mirror. A figure of palest marble, lean as a hungry wolf. The fire in his hearth blazed. This was the moment he had been waiting for. A trip into the Stormlands, and beyond that to Mumbaza. Certainly she was only sending him along with Tadarus to get him out of the way, but he did not care. There were many terrible things that might happen to a lumbering dullard like Tadarus on a long and perilous journey.

  He pulled from a drawer his unfinished poem. The scrawled words haunted him. He read again what had taken him so much effort to create. He knew he would never finish it. His life was an unfinished story so how could this piece of verse be complete? How could a living artist ever truly represent life when caught in the middle of its tumult and fury? His poems were lies, futile yammerings unworthy of the ink in which they were scribbled. But this… this one should have been his redemption. It should have been the summit of achievement that validated his long climb up the mountain of suffering.

  It was imperfect… worthless. He was a fraud.

  Cursing himself for a misguided fool, he crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the blazing brazier. He watched it curl and blacken, and turn to ash. Tears stung his eyes, but he wiped them away before they could fall.

  A knock at the door interrupted his reverie, and he opened it to admit the lanky servant. Rathwol smelled as foul as ever, yet his threadbare tunic had been replaced by a gray satin shirt and cloak of lavender wool, marking him as an official of the court. Fangodrel’s personal attendant.

  “Where have you been, sluggard?” Fangodrel asked, shutting the door and bolting it.

  Rathwol winked, then wiped his dripping nose. The man was a walking sickness. But useful. “Obtaining what you desire, My Lord… as always.”

  “Enough,” said the Prince. “Give it here.”

  Rathwol presented a small coffer of jade and crystal. Fangodrel retrieved a hidden key from his boot and opened the tiny lock. Inside sat five splendid crimson flower-tops pruned from their black stems in some apothecary’s shop. He no longer asked or cared where Rathwol bought the bloodflower.

  “A nice batch, Lord,” said the little man. “Imported straight from the poison jungles of Khyrei – so the man tells me.”

  Fangodrel pulled off a single soft petal and stuffed it into the bowl of his Serpent pipe. Firing it with a brand from the hearth, he inhaled the sweet smoke and fell into the fat cushions of his divan. Rathwol was a forgotten thing now, as irrelevant as his chamber pot. The Prince’s eyes clouded as the bloodflower’s magic infused his body.

  “Sire, I was wondering,” said Rathwol. “Might I try some this time?”

  Fangodrel laughed. Filled with a sudden energy, he stood and slapped the little man across his stubbly cheek. “I could sell your whole family and still not afford a single bloom,” he said. “So why would I give you a single petal when I could just as easily give you the point of my dagger?”

  Rathwol cowered in mock fear.

  “Here,” said Fangodrel, handing him a large sapphire. “Take this and get me three more coffers. No, as much as you can secure.”

  “My Lord?”

  “I am traveling south, Rathwol,” said the Prince. “I’ll need enough of this to make the trip pleasant. Oh, and take the remainder to buy yourself a decent horse, and a sword. You’re coming with me, as my personal groom. You do know how to groom a steed, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes, Lord,” stammered Rathwol. “I was practically reared in the stables, I was.” There was more than enough worth in that single jewel to buy more bloodflower, secure Rathwol’s needs, and keep Fangodrel’s clandestine activities secret. Rathwol would endure any abuse, as long as he continued getting paid. He was the most trustworthy type of man. The kind you can buy. Or sell, if need be.

  “Stop yammering and go find me a girl,” said Fangodrel. “I need a diversion. Be quick about it.”

  Rathwol slunk out of the chamber. Fangodrel opened his window casement to stare at the rising moon and the twinkling lights of the City of Men and Giants. He smoked another petal of the bloodflower… then another.

  Soon the chamber disappeared, and he floated in the warm crimson fog where he felt most at home. He lay at the center of a blood-colored cloud, stars dancing in his veins and his eyes. The hidden thunder of his pulse filled the vermilion sky, and he cast flames from his eyes, bolts of malevolent desire. His enemies appeared like columns of white marble in the scarlet mist, and his flaming eyes destroyed them all, one by one. First Tadarus, the hulking buffoon, reduced to black ashes like the paper of his burned poem. Then Vireon, a lesser Tadarus, burned to a swirling dust. Then his mother, Queen Shaira, burning and screaming in the lightning cast from the eyes of her unloved son.

  On the couch Fangodrel writhed in pleasure, laughing at his private victories, roaming the confines of the Red Dream, where he and he alone ruled men and giants, where he distributed life and death as his whims demanded.

  A black palace reared above the flames now, but it was not the palace of Udurum. It was a mass of thorny spires and pointed domes, rising over a red steaming jungle. Fangodrel moaned and floated nearer, for he had never before seen this vision. He floated between the iron faces of demons that were the palace’s outer gates.

  A white panther came stalking toward him. It stood as large as an ox, and its eyes were red as the petals of the bloodflower. It bared golden fangs at him, and he shot flames from his eyes, but the beast did not singe. It stared at him… It flowed like red wine and became a stunningly beautiful woman.

  Jewels hung like wisps of starlight across her body, and a twist of silk barely obscured her breasts. Black diamonds were the soul of her eyes, and they dripped cold flames. She wore a spiked crown of onyx set with topaz. Her hair was a mane of milk-white silk, and her slim fingers ended in feline claws.

  She smiled at him.

  You are not the son of Vod, she said. Her voice was dark honey. Haven’t you always known this?

  Who… who am I?

  She flowed to him like water.

  You are the Son of Gammir…

  Who is Gammir?

  She stood before him now, the tips of her claws gently stroking his chin.

  My son. My beautiful dead son.

  Who are you?

  Ianthe, she whispered. The flames burst and rose about her lithe body.

  Fangodrel stared at her, lust and fear mingled into some
unnamable emotion.

  You are the son of my son… my grandson…

  He woke sweating near the fireplace, a cold draft blowing through the open window.

  Shutting the panes, he pulled a blanket around his shoulders and puffed gently at his Serpent pipe. Her face swam in the eye of his memory, surrounded by red flames. Such a strange dream it was.

  He had forgotten all about the girl for which he’d asked, until Rathwol arrived with her.

  Soon after, wrapped in the excess of his violent pleasure, he almost forgot the panther-woman’s face. But her name rang in his head like a distant bell.

  Ianthe…

  Ianthe the Claw.

  Empress of Khyrei.

  5

  Hunters

  The forest smelled like a woman. Vireon inhaled its heady blend of fragrances: the perfume of hanging blossoms, the clean musk of pine and naked earth. In his twenty-four years he had known many women in every shade of beauty. None claimed his heart as fully as the wild lands of Uduria, or stayed as constant in his thoughts. The forest was his love and it satisfied him in ways no woman ever had. Her mysteries were manifold, her secrets well hidden, yet he understood her better than any other man. Only the Uduru, his Giant relatives, knew the northern woodlands as well as Vireon, but they did not love her as he did. They had walked her depths for two thousand years, carving paths and scars along her surface, but Vireon loved her verdant soul.

  Now on the edge of winter, before she donned her veil of virginal white, the forest wore a gown of myriad colors. Her leaves fell like teardrops of gold, saffron, orange, and scarlet. The moss on the boles of the mighty Uyga trees faded from green to pale indigo and mottled ochre. Still she wore a crown of late-blooming flowers, the Otha, the Narill, and the colossal Aduri, filling her windblown hair with sweetness. She was quiet mostly, demure in her vibrant garb, though she spoke in breathy whispers to those who knew how to listen. Vireon had learned to speak her language, to hear that faint voice, and to read the patterns of her silence.