“The Long Hunt took me into the far north, to the White Mountains,” said Vireon. “There I discovered what has been forgotten these many centuries. Our cousins, People of Hreeg like us! The Udvorg, who went north before Old Udurum was built… who made their own kingdom in the land of ice and wind. You see now the descendants of our ancestors. Yes, recognize them! These are their children!”
He shouted children with an emphasis no one could mistake. These were not blue-skinned Men, they were the offspring of these white-haired beauties in their pelts of black and scarlet. These were Giants who were not living on the brink of extinction. Children! How long had it been since the Udurum had seen Giant children? Twenty-six years since the day the Lord of Serpents fell upon the old city and murdered most of their kind.
The curiosity of the Uduru turned to joy. Some fell to their knees and took the Udvorg children by their shoulders, hugging them, lifting them, tugging at their cheeks. The blue children laughed, exchanged grins with their mothers. The Giantesses did not lack for attention either. Some Uduru took their hands in the sign of universal greeting; some embraced them like hungry bears; others even dared to kiss their azure knuckles.
My son has brought a miracle to his people.
Vireon turned from the spectacle to look at her. She took his free hand, tears brimming in her eyes, but these were tears of gladness. Vireon stood between Shaira and Alua, both of their hands in his own.
Fangodrim came to the dais, carrying an Udvorg girl-child on his big shoulders. “You hunted beasts and found Giants!” said Vireon’s uncle. His eyes also brimmed with tears of joy. “How many are there? Up there among the White Peaks?”
Vireon smiled. “Thousands,” he said. “Entire clans, Uncle! All under the eye of the Ice King called Angrid the Long-Arm. He welcomes his lost cousins into his kingdom. Once again the Uduru will have wives and children. The Uduru will live!”
Fangodrim turned toward the excited crowd, the girl laughing on his back.
“The Uduru will live!” he shouted. The Giants cheered, and the palace walls shook.
Shaira rose from her throne when the tumult died down. “Let there be a feast,” she ordered. “For my son has returned, and the Udvorg have come to Udurum.”
Another round of cheers, and word of Vireon’s miracle was spilling now into the streets of the city. Rumors began to fly, and tales would grow of how Vireon had “conquered” the northlands.
She watched him introduce Fangodrim to one of the blue-skinned Giantesses. Pots of heated wine were passed among the hall, but the blue-skins would drink only cold liquids. She directed the servants to bring such for them.
“Uncle, this is Lydrah, first among my Udvorg wives,” said Vireon. “According to her own custom, I may give her to a warrior who is worthy of her. So I give her to you, Fangodrim.”
Fangodrim stared at his new wife, speechless. It was Lydrah the Giantess who spoke first, though her thick accent made her words muddy. “I accept you, Fangodrim the Gray,” she said, and took his hand. “Vireon has told me… much about you. We shall have… strong children.”
Fangodrim, still mute, lifted Lydrah in his great arms and spun her about. The nearby children laughed and began to spin themselves. Now all the Giants were spinning, laughing, talking of this great thing that Vireon had done.
Vireon went among them, picking carefully the right husband for each blue-skin Giantess. He delivered a mate to Dabruz the Flame-Heart, Ohlung the Bear-Slayer, then Danthus the Sharp-Toothed. Each of the Uduru greeted their new wives – and the accompanying children – with respect and jubilation. Shaira watched in amazement, laughing as she had never thought to laugh again, crying and happy all at once. She barely noticed the wild girl, Alua, standing patiently at the side of her throne, where Vireon had placed her. There was no jealousy in the girl’s eyes. Instead, a familiar glow beamed from her smiling face, shimmered in her black-diamond pupils. Shaira took a moment and put a name to that peculiar glow.
She loves Vireon. Truly and deeply.
Alua’s eyes never left Vireon as he went about choosing husbands for the last two Udvorg ladies. Many Giants requested the honor, but it was Boroldun the Bear-Fang and Ogo the Spear who had the luck. Now there stood nine Giant couples in the room, with six children between them. The blue-skins seemed overwhelmed by the shower of love and affection.
Vireon returned to the royal dais and took Alua’s hand. She hugged him and he kissed her. “You have done a good thing,” she whispered to him. Shaira heard this and silently agreed.
She wondered at the sheer delight brimming in her palace hall. Would humans have reacted differently in such a situation? She thought so, but then again humans were not facing extinction. The Uduru were, in many ways, a simpler people than Men. Their ways were not those of the Small Folk. Not even centuries of separation could sever their common spirit.
Vireon grabbed his mother’s arm, bending to one knee. “Mother, where is my little sister?” In all the excitement he had forgotten about Sharadza. For a moment, so had she. A pang of guilt stabbed her chest.
“Gone,” she told him. “Not long after you and Tadarus left.”
“Gone where?” asked Vireon.
Shaira could not speak, so she only shook her head.
Stubborn girl, you have ruined this moment of joy!
“Vireon,” she said. “Your sister has a strong will. We’ll speak of her later.”
Vireon embraced her again, sensing her worry.
“Now,” she continued. “Tell me about this Ice King…”
Today would be a feast to rival all other feasts. Word of the blue-skinned Udvorg and their invitation would travel to every Giant in the city, and celebrations would be heard in every quarter. But the Honored Uduru and their new families would gather about the Queen’s Table and Vireon would tell of his adventures. Shaira would ignore the empty chairs where her other three children should be sitting.
My son is returned, she told herself. That is enough for now.
Yet the glimmer of an unspoken sadness swam in Vireon’s eyes, even in the midst of his gladness. She wondered what it was.
Vireon held Alua close to him and said nothing.
17
Six Princes
Deep snows filled the pass. A column of Giants drove through the white depths, shifting it aside with their great shields and the strength of their arms. The company of Men, a haggard mix of Uurzian, Sharrian, and Udurum, rode through the corridors cleared by the Giants’ hands. Beneath the snow, often invisible, lay patches of deadly ice. Horses were sent lame when they slipped, or went sliding down treacherous slopes and broke their necks. At times riding was impossible, and the line of over three hundred men walked on foot down the northern side of Vod’s Pass.
Andoses had sweated and moaned and babbled for three days until his fever finally broke. Snow had fallen all that time, and it was two more days before the Sharrian Prince regained his full strength. Soon it was decided: the blended company must make for Udurum before the fullness of winter fell upon the Grim Mountains. D’zan learned this was an early snowfall, a pale shadow of storms to come. Winter had not yet fully conquered the lands below these slopes.
“The snows come early and deeper at these heights,” said Rockjaw. “Now is the season of ice-storms in Uduria. If we leave now, we may reach the city before the first snow.”
Tyro and Andoses had agreed. They had gathered the reserves of their living men, bolstered their spirits with brave words and flagons of wine, and decided to set out at once. The men took heart from Andoses’ recovery, which they saw as a sign from the Sky God. Andoses was on a holy mission to save Shar Dni, and there could be no denying it. Those soldiers too wounded to travel would spend the season in the cavern with a contingent of Rockjaw’s sentinels; the pass must never go unguarded. Their refuge was packed with provisions and emergency supplies, so there was no danger of starvation. The men may not have liked their Princes’ decision, but they would abide it. Besides, t
raveling through the snow-choked pass probably would have killed them.
As cold and miserable as it was along the pass, exposed to the elements and the perilous mountains, D’zan was glad to be moving north again. He walked down a precarious path, boots searching for clumps of snow and mud. He watched for those hidden traps of ice that might prove his last step in this life. The fierce wind tore at his cloak as he dragged his reluctant horse along by its reins. Far ahead and below, the Uduru gathered themselves into a dip in the pass before tackling the next wrinkle of the white landscape. Ahead walked Tyro, leading his own mount, and Andoses came between them. At D’zan’s back came Lyrilan, quoting lines of verse to distract himself from the bitter cold. Behind Lyrilan came the long double line of soldiers leading their own steeds. In the midst of the warrior columns rolled the supply wagons, pulled now by straining men, since the terrain was too slick and deadly for horses. They worked in shifts, aware that the first of those wagons carried the shrouded bones of Tadarus, Prince of Udurum.
“The Prince must be taken home,” Rockjaw had said. Tyro had tried to dissuade him. They could return for Tadarus’ remains in the spring. But the Giant would not hear of it. “It took many days to find his body among the broken stones of Steephold. We will carry it to the Queen, or we will not go at all.” So there dead Tadarus rode, wrapped in a Giant’s cape and pulled by grunting, freezing men toward a tomb in the city he might one day have ruled.
Finally, after twelve days of stumbling, sliding, freezing exhaustion, the snowdrifts gave way to a frosted range of low hills. A road ran level, winding between those white lumps crowned with leafless trees. The company filed out onto the road while the Uduru rested atop the nearest knoll. When D’zan took to the saddle again, he found that his ribs were no longer sore. His legs and arms were aching, his feet and toes permanently chilled, but at least his ribs had healed. Thank the Gods, we made it through the pass. He sat on his horse, staring north into the Giantlands.
They had not beaten the first snow of winter after all, but down here the snows were light, perhaps a fingerspan thick. The range of hills was shallow, giving way to the broad plain a few leagues north. Groves of trees dotted the plain, and a stream only partially frozen ran down from the uplands. The trees of the plain grew thicker as the eyes traveled northward, becoming at last a mighty wall of impenetrable forest. The trees there must be incredibly tall, though at this distance D’zan was unsure. They seemed tall as the spires of cities, stretching great branches in all directions. Everywhere a white dusting of snow coated the world. Still, some green persisted in the black depths of that soaring woodland, evergreens and pine gleaming in the shadows of monolithic trunks.
“They’re called Uyga,” said Lyrilan, bringing his horse up beside D’zan.
“What?”
“Those great trees that tower over all the others. Uyga trees. They dwarf even the Uduru.”
D’zan’s perspective fell into focus, and he realized exactly how big the Giant-trees truly were.
“It’s said a man can build an entire house out of a single Uyga root,” said Lyrilan.
The rest of the soldiers and the grateful wagon-pullers filed out onto the level road. Soon they would be moving again, some riding alone, some sharing mounts. At the head of the column, the bannermen of Tyro and Andoses unfurled the standards of Uurz and Shar Dni. One of Rockjaw’s lieutenants joined them, flying the hammer flag of New Udurum.
“How far until the city?” asked D’zan.
Lyrilan pulled back his hood and scratched his curly head. “Best ask a Giant,” he said. “It’s hard to tell these thing from maps.”
“Have you not visited Udurum before?” asked D’zan.
“I have,” said Lyrilan. “It was summer, and I rode in a coach. I remember sleeping during this part of the journey.”
D’zan laughed.
“I was much younger then,” Lyrilan reminded him.
They rode the rest of the day and pavilioned at the very edge of the forest. The concentric camp lines took formation to the east of the wide road that ran directly into the gargantuan wall of trees. The night was chill, but far warmer than Vod’s Pass. The wind was less here, and the light snow melted about their fires. D’zan stood outside his tent and pondered the depths of those great woods. What creatures lurked in their dark underbrush? Or lived in the vast expanses of their branches? He heard tales of colossal elk, of moose large as houses, and even wolves tall enough to bite a man in half. How much of these tales were true he had no idea.
At length he went inside his tent to undress. Each Prince would have his own pavilion tonight, so D’zan would enjoy relative comfort. First he would heat a pot of water and soak his feet. Then drink some mulled wine and fall asleep under a pile of furs. His goal was so near now… already he felt a lightening of spirits.
Prince Tyro came stamping into the tent. “Well, D’zan, welcome to the Giantlands. Don’t take off those boots. It’s time for your lessons to resume.”
D’zan sighed. “I thought we’d rest first and in the morning—”
Tyro grunted. “When the sun rises we’ll be marching toward Udurum. We’ve wasted too many good days in that pass. Pick up your blade and follow me. Quickly now, I’m tired too.”
D’zan pulled on his cloak, took up the Stone’s blade, and joined Tyro in the frosted shortgrass. As campfires blinked to life about them, men unloaded wagons, fed horses, and settled down for the night. D’zan ran through the warm-up exercises under Tyro’s critical eye. Next came the sparring with bronze rods. D’zan performed exceptionally badly and earned several new bruises. Before the session was over, the smell of cooking meat filled the night air and the deep laughter of Uduru floated among the smoke. His arms were numb when Tyro finally dismissed him.
“Get some sleep,” Tyro said. “Tomorrow, if no storm slows us, you will meet the Queen of Udurum.”
D’zan went back to his tent, forgot about the hot water, drank a cup of chilled wine instead, and crawled beneath the covers of his cot. Some time during the middle of the night he woke in a panic, realizing he did not have the Stone’s blade in his hand. He grabbed it up from the rugs and placed it upon his chest, pommel pointing toward his chin, fists wrapped firmly about the hilt. Sleep returned, swift as an eagle.
The colossal forest was an amazing sight, but the City of Men and Giants dwarfed it for sheer spectacle. It rose from a vast clearing in the center of the woodland, encircled by outlying farms, and its great black wall stood taller than the tremendous Uyga trees. The gates stood open as the four Princes approached, the lowering sun at their backs. They had ridden all day through the forest and were arriving as Tyro had anticipated – in the orange glow of early evening. Behind the Princes a pair of horses pulled the wagon housing Tadarus’ body, and behind that came a company of twenty-two Uduru. The long train of cavalrymen followed at their heels, winding outward from the shadows of the trees.
The flames of great braziers burned at intervals atop the wall, and men tiny as ants walked the high ramparts. Here and there an Uduru strolled between battlements, but the Men far outnumbered the Giants.
An advance rider had galloped through the forest that morning, carrying word of the company’s approach. Now a contingent of Uduru, led by a graybeard in sable and silver, came to greet them at the Great Gate. The Giants stood like iron statues, dressed in full armor and the purple cloaks of sentinels. Beyond, in the city proper, a crowd of humans braved the cold to catch a glimpse of the arriving Princes. Other than a few wall-guards and the contingent of royal escorts, no other Giants could be seen.
The ebony spires of Vod’s Palace stood at the city’s heart, each wearing a crown of pristine snow. Here was a castle that set all other castles to shame; it made the great edifice D’zan’s father had kept in Yaskatha look like a pile of sticks and tinder. Here was a palace – and a whole city – built for giants. To find humans here at all was an astounding thing. It had not always been this way. Yet when Vod rebuilt the orig
inal city, he planned it to accommodate the sizes of both races. D’zan’s mind boggled at the blend of great and small architectures comprising the streets, plazas, houses, shops, and taverns. Through the arching gate, he saw all these structures and more. The gray-bearded Giant raised his arm and bellowed a greeting.
“Hail, Princes of Uurz! Hail, Prince of Shar Dni and Queen’s Cousin!”
Tyro spoke for all of them. “Hail, Fangodrim the Gray, First Among Giants!” As they reined their horses at the very lip of the gates, Tyro spoke again to the Giant. “Know that Prince D’zan, Heir of Yaskatha, rides with us.”
Fangodrim the Gray turned his grizzled face to D’zan. His courteous bow was slight, but proper. “Hail, Prince of Yaskatha. The Queen of Udurum heeds your coming and welcomes you.”
The Giants walked beside the mounted Princes as they proceeded along the broad cobbled street. The curious faces of children, laborers, soldiers, wives, and merchants looked up at them, white breath rushing from their mouths and nostrils. Behind the Princes the innocuous death wagon rolled along the street, its tragic cargo yet to be revealed. Now the twenty-two Uduru from Steephold filed through the gate. Fangodrim went back to greet them personally, and he embraced Rockjaw.
“Where are Tadarus and Fangodrel?” Fangodrim asked Rockjaw. “Your rider’s message said nothing of them.”
Rockjaw’s response was a half-grunt, half-moan. “Best to ask the Prince Andoses,” he said. “I would not speak for him.”
Fangodrim turned his big face toward Andoses, but the Sharrian Prince looked straight ahead, toward the black palace in its cloak of snow. “I bring grim news,” said Andoses. “It should be the Queen’s ears that hear it first.”
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