An Uurzian soldier came forward with a longblade and swept it across the strangler’s arms, severing them from the torso. The disembodied hands now choked D’zan by themselves, and one of the dead men stabbed the Uurzian with its poisoned blade. The valiant man crumpled.
Now Alua cast a white flame at the two stalking dead men. Their garments and skins ignited. They ran crazily about the deck, flaming, jaws snapping, until a group of sailors pushed them over the railing with poles. They fell sizzling into the sea. The stench of burned flesh lingered horribly about the decks.
Lyrilan tried to tear the killing hands away from D’zan’s throat. D’zan’s face had gone from red to purple. He was almost unconscious when Lyrilan finally pulled one of the hands free. He tossed it, unthinking, across the deck. It rolled a bit and then scrambled like a spider until someone brought a barrel down upon it, crushing it to pulp. Vireon grabbed the other strangling hand, removing it instantly from D’zan. It writhed in his grasp. He placed it carefully into Alua’s blazing palm, where it withered into black ashes.
Lyrilan helped D’zan regain his breath. Rough nails had torn the flesh of his neck. The dead soldier, whose name was Farimus, was to be honored for saving the Prince’s life. His comrades carried his body away, for the southern poison had killed him instantly. A burial at sea would be most proper, they decided, for the first soldier to die in the war against Khyrei.
“Our enemy plays tricks on us with sorcery,” Vireon told the warriors. “Still we stand strong! This is Alua, Sorceress of the Northlands. She sails with us. She will burn this black magic from our path with the white flame of justice!”
Again the crew and soldiers rallied, though not as fervently as before. Some eyed the water where the burning dead men sank, expecting them to crawl up and kill some more. Word soon spread through the entire ship, and across to the Cloud and the Sharkstooth, that the enemy had already struck. Non-essential personnel were carefully searched and removed from the ships. No more brown-painted Khyreins were to be found.
Tyro brought a Sky Priest onto the Cloud with him, and this man blessed the three ships before they cast off. He walked the planks of each ship, casting rose blossoms and burning incense. By the time he reached the Spear, the crew had just finished washing the blood and offal from the decks. Now only dark stains remained where the assassins had fallen, and fallen again. The priest’s ceremony restored the courage and certainty of the cohort. Tyro had known it would, Lyrilan reflected.
Before the sun reached its zenith, Dairon’s Spear left the dock, the two lesser ships following in its wake. A strong winter wind out of the north filled their sails. D’zan rested in his cabin, neck treated with salve and bandaged. His wounds were superficial. Lyrilan sat on the second bed, watching him. D’zan’s hands were wrapped around the hilt of the greatsword, as they always were when he lay down to rest. It was, ironically, the traditional pose of a fallen warrior. Lyrilan had brought him a flask of wine, and waited for him to wake.
“It was Elhathym,” said D’zan. He wasn’t asleep after all.
“D’zan?” asked Lyrilan.
“I’m awake. It was Elhathym who sent those… things.”
“But they were men from Khyrei… Death-Bringers, like the ones in the palace. Servants of Ianthe the Claw.”
“Yes, and no,” said D’zan. “While they lived, they served Ianthe. As soon as they died, they became the servants of Elhathym. Like those in the palace, they waited for me. Like the shadow at the edge of the mountains. The Serpent beneath the ruins of Steephold. All sent by him. All waiting for me.”
“Fearsome things,” said Lyrilan. “But here you are. You survived. Yours is the just cause. The Gods are with you. The Gods and many good Men. And at least one Man-Giant with a sorceress.”
D’zan raised himself to sit on the side of his bed and looked at Lyrilan. The golden light of noon poured through a round porthole. The bandage around his neck was dotted with red spots.
“Yes,” said D’zan. “All these are good. And I no longer fear this tyrant’s magic.”
Lyrilan poured a cup of wine for him. He handed it across the small cabin and D’zan took it gratefully, wincing as he gulped it down.
“But what other horrors are out there?” D’zan asked. “What else is waiting for me?”
Lyrilan drank his own cup of wine now, and he shivered. Not from the drink, for it was warm as seawater. He said nothing, but soon took out the manuscript. There was much updating to do.
D’zan drank another cup, then lay down again on the bed behind him. He snored gently while Lyrilan scratched his quill across the bound pages.
The floor of the deck rocked and swayed gently, creaking in a woody voice.
What else is waiting for me?
The words echoed in Lyrilan’s mind.
What else is waiting for us?
It was a question that had no answer. Yet.
He ignored it, scribbling madly, enraptured by the orderly rows of black ink spreading across the parchment.
23
On the Cryptic Sea
Dairon’s Spear sliced the open water. Vireon stood behind the great hawk fronting its prow, peering past the golden wings. The sixth morning broke clear and pristine over the purple sea, and Alua lay sleeping in the cabin. He inhaled the briny wind, tasted its salt on his tongue. Tapestries of blood and saffron hung along the horizon as the sky filled with daylight. The western horizon was flat and keen as a blade, while the eastern showed a thin line of coast, yellow and brown in the light of dawn.
Vireon had never ridden the sea before. It took no time at all for his feet to grow accustomed to the ship’s constant movement. He enjoyed the freedom of the waves, the ultimate rush of water toward mysterious sky. What lay beyond the endless western waters, across the unexplored realms of the Cryptic Sea? Perhaps continents and kingdoms undreamed of by Men or Giants… whole other worlds and civilizations. Or perhaps a vast wilderness ripe for the conquering… untapped reserves of game and alien creatures. For that matter, what strange lands lay beneath these ceaseless waves?
His mind fell into the green-black depths, and he thought of his father. Was Vod walking the bed of this very sea right now? Did he linger in some watery dungeon, chained there by the Queen of the Sea-Folk to fulfill her curse? Or did his body float among the fish and marine life that slowly picked his bones clean? Vod was likely dead. But like the rest of his people Vireon held on to the hope that his father would return from the sea eventually. Perhaps he did not truly believe it, but he kept it close to his heart anyway.
He had known Tadarus was dead the moment it happened. The bond with his brother had been forged inside their mother’s womb. That bond had carried them through twenty-five years of brotherhood and friendship. It was the core of their family, especially when their father grew older and began keeping to himself. At times Vireon still found himself wondering what Tadarus was doing, where he was at… then came the stabbing memory that he was dead. Vireon’s heart ached each time he remembered that Tadarus was forever gone.
Vireon’s thoughts inevitably fell toward Fangodrel and vengeance. No matter that he sprang from the same womb as Tadarus and Vireon. Even his mother had not wanted him. He was a freak, an abomination born of lust, torture, and cruelty. Fangodrel was the spawn of a sick society, and its taint had simmered in his blood like a disease. Until it consumed him. Somehow, he had remembered who he truly was and had murdered Tadarus. Somehow he had inherited the sorcery of his immortal grandmother. Vireon would kill him and the wicked bitch who ruled the jungle kingdom. Let her walls come crashing down as they had when Vod stormed her palace. Let her jungles go up in flames. Let her bones rot in the earth alongside those of the Kinslayer. When this was done, when the south was purged of its evil infection, Vireon would come north again and sit on the throne of Udurum. But not until then.
His thumb played upon the ruby-set pommel of the greatsword at his side. It had been made by his Uncle Fangodrim from Uduru steel and wa
s nearly as long as Vireon was tall. A relic of Old Udurum, it bore the sigils and curling symbol-work of the old language. Sharper and more durable than any blade of iron, this was the blade that would take the life of Fangodrel. It was only fitting that he die by Udurum steel. No sorcery or summoned demons would save him. Vireon no longer saw the brilliant sun or the spectacular vista of the waves. He saw only the blood-red anger burning behind his eyes while the heat of the day beat upon his bronze shoulders.
The touch of a cool hand pulled him away from those invisible flames, and he turned to face Alua. The wind danced in her light hair, and her body was cool as the snow against his hot skin. He wrapped his arms around her. Along the length of the ship, crewmen crawled through the rigging, adjusting sails and plying the exact arts of their trade. At midship a mass of soldiers had come above decks for fresh air.
Five days now on the sea and they were all a bit restless. They brought horses up in pairs when the sea was very calm. The animals were not built for confinement on a sea vessel, even one as big as Dairon’s Spear. They were free spirits that needed to run and feel the green earth beneath them. Like Alua, his sweet snow blossom. He felt her restlessness too, in the nature of her touch and the softness of her voice.
Beyond the billowing triple sails, the lean hulls of the Cloud and Sharkstooth clove the waters behind and to either side. The standards of Uurz, Udurum, and Shar Dni flew from each of the ships. Vireon could just make out the tall figure of Tyro standing at the prow of the Cloud. He did not see Andoses over on the Sharkstooth; the Sharrian came and went, pacing the decks lower and upper. Of them all, Andoses was the most eager for war. It was the wish of his father he pursued. The livelihood of the Sharrian throne was at stake. Vireon sought vengeance; Tyro sought justice and perhaps glory; Andoses sought to secure the very future of the kingdom he would one day rule. As for young D’zan… the quiet boy wanted only to win back his throne. Andoses usually spoke on his behalf. And why not? The entire war, the alliance of kingdoms, was to the benefit of Shar Dni, which stood in the face of Khyrein brutality. As for Lyrilan the Scholar… Vireon liked the man, but did not understand him. He seemed interested only in writing everything down in that big book he carried. It reminded Vireon too much of Fangodrel and his obsession with verse. Yet jovial Lyrilan seemed nothing at all like the brooding Kinslayer.
Sharadza would understand Lyrilan, he thought. Where is my sister? When he had left Udurum, his mother was still worried for her. He had prayed to all four Gods that she return safely and soon. She should play no part in the bloody events to come. “When she returns, keep her safe in Udurum,” he told his mother. Shaira kissed his cheek and asked him not to worry.
Alua laid her head against his chest and looked across the sea. “So beautiful,” she said. “But I miss the woodlands.”
“So do I,” he said. He kissed the top of her head. His fox-woman, his sorceress. His strange and mysterious love. “But there are new lands to see. And after Mumbaza we will pass by the forests of the High Realms, which are deep and wild and full of hidden splendors.”
She smiled at him. “How much longer on these waves?”
“Another week at most.”
She leaned, quietly satisfied, into his arms.
He no longer asked her about her origins. She remembered nothing but the snowy wilderness, the wild summer hills, the flowing waters of Uduria… and the utter freedom of life without walls or rules. She did not recall her parents, or anything of her youth, did not even have a name until he gave her one. It seemed she had never been young at all, but always lived in ageless youth. Her companions were the foxes in the fields and sometimes the birds. She spoke their language but none other until Vireon had chased her and won her, and she had learned his tongue by sleeping next to him. What else might she be capable of? He had coaxed her to use her magical flame in the frozen mountain pass. She was learning to use it whenever necessary, as she had on the Khyreins who refused to die. She had no idea of the depths of her own powers. She only did what she needed to do, to protect herself and those she cared for… to invest life with those things she required for happiness and survival. He was learning to accept her for what she was, however baffling that might be, because he loved her above all other things. She was nature manifest in the body of a woman… as if created just for him, as no other woman ever could be. She was simply Alua, and he loved her.
When the war was done, he would marry her, and she would be Queen of Udurum. His mother would be happy. His first son would be named Vod, and his second Tadarus. He shook such thoughts from his head. In her presence, his mind often wandered to such domestic fantasies. Now he must concern himself with the war to come. His mind must be sharp and spotless, like the blade of his sword. Time enough later for the spoils of love. War did not allow for such tender things.
D’zan climbed up to join them on the foredeck. Lyrilan must still be below, scribbling in his book. D’zan greeted them with a raised arm; he still wore a bandage about his neck, but his wounds no longer bled. The poisoned daggers of his assailants had been tossed into the open sea. They were wicked and unsavory weapons. Let the ocean gnaw them slowly into sand.
“Shall we have another duel?” asked D’zan. Now that Tyro was separated from him on the other ship, he had turned to Vireon as his sparring partner. D’zan wielded his great broadsword with both hands, while Vireon used only a wooden pole, one-handed, to even the odds. D’zan fought with heart, but he had yet to avoid being disarmed by Vireon’s staff.
“Later,” said Vireon. “Breakfast first.”
The wind blew strong and cool across the forecastle, and a sailor’s song began on the rear decks.
D’zan leaned against the rail. “I tire of these sea rations,” he said. “Can we not pull something fresh from the depths of the sea?”
“Perhaps a great whale?” Vireon smiled.
“Or better yet, a mermaid,” said D’zan.
They laughed, Alua with them.
Thunder rose from the water. The speeding ship must have struck a reef, or some underground barrier. Soldiers went flying across the middle and rear decks; barrels crashed against the rails; a horse panicked and fell on its flank. As the deck pitched terribly upward, Vireon grabbed the railing with one hand, his other arm tight about Alua’s waist. D’zan fell but managed to grab hold of Vireon’s lower leg. He held on to it like a child as the deck rocked back and forth violently. The Cloud and Sharkstooth came up alongside the Spear, overtaking her. From their decks, the soldiers and sailors were shouting, pointing to the water at the Spear’s keel, screaming with terror in their eyes. In the mass of confusion aboard the Cloud, Tyro shouted orders at someone.
Now the Cloud and Sharkstooth raced ahead. A sound like the moaning of the earth itself bubbled up from the deeps, and a massive serpentine head rose above the prow. The sea-beast’s skull was triangular, finned with bat-like flaps of translucent membrane, and vast enough to swallow a whale. Its great black orbs were focused on the forecastle of Dairon’s Spear with a hideous intelligence. A deluge of sea-murk spewed from between its great fangs, which were white as ivory. Men screamed and called upon the Gods for help as the demonic head rose higher above the decks.
A fresh round of shrieks came now as the leviathan’s spiked tail rose from the sea and curled about the ship’s middle. It slid through a crowd of men with the speed of a hurricane, spearing bodies before it dove back into the water on the other side. Again it rose, and again, as more and more of its tremendous coils came rushing from the sea, encircling the galleon like rope about a toy ship. It smashed the yardarms to kindling, tore through the sails and rigging like paper. Two of the three masts broke beneath the beast’s scaly mass, splintering and thundering. Its bulk was thicker than an Uduru was tall, and its scales were black emeralds gleaming with the muck of the deep sea beds. Tiny coral colonies grew along its fishy spine. It squeezed the great ship the way a constrictor squeezes a rat before swallowing it whole.
Men died be
neath toppling masts, or were crushed by the scaled hide of the monster. Some even died from fear looking upon the monolithic devil. It was like a Serpent from the tales of old, but legless and of far greater weight and mass. Long enough to wrap itself several times about Dairon’s Spear.
In the prow, watching the devastation of the ship’s middle, Vireon held the rail with one hand and with the other unsheathed his great Uduru blade. Alua and D’zan hugged the rail with both arms. They could do nothing but hold on for their lives as the ship broke in two, prow and stern rising toward the sky in opposite directions.
The hull burst, spilling terrified horses and men into the ocean. Some who clung to the decks sank spears into the scaled gargantuan, but it did not seem to notice. What it did notice, peering and scanning with those great black eyes, slitted nostrils flaring, was D’zan. Its breath was a wind reeking of rotted sea matter. A crimson tongue darted out like a tentacle, thick as Vireon’s waist. It slapped D’zan, who screamed and clung helplessly to the railing; the forked tongue wound about his body as the leviathan’s coils had wound about the galleon. D’zan cried out, but his words were lost.
“Hold on!” Vireon yelled to Alua.
With one hand steady on the railing, he raised the sword in his other hand and sliced through the tongue as it lifted D’zan into the air. The Yaskathan Prince fell toward the swirling chaos below. There was no midship now, only the wreck of the triangular prow and square-shaped stern floating and sinking, heavy with clinging men.
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