The Serpent’s head, squirting black ichor from its severed tongue, rushed past Vireon and Alua on the rail, racing toward D’zan as he fell into the floating wreckage and the deep water. Vireon did not think; he seized an advantage. The beast had ignored him in its quest to devour D’zan. His legs launched him away from the rail, out past the flaring neck-fins. For a moment, he flew downward like a hawk, falling through the air near to the Serpent’s rushing neck. Then he slid along the scales of its skull on his backside, toward the jutting ridge of its forehead. A half-second before he reached the slimy snout, he took his sword in both fists and drove it home with all his strength.
The skull-bone cracked and split beneath him. The sword sank into something at once spongy and sinewy. He hung on to the embedded blade, riding the pierced skull like a great bull into the littered sea. Now the blue depths rose about him on all sides. He saw men swimming for the surface, D’zan among them. Floating barrels and casks rose quicker than men, while soldiers sank with pieces of mast stuck in their bellies, others tangled in the mutilated rigging and sails. Horses sank into the black depths, or twisted and writhed toward the air above.
Vireon twisted his blade inside the creature’s brain, driving it deeper and ripping the skull wider. The beast thrashed, sending men and wreckage flying from its coils. Its great head came bursting out of the water, black blood gushing, and Vireon came with it. Men on the two undamaged ships stared, hundreds of eyes looking right at him for a moment – a bit of frozen time – then the head slammed back into the sea, carrying Vireon down again. He hung on, holding his breath, digging deeper into colossal flesh. Once more the Serpent’s head came up, spewing a final roar of torment, vomiting black fluid from its snapping jaws.
The third time it went under, Vireon pulled free his sword and broke away from the skull. The orb eyes were glazed and mindless now. The bulk of its coils spread throughout the undersea, twitching and floating slowly toward the surface. He swam into a cloud of the black ichor and could see no more. But he was sure the leviathan was dead.
He burst from the water, gasping foul air into his lungs, wiping the gore from his eyes. He floated among the winding coils that stretched at least a half-league across the waves. The debris of what had once been a mighty ship drifted all about him. Horses swam past, making terrible sounds. Men wailed too, the wounded clinging to flotsam, casks, chunks of mast, each other.
“Alua!” he called. His head swiveled to survey the remains of the Spear. “Alua!”
She burst from the water not far away, swimming quick as an eel toward him. She wrapped slim arms about his neck and checked him for wounds. He assured her he was fine.
The massive Serpent head finally bobbed up to the surface. Its slitted eyes were gray and lifeless. Everyone on the two surviving ships, and those who clung to life in the water, could see now that he had killed it.
“Vireon!” came the cry from the Sharkstooth. Then the mass of soldiers on the Cloud took up that cry. “Vireon! Vireon!” As they lowered nets and ropes, scooping survivors out of the brine, the crews and warriors of the two ships yelled Vireon’s name.
He looked about for D’zan and saw the boy climbing up a rope on the side of the Cloud’s hull. But what of the scholar Lyrilan? He was in a central cabin when the beast came; most likely he had gone down with most of the ship’s crew.
But no… There he was, clinging to a barrel, his face pale and desperate. As a rope ladder fell into Vireon’s hands from the Cloud’s railing, he yelled up at Tyro, who was scanning the wreckage.
“Your brother!” called Vireon. He pointed to hapless Lyrilan floating among the wreckage. Other men drifted around him, and a few horses.
Tyro yelled to Lyrilan, and the scholar waved his arm. His hand was red, bloodied, but he seemed intact. As Vireon followed Alua up the rope ladder and stepped onto the Cloud’s deck, he saw D’zan among the cheering sailors, bellowing as loudly as anyone.
“Vireon! Vireon! Vireon!” they cried.
He took Alua in his arms and the men patted his back, greeting him with smiles and handshakes. Some touched his shoulder or elbow, so they could later say they had done so.
“Save them,” Vireon panted. He looked over the rail at the corpse of the monster and the spreading wreckage of the flagship. “Save as many as you can. The horses too…”
Both ships pulled men from the ocean first, and by then most of the surviving horses had tired and drowned. The few who were reached in time had to be coaxed into nets, and they were lifted aboard by a crew of ten men. Vireon lifted nine such horses by himself, one at a time, each one drawing a fresh round of cheers. He waved away the acclaim. Now was no time for such things. Fearing that the dead Serpent might rise up and menace them again, like the dead Khyreins had in Murala, the crews poured buckets of pitch onto the floating carcass. Alua then set it alight with a white flame dropped like a flower petal from her fingertips. The smell of the beast’s cremation was a gut-wrenching foulness, yet the reek was reassuring. Better the smoke of its burning flesh than the wrath of its second life.
Lastly, they hauled aboard the floating barrels of fresh water and any unbroken crates of provisions and horse grains. Of the two hundred and twenty men aboard Dairon’s Spear, only eighty-five survived, plus the three Princes and Alua. Of the two hundred horses, only twenty-three were saved. Most of the rations and water were recovered, but the two ships were desperately crowded now. By men, if not horses.
During the last hours of the salvage, done in the calm light of a half-moon, D’zan and Lyrilan came to the railing of the Cloud and stood near Vireon.
D’zan took his arm and met his eyes, a mixture of seawater and tears staining his cheeks. “Thank you, Vireon,” he said. “I can never repay what you’ve done for me this day. You knew that thing had come for me, yet you—”
“I did what had to be done,” said Vireon. He patted the boy’s shoulder. “Repay me with your allegiance when you take back your stolen throne.”
“I will,” said D’zan, and Vireon knew he meant it.
Lyrilan stared over the middle rail at the spars and shards of wreckage, spread now far and wide across the sea. White flames danced along the coils of the Serpent’s corpse, devouring its flesh even below the waterline. The ships had begun moving away from the blazing carcass.
Lyrilan sighed and stared at the black waters. “My book,” he whispered. “My quills… my ink… all gone.”
The scholar mourned the loss of these things more than all those who had died. Vireon would never understand such men. The face of Lyrilan was pale and drained of hope. A red bandage wrapped his right hand.
D’zan seemed to understand the scholar’s mood better. He clapped Lyrilan on the back, and his hand lingered there.
“These are only things,” he told the scholar. “You are alive, Lyrilan. Think of those who are not.”
Lyrilan nodded, pulling back a mass of oily curls from his face. “Yes,” he said. He looked at Vireon. His eyes glittered with moonlight. “There is only one thing to do.”
“What is that?” asked Vireon.
“Start over,” said the scholar.
Vireon looked at D’zan, who shrugged.
“The Mumbazans make a fine parchment,” said Lyrilan, turning toward his new cabin. “There must be a single chapter all about today. ‘Vireon and the Sea Monster’…” His voice trailed away as he lost himself among the men filling the crowded deck.
“Is the Prince all right?” Vireon asked D’zan.
“He will be,” said D’zan. “As will we all, once we get off this damned ocean.” The Yaskathan walked away, his head hanging low. More men had died for him today. More would die in the days to come. The bloody mantle of war would not hang easy on his young shoulders.
Vireon watched the smoking remains of the leviathan fade into the night as the ships drew southward.
“What was it?” Alua asked, stroking his chest with her cool fingers.
“Something from the deep,�
�� he said. “Some ancient cousin of the Serpents my ancestors killed. But a thing of water, not fire.”
“I felt its thoughts,” she told him, looking into his eyes. “They were the thoughts of a man, not a beast.”
“What did these man-thoughts say?” asked Vireon.
“The Heir, find the Heir, it thought. Swallow the Heir, chew his bones. And when it saw D’zan, it knew he was the one.”
The tyrant, thought Vireon. Not the Sea Queen, but the Usurper of Yaskatha. The northern ships sailed into the reach of Elhathym’s power. He had commanded this devil of the Old World. Made it rise from the depths and kill all those men in the hope of killing just one. He would never stop until D’zan’s threat to his rule was removed.
Elhathym and all his walking dead, ancient devils, and terrible sorcery.
So be it. Elhathym must die.
Before or after the Kinslayer, it made no difference.
Fangodrel, Elhathym, Ianthe… There was much killing to do.
Vireon had left winter sleeping in the frozen north.
This was the hot, southern Season of Blood.
It flared now in his chest like the flame from Alua’s palm.
24
Land of the Feathered Serpent
They rose from Udurum as twin hawks, he crested in black feathers and she in white. Soaring above the continent of clouds, they reached Uurz at sunset. Drawing as little attention to themselves as possible, they lodged in separate rooms at a modest inn called the Raven’s Perch. From her window Sharadza watched the towers of Dairon’s Palace fade from gold to dark silver as night fell across the city. The songs of minstrels floated from roof gardens as she lay upon the soft bed, her mind racing with thoughts of Vireon, Fangodrel, and her cousin Andoses. Nightmares came, distorted visions of the horrors she had seen in Iardu’s spilled wine. She woke to the sound of bellowing merchants and rolling thunder outside her window. She and Iardu breakfasted on dates and honeyed bread; he drank wine while she sipped water drawn from the Sacred River. In a dark alley they became hawks again and flew into the Stormlands sky, leaving Uurz to bask in its sudden showers, ephemeral rainbows, and ripe orchards.
They flew across the southern reaches of Dairon’s realm, an emerald plain scattered with villages and burgeoning farmlands. When they broke through the cloud layer into a crystal blue sky, the Great Earth-Wall lay far below, running in a crooked line from east to west, dividing the continent into Low and High Realms. Sharadza’s hawk-eyes studied the green roof of a vast forest beginning at the top of the mighty cliff and rolling into the southern horizon.
The colors of fall never came to the forests of the High Realms. Here the trees grew thicker than in the northern forests and were never troubled by the kiss of winter. The High Realms were a green wilderness where cities, roads, and walls did not exist. The lower world of the Stormlands lay hidden beneath a sea of rolling clouds to the north. Sharadza flew beside the black hawk, humbled by the sheer immensity of the High Forests, while Iardu’s beaked head focused only on the horizon. He had flown over these lands many times, and probably knew what every part of the continent looked like from the vantage of the sky. Strange tales were told of the beings who dwelled deep in those woodlands, and she wondered how many of their secrets Iardu knew. Perhaps she would ask him, when they became man and woman again, exactly how long he had roamed the world. Since seeing his true form for the first time, she found herself increasingly curious about him.
Their wings carried them west now, as well as south, and the forests sank into deep valleys and rose across furrowed ridges. The land gradually fell back to sea level as the mass of trees grew thinner. By late afternoon they soared over the windy brown steppes of Mumbaza. Somewhere ahead, perhaps closer than she imagined, lay the capital city atop its pearly cliffs, overlooking the blue sea as it had for centuries. Mumbaza was among the world’s most ancient kingdoms; despite the dangers ahead, she thrilled at the prospect of walking its ancient streets.
Iardu changed his course, and she was bound to follow. He dove toward the flat heat-browned grassland. A village of domed huts passed below, and herds of horned cattle. Dark-skinned Mumbazans walked trails among the grass with tufted spears, talismans of gold and copper gleaming on their chests. Another village nestled on the edge of a lake that glistened like a dark jewel. The swarthy villagers gathered here, some in crimson cloaks and hats of woven feathers. Dusky children gamboled between white sheep and black goats.
Eventually the Iardu-hawk alighted on the leafless branch of a twisted old tree near a cluster of round huts. Sharadza perched herself there beside him, blinking her avian eyes at the scene below. Here was the smallest of the villages yet. A single herd of goats gnawed the grass on a nearby hill. The golden steppe stretched out in all directions.
The two hawks sat on their branch and watched a few children run among the hide-walled huts, where the smoke of cookfires rose from clay chimneys. Sharadza sat patiently next to Iardu, although she longed to ask him what they were waiting for in this unlikely place. Where was the one they came to seek? This looked like no place a great sorcerer would live, but then what did the lair of a sorcerer look like? She rustled her feathers, trusting in the Shaper’s guidance. The sun sank toward the flat horizon, an orange ball of flame singing the steppe.
The goats moved off the hill and came slowly toward the cluster of huts. A man walked behind them with a crooked staff, the legendary tool of the herdsman. As he drew near, he looked right at the two hawks with his keen dark eyes. His skin was ebony, shining with sweat, and his thick hair tied into a mass of braids reaching the middle of his back. A loincloth and moccasins were his only garb, apart from the golden armbands, the copper amulets about his neck, and the jade bangles hanging from his pierced ears. His forehead was tall, his muscles lean and tight under smooth skin. His nose was broad and flat above ample lips, and the marks of ritual scarring formed zig-zag patterns on his chest and shoulders.
He led the goats into a pen, his eyes ever returning to the tree. When he closed the pen’s gate, he came to stand before the tree and spoke to the hawks in the language common to all Men, accented in the lilting dialect of Mumbaza.
“Go away, hawks,” he said. “Your kind bring only trouble.”
Iardu melted from the branch and stood now as himself before the Mumbazan. Sharadza did the same, standing beside him in a traveling robe of green and black.
“Khama,” said Iardu. “How are you, old friend?”
Khama did not return Iardu’s smile. His eyes glittered like black pearls.
“Why do you come here, Shaper?” he said. “You are not welcome.”
“I come only because I have to,” said Iardu. “We must speak. This is Sharadza, Princess of Udurum.”
Khama turned away. “I cannot welcome you here, knowing what you are. You should have stayed in your northern kingdom.” He walked away toward the cluster of huts, where three curious children stared at the strangers. Iardu walked after him, and Sharadza followed.
“This is no way to greet a friend,” said the Shaper. “Surely you remember the things we’ve shared.”
Khama stopped and turned to face him. “I choose not to remember,” he said, voice low so the children could not hear his words. “I am only a man now, Iardu. These are my children, my goats, my land. I have found peace here. Why must you disturb it?”
“All of these things are beautiful,” said Iardu. He waved at the children, who responded with white grins. They shuffled shyly among the huts.
A voice called from one of the structures, and a lean Mumbazan woman looked out from its doorway. “My wife calls,” said Khama. “You must go. Please. Leave me to this simple life I have chosen.”
“You are a man of peace,” said Iardu. “I respect that. We do not bring you trouble, Khama. We bring a warning. War brews in the south. All that you love is in danger. Mumbaza is the fulcrum in a struggle for power. Elhathym has returned.”
Khama slammed the butt of his herdin
g staff into the ground, raising a cloud of dust. “I do not know this name.” He stared at Iardu as if he might strike him.
“You do,” said Iardu. “Remember…”
A cloud fell across the glow of Khama’s eyes, and he looked into the blue sky. He sighed, a long exhalation of regret, remorse, or perhaps weariness. The goats in their pen made helpless bleating noises. The children giggled and rubbed round stones across their palms.
Khama turned his eyes to Sharadza for the first time. His wife still stared from the doorway of their home. “Come and share food with us,” he said, and walked toward his family.
Sharadza shared a quiet glance with Iardu. His face said, Trust me. She decided she would. They followed Khama through the doorway of his lodge, and the laughing children filed in behind them. The family welcomed them with smiles and bowls of cool goat’s milk. Flat bread and roasted vegetables steamed on a small hearth-stove. Khama’s wife was named Emi, and his three children were Tuka, Bota, and Isha, two boys and a girl. Sharadza enjoyed the warmth and joy of their round, amiable faces.
“My oldest son Kuchka is out with our second herd,” said Khama. “We have forty-seven good sheep. Wool brings a high price at the capital.”
They served generous portions to the visitors, and Sharadza was famished. Flying all day took as much energy as walking all day. She ate well, but not enough to embarrass herself. Iardu did the same, and she knew he would rather be drinking wine than milk. Khama’s family spoke only Mumbazan, so they understood nothing of what Iardu told his old friend.
He told the herdsman of the recent events in Yaskatha, the usurping of the throne by the tyrant sorcerer, the murder of the Udurum Prince, the alliance of Ianthe and Khyrei with Elhathym and his new throne, and the war that was coming. As they spoke the sun began to set, and Kuchka returned with the sheep, herding them into a second pen near the goats. He came into the hut and ate the rest of the meal, his eyes darting back to Sharadza every few moments. A handsome lad, strong and well built like his father. If Khama was a sorcerer, then Kuchka would be too. But did he know anything about the ancient legacy of his father? She guessed not, since Khama lived here in the bosom of domestic bliss.
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