Seven Princes

by John R. Fultz

  The monster unleashed its breath. Fire belched forth and scattered the Giants. One of their number went down beneath the full might of the blast, the rest of them singed but unharmed.

  “Now!” bellowed an Uduru gray-beard, and the Giants sprang toward the Wyrm’s belly. A pair of axes cleaved it open while a half-dozen spears drove in deeper than the height of a tall man. The beast roared, gushing hot, black blood.

  The gray-beard took out one of the beast’s great eyes, sinking a greatsword into the red orb, which broke like glass and splattered his mail with steaming fluid. Giants hacked and pulled legs from the beast, some with their very hands, ripping tendon and bone from the Serpent’s sides.

  One last time it reared up to breathe, but no flame came from its torn throat. Instead, the gray-beard Uduru sheared off its head with a sweep of his axe.

  Headless it writhed and flailed. The Giants continued pulling off its legs one by one. The Uduru cheered, raising stained blades toward the sky, and the surviving Uurzians joined them. The mountain bowl lay strewn with the corpses of men torn, shattered, and smoldering. But here was victory, all the more sweet when snatched from the jaws of defeat.

  D’zan raised his blade and walked among the milling men. His eyes were on the Giants, who slapped one another’s backs and started laying claim to fangs, bones, or scales from the dead beast. It stank more heavily now than it did while alive, crimson innards exposed and flopping among the broken stones.

  Tyro hailed the Uduru with gratitude and recognition in his eyes.

  “Tallim the Rockjaw!” the Prince of Uurz shouted. “Never have I been more glad to see you and your brothers!”

  The gray-beard Uduru laughed, dark gore dripping from his gauntlets. “Prince Tyro? Is the Emperor with you?”

  Tyro shook his head and offered his hand to the Giant. Rockjaw removed his metal glove and carefully grasped Tyro’s forearm in his fist.

  “My brother Lyrilan and I—” Tyro stopped. “My brother!” He only now remembered Lyrilan, and his face was grave.

  D’zan yelled to him, “Prince Lyrilan lies behind those rocks. His horse bolted and he fell. I believe he lives, so I kept him out of the way.”

  Tyro spared him an approving glance and went to find his brother.

  “That is a fine blade,” said Rockjaw.

  D’zan realized he was still holding the greatsword. “Thank you. It was my inheritance.”

  The Giant grunted. “Well now, you are not Uurzian… you have southern skin. You must be the Yaskathan Prince.”

  D’zan blinked. “I am,” he said.

  Rockjaw nodded, black gore dripping from his beard. “I have another Prince in my care. One who is most eager to meet you.”

  D’zan sheathed his blade. It must be a Prince of Udurum. This boded well for the success of his journey. But he could not think on that while Lyrilan lay helpless and the corpse of a mythical monstrosity lay before him, being stripped of its treasures like a dog’s carcass devoured by ants.

  “I look forward to meeting your Prince,” said D’zan to the Giant. “And I thank you for my life.”

  The Giant bowed, then turned back to stripping the carcass with his brethren. “We’ve not seen his like since the Fall of Old Udurum…” he heard Rockjaw say.

  The Uurzian captain had survived, though his cloak was burned and his cheek blistered. Still he gave orders in Tyro’s name while the Prince tended to his brother with water from a canteen. D’zan went to join Tyro. Lyrilan was coming around as his brother wrapped a white cloth about the scholar’s skull.

  “What was it?” Lyrilan asked, his voice weak.

  “A Serpent,” said Tyro. “It’s dead now. Rest… I will tell you all later.”

  Lyrilan nodded. A field physician tended to the worst of the wounded men while soldiers helped their fellows as best they could.

  “How bad is he?” asked D’zan.

  “Not bad,” said Tyro without looking at D’zan. “He’ll be all right when he gets some rest and some hot food in his belly. He is tougher than he looks.”

  Lyrilan laughed, then groaned.

  Tyro stood and looked at D’zan. “I should be condemning you as a coward,” he said. “But it appears you may have saved my brother’s life. So I will forgive your absence in this battle.”

  Tyro’s eyes were dark steel. D’zan could not meet them, so he looked at the charred ground instead.

  “I… I don’t know what to say,” he muttered.

  “Say nothing to me,” said Tyro. “But thank the Gods that all these men were here to die so that you may live.”

  D’zan turned his eyes to the clouded sky. If the Giants had not come, they would all be dead. But if the Men had not held off the beast as long as they did, the Giants would have come too late.

  “Your training resumes tomorrow night,” said Tyro. “Pain or no pain.”

  D’zan nodded.

  “It is easy to be a Prince,” said Tyro. “But far harder to be a man.”

  He clapped D’zan roughly on the shoulder and marched off toward his men.

  D’zan knelt before Lyrilan.

  “What did he say?” asked the scholar.

  “Only the truth,” said D’zan.

  “You saved my life?”

  D’zan shrugged. “Someone has to write my life story.”

  Lyrilan smiled.

  Giants and Men stripped the beast of every last fang, claw, and scale. Such tokens would bring high prices in the markets of Uurz or Udurum. A detail of Uurzians set about burying their fallen men under cairns of rock. All told, Tyro had lost forty-six good men, and more than a hundred endured wounds of various severity. The beast had only slain one Uduru this night, but half the number of Steephold’s inhabitants had died five days previous.

  D’zan overheard Tyro and Rockjaw talking as the first torches of evening were lit. There would be no camping or eating until all the dead were buried. Men worked hurriedly among the cold shadows, and the moon lost itself behind the clouds.

  “Oh, it was no Wyrm that destroyed Steephold,” said Rockjaw. “That devil must have crawled up out of the caverns after the fortress fell. My guess is the collapsing floors dislodged the cap we put on the old warrens. Who knows how long this thing slumbered down there in the dark until the citadel’s fall woke him to rage and hunger?”

  D’zan squeezed his hands until his knuckles went white. He knew the Wyrm had awakened for one reason only… because he had come into the mountains. How could this not be the work of Elhathym and his sorcery? How many had died for D’zan thus far, starting with the guard crushed by a shadow outside his tent, ending in today’s massacre? How many more would die before he regained his father’s throne or perished himself? He must get used to death. It was part of the world to which he now belonged. But he did not know if he truly could. He must try. He had no choice.

  “Then… if not the Serpent,” asked Tyro, “what was it that destroyed the castle?”

  Rockjaw ran a hand through his unkempt beard, and his big eyes were troubled. He looked at Tyro, his craggy face gilded by flickering torch light.

  “Best to let the Prince himself answer that,” said the Giant.

  The cohort followed the twenty-two Giants up the side of a mountain, picking their way along an ancient track wide enough for three horses to walk abreast. The few wounded who could not ride lay in the bed of a supply wagon. More men had died than mounts, but it took a while to gather the scattered horses. Lyrilan’s horse was among those retrieved; D’zan’s mare had been burned to death. Tyro gave him a fallen soldier’s stallion to ride. Lyrilan insisted on riding his own horse, despite Tyro’s objections. The Uduru marched with claws, whole legs, and fangs carried on their shoulders. Rockjaw carried the body of their single casualty, the Giant who had burned to death, wrapped in a shroud made from a furred cloak. For their own reasons, the Uduru would not bury him near the ruins with the Men of Uurz.

  The line of Giants, Men, and horses wound its way up and aroun
d the mountain. A layer of snow coated the precarious heights. D’zan glanced over the trail’s edge when the moon sailed free of the clouds, shedding golden light across the world. He saw the ruined fortress far below, and the legless, skinned corpse of the Serpent. The stink of burned flesh still lingered in his nostrils, and he realized it had seeped into his clothes. He nearly retched, but fear of slipping over the side of the path and falling to his death pulled his stomach back down from his throat. He did not look down again.

  On the western side of the mountain the Giants filed into an immense cavern where firelight danced and warm air flowed. The smell of roasting fowl replaced all others as D’zan rode into the crude sanctuary at the head of the Uurzian column. The cavern was vast enough to hold the entire cohort, not to mention its horses, wagons, and the Giants. One Uduru had stayed behind here, a Giant with his arm in a sling, tending a few injured Uduru who slept between the pointed pillars of stalagmites. There were Men here, too. At least sixty of them, a mix of black-clad soldiers from Udurum and others wearing the blue-white cloaks and turbaned helms of Shar Dni. They gathered about fires drinking wine or ale, chewing their simple dinners, or staring at nothing, lost in their own solemn thoughts.

  Tyro ordered his captain to supervise the unloading of wounded men and the care of the horses. His lieutenants set about stocking and tenting the unclaimed sections of the cavern, while the men of Udurum and Shar Dni watched quietly. Many wore the bandages and slings of battle – they too had suffered. The quiet ones seemed the most damaged.

  D’zan and Lyrilan dismounted, following Tyro and Rockjaw toward the back of the cavern. They passed among the silent Men and slumbering Giants, warmed by the glow of their fires. At least in here the cold was kept at bay, and the winds did not intrude. Weariness tugged at D’zan’s eyelids, and his fingers tingled. His side ached worse now. It was always worse after a day of riding. Falling from his horse had not helped his bruises.

  Rockjaw led them through a ring of Sharrian guards. D’zan noted their splendid curved swords, the cobalt blue of their mail shirts. These were the elite of the eastern city’s royal legions. Why were they here guarding a Prince of New Udurum? Why were any Sharrians here?

  The guards spread to let them pass. At their center on a bed of soft blankets, his head propped on a rolled cloak, lay a lean young man with a braided beard and a mass of curly black hair. His arms, legs, and torso were covered in bandages, some of them stained pink by leaking blood. Sweat beaded on his face, and he lay in the midst of a terrible fever. His nose was long and sharp, and a jeweled turban lay nearby, along with a scimitar with a hilt of gold, sheathed in a royal scabbard. He awoke from shallow sleep as Rockjaw kneeled at his side.

  “Prince Andoses,” whispered the Giant. “The Princes Tyro and Lyrilan have arrived, and his majesty Prince D’zan of Yaskatha.”

  D’zan looked about the cavern. Here was a Sharrian Prince. Where were the sons of New Udurum? It made no sense. But the wounded Prince turned his dark-rimmed eyes to D’zan and smiled. His expression said, I have been expecting you.

  “Welcome, D’zan,” said Andoses. His voice was weak, but steady. “I only wish I could stand up to embrace you. As it is, my open hand will have to do.” He raised his hand shakily, and D’zan took it in his own.

  “What happened to you?” asked D’zan. It was the only thing he could think to say.

  “Treachery,” said Andoses. “Darkness and treachery. But I will live.”

  His face turned to Tyro and Lyrilan. “Princes of Uurz…” he managed. “It is good to see your handsome faces again.”

  “And you, Andoses,” said Tyro, crouching to lean over him.

  “I took a knock myself,” said Lyrilan, motioning to his bandaged forehead. “We Princes are a tough breed, eh? You’ll be on your feet in no time.”

  Tyro gave his brother a sharp glance, then turned back to Andoses. “Tell us now, Prince,” he said. “What happened to Steephold? And why are you here, so far from the Valley of the Bull?”

  Andoses struggled to raise himself a little, Tyro creating a makeshift pillow to prop up his shoulders. A soldier brought a stone cup filled with water, and they waited for Andoses to gulp it down.

  “We rode south for Uurz,” Andoses began, “a company from Udurum joining my own on behalf of Shar Dni. We were to see Dairon on an urgent matter. There is war brewing in the east. At Steephold we received word of your approach, so there we waited. The Princes… the Princes were with me…”

  “Which Princes?” asked Tyro. “Tadarus and Vireon?”

  Andoses shook his head. “Tadarus and… Fangodrel.” Andoses coughed, choking on the second name. After a moment, he continued. “A great storm came upon us… a storm of shadows… Terrible things came through the walls… darkness with claws. It was him… the eldest Prince…”

  Tyro calmed Andoses with an arm about his shoulders, cradling his head. “Easy. Tell it slowly.”

  Andoses took a deep breath. His eyes were bloodshot and watery.

  “First we heard the horses being slaughtered in the stables… then thunder rolled over the walls and the shadows tore at us… great, unseen beasts… hideously strong…” Andoses wept as he relived the night of death. “Men died all around me… I saw their guts strung across the ceiling… Then the darkness… The torches faded… Men cried and screamed. I ran… I went to find Tadarus… I thought we could escape. Instead I found the other one…”

  “Fangodrel?” asked Lyrilan.

  “The sorcerer!” said Andoses. “He walked inside the shadow… drinking it in… There was blood across his body… blood running from his mouth. He… showed me the corpse of Tadarus, his own brother… drained and broken. He tossed it aside… a broken doll of sticks and twine…”

  Andoses fell silent, staring into the shadows between hanging stalactites.

  Tyro looked at Rockjaw, and the Giant’s big head nodded slowly. Even the massive warrior could not speak of these things. D’zan thought the Giant might weep too, but he did not. Perhaps Giants did not shed tears.

  “Are you saying that Fangodrel murdered Tadarus?” asked Tyro.

  Andoses nodded. “Murdered him… and drank his blood… like wine, Tyro.”

  “What about the Uduru?” said Tyro. “There were fifty stationed here before.”

  “The sorcerer and his demons took them,” said the Rockjaw. “Tore them apart. And the Cursed Prince drank their blood as well.”

  Andoses blinked, coming back to himself. “He rose into the storm, and his demons howled… They battered against the walls… tore the pillars loose. Bones and rock shattered in their grip. I stood before a great wall as it crumbled and thought I would die. I was grateful to die in such a clean way instead of under the claws of the shadows. But Rockjaw was there… He scooped me up, and the wall fell upon his back. He carried me clear of the walls as they tumbled about us… The demons clawed at us like raving dogs… but he ran into the storm… He saved me.”

  Rockjaw hung his head. “I would have stayed to fight and die,” he said. “But this was a Prince, the Queen’s nephew, and I… I knew my duty. Nearly half our number died in that dark storm, crushed by the stones of Steephold, or torn to shreds by Fangodrel’s demons.”

  Andoses reached up to take D’zan’s hand again. “Prince D’zan,” he said. “We know your plight. We support your claim to the throne of Yaskatha. Shar Dni will ride with you. Udurum will ride…” His voice trailed off.

  D’zan squeezed the Prince’s hand. “I thank you. Let us talk of these things later.”

  “Yes,” said Tyro. “We’ll take you back to Udurum. The Queen must know of all this. And we must bury her son.”

  “What happened to Fangodrel?” asked Lyrilan.

  “Gone,” said Andoses. “Into the darkness with his demons. Gods curse his name.”

  “When the storm ceased, we survivors sought sanctuary in this cave,” said Rockjaw. “Later we retrieved as many bodies as we could find… including that of Tadarus.
For days our scouts kept a lookout for your train.”

  “A good thing you did,” said Tyro. “A mighty good thing.”

  “What happened?” asked Andoses.

  “Later, Prince,” said Tyro. “We’ll speak of it in the morning. We are weary, wounded, and hungry. Sleep now and we’ll soon join you.”

  Andoses laid his head back. He mumbled something about Mumbaza before passing out.

  “He’s been like this for days,” said Rockjaw. “His fever must break soon, or he will die.”

  Tyro went to meet with his captain while D’zan and Lyrilan lay down in Lyrilan’s tent, which sat now inside the cavern. Outside the great cave-mouth, a snowstorm began, great white flakes flying across the darkness.

  “What does all this mean?” D’zan said, trying to wrap his head around it.

  Lyrilan sighed. “It means one Prince of Udurum is dead, killed by another. It means the Sharrian Prince may die as well.” He thought for a moment. “But it also means that if he lives, you will have the backing of Shar Dni.”

  “What about Udurum?”

  “That will depend on Queen Shaira,” said Lyrilan. “Although there is one Prince left in the City of Men and Giants. If Tadarus meant to support you, perhaps Vireon will as well.”

  D’zan’s head swam. So much was happening, and so fast. Blood pounded in his ears. He caressed his aching ribs. If Shar Dni and Udurum supported his claim, he would have the war the Stone had promised him. This was no comforting thought. War would bring only more death and destruction. How did this Fangodrel fit into the situation? He was a sorcerer, that much stood clear. Why had he murdered his brother? Was it to prevent his alliance with D’zan? If so, he would likely return to finish what the shadow-thing and the Serpent had not.

  D’zan pulled the Stone’s blade from its sheath, wrapped his hands about the warded hilt, and lay back against the hard floor of the cave. He knew what Andoses meant about the shadows – one of them had come for him already. How many more were there?

  “D’zan?” said Lyrilan in the dark of the tent.