Seven Princes

by John R. Fultz

  They left the tavern, which had emptied while they spoke behind the curtain. The owner had fallen asleep on one of his own stools. Sharadza left a single emerald from the sunken chest lying at his elbow. She fastened the door as they stepped into the street.

  They walked toward the palace, and she sensed that everyone around her saw the old man Fellow. She saw ageless Iardu in all his splendor. Unless… unless Iardu’s true form was only another lie. Could she trust him? But this was a question she must ask of any man, sorcerer or not.

  He has agreed to face death with me.

  “Is there no other sorcerer in all the world that we might win to our cause?” she asked.

  The blue flame flickered on his chest. He walked in silence until the palace walls rose into the street ahead.

  “There is one… who might be… persuaded,” he said. “But he dwells far from here.”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Mumbaza.”

  Her green eyes twinkled. “Then we will fly.”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “We will fly.”

  22

  Three Ships

  Dairon’s Spear sat upon the water like a colossal swan feathered with gold and emerald. Its triple-masted bulk dwarfed all other ships moored along the docks of Murala. The yellow sun emblem of Uurz sat upon the green field of its mainsail, and its prow bore the sculpture of a gilded hawk tall as a man. The hawk’s wings were spread to catch the same winds that would fill the great sails. Uurz itself was not a sea power, but Murala was its official territory, so the Emperor’s ship kept a permanent berth here. Its lean yet hulking presence reminded visiting merchant vessels that the port was an outpost of the Stormlands. Piracy was rare on the Cryptic Sea, but when it did plague the shipping lanes, Dairon’s Spear delivered the justice of Uurz.

  Lyrilan had ridden on the ship when he was a boy, along with Tyro and their parents. Dairon had brought his family to Murala to celebrate the finish of the galleon’s construction. What Lyrilan remembered most from that trip was his mother’s nervous smile and the pressure of her hand on his own. Neither of them had sailed before, and they looked to one another for courage. Tyro had stood bravely near Dairon, either fearless or pretending to be. She had died a year later. Some southern-born fever had infested the city and struck indiscriminately at commoner and noble alike. Lyrilan and Tyro were eleven when she passed; Lyrilan and Dairon cried at the opulent funeral, while Tyro did not. Later, in the shadow of the palace gardens, Lyrilan caught Tyro weeping alone. He never told Tyro what he had seen that day.

  Dairon had defied the custom of the previous Emperors of Uurz by taking Jarinha as his one and only wife. His chancellors pestered him to take two or three more wives and produce more heirs, but always he refused them. “Jarinha has given me two strong sons,” the Emperor told the court. “That is enough.” When she died, they expected Dairon to change his mind, but even then he would claim no one to replace her. Lyrilan hoped one day to know a love like that shared by his mother and father. It was the stuff of legends… and tragedies. But these two things went hand in hand. Anyone who studied the lessons of history knew that.

  Today, standing in the forecastle of the great ship, Lyrilan could not help but remember his mother standing on the same deck. How her black hair danced in the sea wind, the dress of azure and carmel she wore that day, the white pearls of her smile. A mass of white clouds rolled across a sapphire sky. The blue bay glittered with refracted sunlight, scattered diamonds floating atop the brine. The masts and sails of a hundred or more ships lined the wharves, many flying the colors of distant lands. Not surprisingly, the only kingdoms not represented here were Khyrei and Yaskatha. Those ships, according to the Spear’s Captain Lonneus, had stopped coming earlier this year. First the Khyrein trade ceased, then the Yaskathan. There were sleek caravels from Mumbaza, the Feathered Serpent writhing on their sails, and a few exotic galleys from the Jade Isles, along with traders from Shar Dni and the Southern Isles. Above them all, like a Giant among Men, rose the shining hull and olive sails of Dairon’s Spear.

  Tyro had used the authority of his father’s word to commandeer the ship for the mission to Mumbaza. Lyrilan would not have had the presence to make such a demand upon Lonneus and his crew. But Tyro was well-known as Dairon’s Right Arm. Who better to grasp the Emperor’s Spear?

  Tyro and Vireon hired two Muralan merchant galleons, the Cloud and the Sharkstooth, as troop transports. Tyro and a hundred Uurzian warriors would ride the Cloud, while Andoses and a hundred Sharrians sailed on the Sharkstooth. Lyrilan and D’zan accompanied Vireon and his sorcerer-woman Alua on the Spear with two hundred soldiers from Uurz and Udurum. Each ship carried in its hold cavalry horses and enough food and grain for men and animals. The Spear carried extra provisions in the belly of its massive hull. It was a sign of respect that Tyro gave Vireon mastery of Dairon’s behemoth. Lyrilan knew his brother was a strategist, and this war would hinge on the rising legends of D’zan and Vireon. Their names would stir soldier’s hearts to battle and make them laugh at death. Tyro would command from Vireon’s shoulder, but he would not stand in Vireon’s shadow.

  The second passing over the mountains had not been difficult after all. The weather was balmy those two weeks, with only light dustings of snow along the heights. However, on the southern half of the pass snowdrifts lingered. Lyrilan watched as Vireon took Alua aside and spoke with her encouragingly. She amazed the Princes by calling up a wall of flame to rush over and melt the deep drifts. So their small army rode through mud instead of snow, and came down into the Stormlands without injury. Along the way they picked up a few of the wounded men left at the Giants’ cave. Some had mended and were able to ride, so Tyro accepted them back into the ranks with great praise.

  It took less than a full month for the five Princes and their cohort to reach Murala. Three days were spent appropriating the ships, buying feed and rations, filling out the crews, and consulting with the captains regarding routes and sailing conditions. Lyrilan did not sit in on these meetings; he worked instead on his manuscript. The journey of Prince D’zan had grown from uncertain desperation into a life-or-death struggle upon which the fate of nations balanced. Lyrilan’s responsibility as chronicler of these events had grown immensely. The tale expanded, the plot thickened, and unexpected characters arose to fill the pages. While he hoped to remain the invisible author, transcribing the noteworthy events of D’zan’s odyssey, his own brother had become an essential part of the tale. If Lyrilan was not careful, the tale would pull him into itself as well. Perhaps he was already slipping into D’zan’s story, even as he wrote it.

  Every night along the road, despite the chill of winter or the wetness of storms, Tyro had trained D’zan in the art of the greatsword. He had become the Wise Warrior figure in D’zan’s story – he was the voice of martial expertise, the one who ushered the young Prince from boyhood to manhood, transformed a soft-hearted courtier into an iron-muscled warrior. As for D’zan, he took to his martial lessons with great fervor. The boy’s arms had grown solid and thick, his legs trunk-like and steady, and his belly lean and hard as a board. All the complacency of court life had drained away from D’zan. Crossing the mountains twice had burned away (or frozen away) his boyhood. He hefted the Stone’s blade every evening to spar against Tyro’s Uduran broadsword. As far as Lyrilan knew, D’zan had yet to beat Tyro in one of these sparring matches, and he bore a few cuts and bruises for his troubles. But he no longer feared the weight of the blade, or the swing of sharp metal in his hands, or his opponent. Tyro was making him a warrior, finishing what poor Olthacus had begun years ago.

  At night Lyrilan sat in D’zan’s tent, writing in his book, while the Yaskathan Prince oiled and cleaned the great blade. Lyrilan wrote all of this in the manuscript – how the sword had replaced the Prince’s lost uncle… and perhaps his father. Sometimes, too, D’zan pondered the griffin-head dagger that he kept in his boot; it had been a gift from King Trimesqua. But the Stone’s blade held far mor
e importance for him. It represented everything he stood to gain or lose, the entirety of Yaskatha. The jeweled broadsword with its ward against evil was all the Prince still owned of his kingdom. It was the iron key that would unlock the doors of Yaskatha for him.

  The last of the provisions were loaded onto the galleons. The horses and men were already set, and Lyrilan had taken a break from writing to watch the impending launch. He left the bound manuscript and his quills on the desk of the cabin assigned to D’zan and himself. Vireon shared the Captain’s cabin with Alua, at the insistence of Lonneus, who seemed in awe of the Udurum Prince. In fact, all the people of Murala and the Stormlands, and especially the Uurzians, looked upon tall Vireon with amazement. This was the Son of Vod. Vod, who had made the desert a fertile kingdom, united Men and Giants, and reshaped the world. They never spoke of Vod’s madness, of how he wandered off to lose himself in the sea. If they did, it was only in whispers, and they ended with the prophecy that one day Vod would return, having conquered the sea the way he once conquered the Serpent-Father. Others saw Vod’s return as they looked into Vireon’s blue eyes.

  As the last of the crates and barrels were hoisted onto the lower deck and carried into the hold, D’zan joined Lyrilan in the forecastle and looked out across the waves. D’zan wore the black and silver livery of Udurum with the addition of the Yaskathan emblem stitched on its chest: a golden tree whose trunk was a raised sword. The Queen of Udurum had given him this uniform, a gift showing her dedication to his cause. The attached cloak was purple with a black lining. The wind whipped it about D’zan’s boots as he walked.

  “What? No quill and parchment, Prince?” he asked.

  Lyrilan smiled. “Even scholars must rest sometimes. I wouldn’t want to miss such a splendid launch. We’re sailing into history today.”

  D’zan eyed the glittering sea, his arms crossed. “I suppose we are,” he said. “A memorable day. But we’ve a long way to go. Twelve days to Mumbaza at least… if the weather holds.”

  “You made this same journey in reverse,” said Lyrilan, “only months ago.”

  D’zan nodded. “It took longer since the Stone and I changed ships so many times. I was… terrified by all of them. It’s a wonder I didn’t fall overboard.”

  Lyrilan breathed deeply of the salt wind. “How do you feel today?”

  “Ready,” said D’zan. “Ready to reclaim what is mine. Like I’ve spent years here, not months.”

  “You are no longer afraid.”

  “I did not say that,” said D’zan, grinning. “Fear is a constant companion in this world. Did not one of your beloved poets say that?”

  “Kopicus said, ‘Through the blessings of Fear and Pain we know we are alive. Let us honor them alongside Love and Laughter, which give our lives meaning.’ ”

  D’zan studied the mass of rigging at the ship’s middle. “My father would have loved this ship.”

  “My father does,” said Lyrilan. “Although he’s only ridden it once, he boasts of it to every visiting dignitary. It is the heart of his sea power, as it were.”

  “We should be safe enough from reavers in such a massive galleon.”

  “I pity the poor pirate who tries to assail us,” said Lyrilan. “He’ll find an entire cohort of seasoned warriors from three different nations. No, we’ve nothing to fear from Men along these coasts.”

  D’zan caught his meaning. “Yes,” he agreed. “Nothing from Men.”

  Vireon, bare-chested in his white tiger-cloak and wearing a greatsword at his waist, strode up the plank beside Alua. Her face was that of a child beneath her honey-colored hair, and her black eyes were wide with wonder. She had obviously never seen a city before Udurum. To gaze upon a vast sea vessel was enough to strike her temporarily dumb. She held Vireon’s hand as he guided her onto the lower deck, walking between barrels of fresh water and the shuffling porters who carried goods toward the ship’s hold. She wore a snowy gown trimmed with crimson, a cloak of sable hanging from her shoulders.

  “What do you make of her?” asked D’zan, his eyes upon the sorceress.

  Lyrilan shrugged. “She seems a sweet and kind girl. Untutored. Yet she carries herself with a certain… purity.”

  “A sweet and kind sorceress,” said D’zan. “Can there truly be such a thing?”

  “You have seen her flame. What else could she be?”

  “Where does she come from? Has Vireon told anyone?”

  “My guess is everyone fears to ask. The Son of Vod is a God to most of these people. She is his consort. I say we’re lucky to have her.”

  “Hmmm,” said D’zan. “Still, it nags at me that someone with such power could come right out of the wilderness.”

  “Where does power come from?” asked Lyrilan. “Obrin says—”

  “Not another quote.” D’zan smiled. “Tell me later. I must speak with Vireon.”

  “I’ll be up here until we cast off,” said Lyrilan. He looked forward to the open sea. With all its perils and the inherent risks of nautical travel, there was nothing else like it. The sea would always remind him of his mother, and the way they had felt together on that grand day long ago, laughing and skimming across the waves. It was exhilarating.

  D’zan made his way down the forecastle steps and greeted Vireon with a shake of his hand, Alua with a bow. She fluttered her dark eyes at him. The last of the water barrels were carried into the hold, and now four bearded Muralans carried a large crate up the ramp. Probably extra foodstuffs. With all these men and horses and perishables, the captains had no room for merchant cargo; but then they were being well-paid by the thrones of Udurum and Uurz for their troubles.

  A flutter of movement caught Lyrilan’s eye. One of the crate-bearers sprang toward D’zan. Something flashed in his hand. Vireon pushed the Yaskathan Prince aside. D’zan fell to the deck on his rear, but avoided a stabbing. Lyrilan gasped as Vireon grabbed the knife-wielder by the throat, his other hand on the attacker’s wrist. Vireon tossed him mercilessly against the mainmast, halfway across the deck. Even in the forecastle Lyrilan heard the cracking of the man’s spine.

  The other three loaders dropped the crate and sprang toward D’zan before he could stand up. Their knives glimmered in the sun. Green-bladed daggers. Jade. The weapons of Khyrein Death-Bringers. The foremost among them shoved Alua aside – she did not matter – and sprang blade first at D’zan. The Prince’s booted heel caught the assassin’s sternum, and he kicked the man backward. Another assassin jabbed at him, barely missing his skull, pinning D’zan’s cloak to the deck. The assailant pulled the dagger from the planks, elbow swiveling for a final strike. But D’zan struck first, jamming the dagger from his boot into the assassin’s neck.

  Two more killers scrambled at D’zan but faced Vireon instead. His broadsword flashed and the strength of his blow split a man in two. Alua pounced on the last Khyrein’s back like a rabid hound, digging her nails into his flesh, biting at his throat. He stumbled forward and fell face down on the deck. Vireon’s boot stamped down upon his dagger hand, crushing it. The man howled, unlike his brothers, who had died silently.

  Vireon pulled Alua off the Death-Bringer’s back, and D’zan ended him with a downward thrust of his greatsword. Lyrilan gasped. This was the first time D’zan had killed with that blade. The Prince pulled it from the dead man’s body, staring down at the bloody corpse a moment. Lyrilan’s fascination expired and he dashed down the steps toward the scene, picking his way through the wide-eyed soldiers filing out of their quarters beneath the foredeck. He saw Vireon lean down to tear a false beard from the man D’zan had killed.

  “Khyreins.” D’zan nodded. “Their skin has been painted brown to appear Muralan.” He kicked at one of the jade knives with his boot. “These are poisoned.”

  Alua drew close to Vireon, and his great arm fell about her shoulders. He addressed the soldiers and sailors milling about the bloody deck.

  “These men came to kill the Prince of Yaskatha!” Vireon shouted. “These are the cow
ards of Khyrei.” He grabbed D’zan’s hand and raised it high with his own. “The Prince lives!”

  The soldiers cheered, and the sailors joined them. Lyrilan motioned D’zan to hold up his sword. The Prince lifted the red point of his blade toward the sky. The cheers grew louder. “Hail the Princes!” someone shouted. This burst into a general chaos of bellowing approval.

  Vireon yelled an order that every soldier, crewman, and laborer be checked for painted skin before they cast off. There could be more of these assassins hiding in their midst. His words were cut off by Alua’s sudden scream.

  The first man to die, his spine cracked against the mast, shambled through the crowd like a drunken devil. By some prevalent instinct, some innate disgust of the supernatural, men drew back from him and he ran crookedly toward D’zan, blood leaking from his lips, eyes blank and filled with death. Vireon’s head turned to the dead man just as a steely grip caught his ankle. The man he’d sliced in two had grabbed him and crawled legless toward D’zan, a green dagger still in his other hand.

  The rushing dead man wrapped his fingers about D’zan’s throat, squeezing with the inhuman power of death. D’zan fell backward against the railing. Vireon speared the half-man to the deck with his Uduru blade, dodging the sweep of its jade dagger. Sailors fled in terror while soldiers stepped back or fumbled for their blades. The other two dead men, one gushing red from the base of his skull, the other bleeding from his severed heart, stood and lunged gracelessly for D’zan. The Yaskathan Prince brought his greatsword down one-handed on the skull of his strangler. Brain and bone exploded, but the strangler was already dead, so did not release its grip. Lyrilan watched the dead men strive to kill the living men, feeling helpless and caught in the middle of a dreadful storm. He longed to run, but his feet would not move.

  Vireon’s heel crunched the skull of the dead man he had pinned to the deck. The other two swung daggers clumsily at D’zan, striking the dead strangler instead, which D’zan used as a shield. The smell of corruption, filth, and blood replaced the fresh sea air. Vireon chopped at the man he had killed; headless, its arms still grasped and writhed, and the legs twitched like blind worms. Vireon’s eyes glowed with primal terror as he sliced the grasping limbs to pieces. D’zan finally cut the strangler in half with his greatsword. The legs and hips fell backward, spewing fresh gore across the deck; but the torso and arms hung from his neck now, entrails sliding like red ropes from its ribcage as it continued crushing his throat.