Seven Princes

by John R. Fultz

  “So that mission must resume,” said the Queen.

  Tyro smiled grimly. “Winter has come. Vod’s Pass will soon be impassable.”

  “Then you must go quickly,” said the Queen. “Rockjaw has cleared the northern half of the pass.”

  “If there are no more early storms,” said Vireon, “our passage should be smooth.”

  So the plans of war were drawn: Shaira’s messengers would go immediately to Uurz and Shar Dni. The five Princes, with a cohort of four hundred, would go to Murala and sail south to secure Mumbaza’s alliance. D’zan, Tyro, and Lyrilan would then lead half the cohort directly into Yaskatha to foster rebellion and take the throne.

  When the winter broke, Shaira and her Uduri would lead the Udurum host across the pass to join Dairon’s legions in Uurz. Ammon’s Sharrian host would meet them at Allundra, where The Great Earth-Wall met the Golden Sea. Vireon and Andoses would guide the forces of Mumbaza to rally at Allundra, completing the Alliance of Four Armies before midsummer. Then their hosts would cross the border to Khyrei and victory.

  “I do not wish to go to Mumbaza,” Vireon protested, “but directly to Khyrei to find the Kinslayer.”

  “You are the Lord of Udurum now, son,” said his mother. “You will be King soon. You must go to Mumbaza and extend the hand of our kingdom. It is your duty. Then you will on your way to Khyrei.”

  Vireon agreed to the Queen’s plan. Tyro breathed a sigh of relief. This endeavor needed the son of Vod more than any other Prince. Here was a hero whose deeds could put fire in the hearts of a million soldiers. Tyro and Andoses were the brains of this campaign, but Vireon would be its handsome face and its strong right arm.

  Weary from a long night of planning and studying maps in the Queen’s council chamber, Tyro reflected on the bitter satisfaction of getting what he had wanted all along.

  There would be war.

  He should feel triumphant, exhilarated, eager for the taste of battle. Yet he felt only exhausted, and he dreaded another march over Vod’s Pass. The path to war was long and difficult. Patience was the armor he must wear.

  Yes, there would be war. A season of death, blood, and glory.

  A season that, like any other, manifested ever-so-slowly to cover the world.

  All his life he had been waiting for it.

  Even now it sank shallow roots into the ground, colored the dawn sky with bloody gloom, whispered its coming on the wind.

  Let it come, this savage season.

  I am ready.

  19

  Sunrise in Khyrei

  The moon was a pale and scarred face haunting the night. The waters of the Golden Sea sparkled with a million reflected stars. The only sound was the rushing wind and the beating of the black horse’s leathery wings. Gammir, formerly Fangodrel, sat comfortably on its back in his mail of gleaming shadow, basking in his mastery of the night-time world. A black cloud that was not a cloud at all flowed across the sea behind him, a mass of shadow-things exhumed from mountains, valleys, tombs, and graveyards. The rich blood of a King lined his throat and stomach, suffused the substance of his pale flesh, mingled with that of seven Princesses and a young Sharrian Duke.

  Spots of dried brown ichor speckled his lean chin and cheeks. He should have taken that last one as well… There was no good reason to let him live. No good reason, only the damning visage of his own dead brother. The words that only he could hear.

  Curse him! Curse his rotting bones… He’d best not cross this sea with the rest of the shades.

  King Ammon had received Gammir with open arms, calling for a feast to honor his presence. He had even kissed his nephew on each cheek (there were no bloodstains there yet). He must have assumed that his sister in Udurum was sending her eldest to observe the Khyrein piracy problems.

  “It has been too long since you visited us, Fangodrel,” Ammon cooed. He stroked the braids of his black beard, the same irritating mannerism his son Andoses had adopted. Ammon’s seven sisters would join them at table, and the two grown sons of his brother Omirus, who was still at sea protecting trade routes from Khyrein reavers. “Why did Andoses not come back with you?” he asked.

  Gammir smiled, refusing wine. His thirst was great, but not for the blood of grapes. “Andoses and Tadarus have gone to seek the favor of Uurz,” he said. The name of Tadarus was a sour taste on his tongue. Then he remembered the sweetness of his half-brother’s blood and rediscovered his smile.

  “This is good,” said Ammon from his throne of ivory and onyx. “My sister gathers support for a war against these jungle devils.” The banner of the white bull on a sky-blue field hung behind him. Servants bustled in carrying the feasting table. They placed it directly before the Sharrian throne, which sat on ground level with the rest of the chamber. Gammir found it odd that the Sharrian Kings chose not to raise themselves upon a royal dais. Some ancient tradition perhaps. Ammon was all but ruled by the Seven Priests who guided his every decision. Perhaps it was they who kept the Sharrian Kings at ground level.

  “Tell me, Uncle,” said Gammir. “Why do you wish to bring war upon Khyrei?”

  Ammon’s face grew petulant, his lips pursing. “Have you not heard my son’s words? They are pirates, murderers, and thieves. They ruin trade by sacking our ships, and take our mariners as slaves. They are an unwholesome race who have long resented our prosperity.”

  “I have heard they are a great and noble people,” said Gammir. “That they lived at peace with Shar Dni until wronged by the sorcery of Vod. Did he not steal my mother from the Prince of Khyrei? Did he not murder the Khyrein Emperor and his son?”

  Ammon laid his head back against the satin lining of his throne. His eyes searched the face of the man he still thought was Fangodrel, perhaps only now realizing that this was not him. The blue jewels hanging from his turban crown trembled as his arms shook with restrained rage.

  “You speak ill of your own father?” shouted Ammon. Servants withdrew, and the noble women who were gathering at the table cast their eyes downward at its mahogany surface. Children squealed and ran into adjoining corridors. “You find sympathy for the pale demons of the south? Has my sister never told you the truth of her marriage to Prince Gammir?”

  Guards in blue surcoats and gilded mail moved restlessly between the pillars as the King stood up to tower over his nephew. “No! She could never tell you! Gammir was a beast. He tortured her. He kept her as a slave until Vod came. A Princess of the Sharrian House locked in a dank cell like an animal!”

  The King had drunk too much wine and was obviously not used to anyone telling him what he did not want to hear. Anyone but the Seven Priests, thought Gammir. Those holy personages were in their great temples conducting the Rites of Twilight. Would he have raged so in their presence? Gammir doubted it. These lies about his true father must come to an end.

  “He was her master,” said Gammir in a quiet voice. “Was it not his right to treat her in whatever way he chose? He was a Prince; she was his property.”

  King Ammon beat his fist upon the table and silverware jumped among the dishes. His sisters coughed and sipped at their wine, hoping the rest of the food would arrive soon to fill both King and Prince’s mouths. Now the Dukes Dutho and Pyrus, the teenage Sons of Omirus, entered the hall and came to the table. They were dressed in the manner of warriors, though Gammir doubted if they had ever left the palace grounds.

  “You are young and ignorant,” said Ammon, returning to the seat of his throne. He grasped his wine goblet with an agitated hand. “There is nothing of Vod in your looks… in your manner… and I’ll wager there is none in your veins either.”

  The table grew silent. Two servants carried the steaming carcass of a roast pig across the floor, placing it at the center of the board. No one dared say a word. The King gulped his wine and would not look at the nephew he had insulted.

  Gammir did then what they least expected him to do. He laughed. Threw back his head and howled. The assembled Princesses, Dukes, and guards turned all eye
s upon him. Still no one spoke and still Ammon ignored him.

  Finally, grasping his stomach, Gammir let his mirth fade. “You are quite correct, Uncle,” he announced so that all there would hear it. “I am no son of Vod. Gammir the First was my father. Vod stole me from my rightful home and murdered my sire. This was the fruit of a conspiracy hatched before I was born.”

  Now King Ammon did turn to face him, his face a purple mask of rage and shock. The torches in their sconces, freshly lit to ward off the growing darkness, dimmed and snuffed themselves. The flames dancing in the twin braziers at either side of the hall fell away to fading embers. A ray of silver-gold moonlight streamed through the skylight at the apex of the throne room, bathing the table in pale gloom. In this gloom, Gammir’s black mail gleamed and sparkled like the midnight sea.

  “Your fool of a son is dead,” Gammir told Ammon. “By my own hand.”

  He raised that same hand like some white jewel to glimmer in the moonlight. The King’s eyes, and the eyes of all those at the table, watched his writhing fingers. Gammir smiled.

  The hand struck like a pallid viper and seized the throat of Ammon. The King’s eyes bulged, his wine spilled across the table, and the ladies of the court screamed. A roar like that of a tiger split the air, and Gammir’s teeth sank into Ammon’s throat. A gout of scarlet spewed across the plates, goblets, and the steaming pig carcass.

  The guards rushed forward, crying alarm, but the shadows along the walls rose up to seize them, ripping mail and flesh with phantom claws. Gammir drank deep of the blood gushing from his uncle’s pierced neck vein, his merciless hand holding Ammon still against his own feasting board. The sons of Omirus rushed at him, raising jeweled scimitars. A glance from Gammir froze them in terror, and the shadows rushed forth to enshroud them, lifting them above the marble floor. They slashed futilely at the air with their weapons, bellowing hate and fear.

  The seven sisters of Ammon ran, but rising walls of darkness blocked every exit. Terrible things floated out from those walls to gather them up in arms cold as death. The throne room was a vault of echoing screams, splashing blood, and death. Gammir, finished at last with the King’s sharp juices, turned one by one to the other guests. He let the Dwellers in Shadow take the impotent guardsmen and the terrified servants. He heard their bones crunching and the pieces of their torn bodies slapping against the floor as he went from lady to lady… aunt to aunt… sucking at the necks of his mother’s sisters. A wolf among penned sheep would have had no easier a feast.

  This royal blood was saccharine, tasting of privilege, ripe fruits, good wine, and glittering ruby. It spilled across the table, the floor, stained the white-gold pillars to the red of cherries. The blood that fell across Gammir’s black mail seeped into the non-metal, feeding its enchantment. Gammir saved the two young Dukes for last. They wept like infants, minds reeling in the horror of the slaughter whose every second they had witnessed.

  “Cousins…” said Gammir, his lips and chin dripping dark fluid. He stared at them with a predator’s eyes, his tongue flicking like a Serpent’s. The shadows about their bodies lowered them within reach of his teeth. “You need weep no more. The end of your suffering has come. Your father will soon join you.”

  He sank his teeth into the neck of Dutho, tearing out the warm juice within, slurping it into his belly. Pyrus wailed beside him, and the legion of shadows swirled and feasted in their own mysterious ways among the mutilated bodies. Dutho, drained to a still whiteness, fell from Gammir’s grasp and lay in a black puddle.

  He looked up from the corpse and saw Tadarus standing among the shadows.

  “No!” he shouted, pointing with a bloody claw that was his finger. “You cannot be here!”

  Tadarus only stared at him, wordlessly accusing him of being the fiend he truly was.

  Gammir tore off the purple cloak of Udurum, stained black with the blood of Ammon’s court, and threw it at the ghost. “Take it!” he screeched, and the shadow-things writhed and twitched. They flowed about the ghost of Tadarus like harmless vapor. They could not touch him. He was already dead. Perhaps he was one of them.

  Brother, said the wraith. It made no move to take up the cloak. The fabric lay over the corpse of a dead Princess, soaking in the bloody pool beneath her. The shadow-things seethed and snuffled between the pillars. Behind the walls of darkness that barricaded the chamber, Gammir heard the shouts and cries of soldiers and priests.

  “What do you want from me?” asked Gammir. “Why torment me? Do my bidding as these other dead things do… or leave me be.”

  Why have you called me here to witness this? asked the ghost. It wept ethereal tears. Can you not see what you have become? What you are becoming? Turn back from this path of shadows. It is not too late to redeem yourself with the edge of a clean blade.

  Gammir grabbed the throat of quivering Duke Pyrus, the only thing left living in the chamber besides himself. The tendrils of shadow moved away, and the Duke’s mouth was freed. “Please…” he wept. “P-p-please, cousin…” Gammir smelled the tang of filth among the blood. The whelp had soiled himself.

  “I’ll ignore you, Tadarus,” said Gammir. “As I ignore the bleating of these pigs.”

  Can you ignore yourself? You called me here, as you did before, to remind you…

  “Remind me of what?” said Gammir, still holding Pyrus in his hands, a begging, dripping sack of meat.

  That you are human, said the specter. You are not one of these things that serve you, no more than I am. Remember, Fangodrel. Remember the warmth of sunlight, and the ink you scrawled on countless parchments. Remember who you are. This is why you called me.

  “No!” bellowed Gammir. “I did not call you… You haunt me! This – all this – is who I am. I’ve embraced my true heritage… a legacy of blood and power.”

  Tadarus was gone. Shadows swam in the empty air where the apparition had stood.

  Gammir dropped the squirming Pyrus onto the floor, where the lad immediately lost consciousness. My belly is full of royal blood, he told himself. I do not need this one. Let him carry the tale of what was done here. Let them know what is coming for all of them. Let them see.

  The black horse walked out from a wall of shadow, pacing toward him through spreading pools of red. Gammir leaped upon its back, leaving the cloak of Tadarus among the corpses. A pulse of shimmering sorcery ran along his limbs, and the horse sprouted its immense bat-like wings. It crashed through the skylight toward the bloated moon, leaving a shower of glass in its wake. The walls of darkness fell and the warriors of Shar Dni rushed in to view the massacre as a black cloud flowed upward through the broken ceiling and disappeared in the night.

  Now, hours later, a dark coast appeared along the southern horizon. At last, the shores of Khyrei. The phantom steed’s speed was terrific, fueled by the potency of the Sharrian blood. The sun would not rise for quite some while, but already the beast arced down toward the vast spread of the jungle lands. The steaming wilderness looked black beneath the stars, but its true color was that of fresh-spilled blood… like the petals of the bloodflower he had used as a surrogate for the liquid itself.

  Ianthe’s capital hugged the coast, and the jungles ran from its southernmost wall as far as the eye could see. Here was the thorny palace of onyx and jet he had seen in the depths of the Red Dream. Its spires stood sharp as barbed spears, ready to pierce the moon and drink the red rain of its death. The city’s buildings, too, were of black stone, low and dull, bearing none of the glory of the splendid palace. The castle’s central tower bore a crown of curving spikes, and flocks of jungle bats flew about its balconies and bridges. In the light of the sun, the dark palace would stand against the backdrop of scarlet jungle as it had stood against the flames of the Red Dream. The city cowering in the shadow of those regal towers, with its thousands upon thousands of pale slaves and bronze-masked warriors, would all be his. It was already his. This was his birthright, laid before him at last.

  Somewhere within that edifice o
f night, long rebuilt from the days of Vod’s perfidy, the pale Empress sat waiting to kiss his lips and embrace him with a passion his own mother had never shown. His gorgeous, ageless, grandmother, Ianthe the Claw. She kept a hoard of secrets hidden here, and they would open wide for him now like ruby blossoms.

  The black steed flew over the black ramparts and entered the grounds of Ianthe’s citadel.

  She received him in the eight-sided courtyard grown thick with jungle plants, the gossamer flow of her gown disturbed by the wind of the black horse’s wings. She stared at him with eyes that mirrored the pre-dawn sky, ripe with miniature constellations. The beast faded to a dark fog and wafted from his body as his booted feet met the stones of the yard. Now the simmering heat of Khyrei washed over him; in the fierce winds of the upper air he had not felt it. It crawled across his skin now, damp and thick, an invisible layer of wet silk beneath the cool exterior of his shadow-mail. He stood before her not in any dream or vision, but in the quivering, sweating flesh. He inhaled the jasmine scent of her skin, dazzled by the moonlight bright as diamonds on her skin.

  The spiderweb of a crown rose from her alabaster forehead, pushing back the whiteness of her thick hair. Her lean shoulders supported a diaphanous robe, cut low below a necklace of jade, moonstones, and opals. Golden bands encircled her arms above and below the elbows, and the rings on her lithe fingers refracted the light of the stars. Her nails were the claws of a panther, hard and sharp as diamond. About her narrow waist hung a belt of silver set with lapis lazuli, sparkling above the triangular shadow of her loins. Diamonds blazed on her slim ankles, and her long feet were bare on the jet surface of the cobbles. She stood the exact height as him, and her feline face met his own with an expression of perfect grace. Her lips were the color of wet, delicious blood; her smile thrilled and frightened him.

  “My Prince, my Blood, the Son of my Son,” she said, her eyes locking onto his. He could never look away from those eyes unless she wished it. “Prince Gammir… welcome home.” She wrapped her arms around him, and he melted into her. Tears ran along his cheeks, but he did not care.