Seven Princes

by John R. Fultz

  The Khyreins found the treasure vault of Ammon, and they brought him chests of gold, silver, and jewels, pouring them into mounds before his throne. Caskets of sparkling jewelry, strings of pearl, gemmed statuettes… a hoard of wealth glittered at his feet. Among these treasures they also cast the severed heads of Sharrians found hiding in the palace.

  The white panther came stalking through the gates. She picked her way through the treasure-mounds to join him by the throne. He ordered a great chair brought from some other chamber and Ianthe took her human form to sit beside him. It was easy to imagine she was not his grandmother at all then, but his young and lovely queen. All these riches had been gathered for her pleasure. Perhaps it could be that way if he convinced her of his regal presence. His power would grow to rival hers… then he would be her equal. Then he might claim her as his own, just as he did this slaughtered capital.

  “How do you enjoy your new kingdom, Sweet Boy?” she asked him.

  He met her dazzling dark eyes with his own. One day she will be mine.

  “I find it amusing,” he told her. “I quite enjoy this game of blood and fire.”

  She laughed and his skin tingled. “These baubles are of some interest,” she said, poking at a mound of jewels with her toes.

  “They are yours,” he said.

  “You will need most of this to rebuild this pile of refuse into a city worthy of your rule,” she said. “Still… I may take a choice stone or two. To remind me of this day’s sweetness. Did you drink your fill?”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “And you?”

  “The blood of priests pleases me most,” she said. “Nearly as much as the crumbling of their temples.”

  He frowned. “Their Gods came not to help the Sharrians. Why endure the presence of such useless shrines? They should thank you for ridding them of these reminders that their Gods care nothing for them.”

  “We are their Gods now,” she said.

  “Well, then…” he reflected. “We must build a temple!”

  They laughed loudly, and the sound of it drowned the noise of weeping slaves in the courtyard.

  The palace doors exploded as a great globe of white flame crashed into the throne room. Gammir shrank against his throne beneath the terrible glare. The sphere broke into bolts of radiance hurtling throughout the hall.

  Vireon came leaping from the fireball, greatsword raised behind his head, handsome face snarling with hate.

  When Alua’s fireball broke apart, its sorcerous momentum hurled him toward vengeance. Even before his feet touched the floor, Vireon swung his blade in a downward arc at Fangodrel’s head. But the Kinslayer cringed beneath the bursting flames, and Vireon’s sword bit into the gilded chair-back instead of the traitor’s skull.

  Vireon growled. The Kinslayer’s mouth was dark with dried blood, as was his black mail shirt. This was no longer his half-brother, no longer even a man at all. It was an evil thing, a blood-drinking demon. As he pulled the blade free of the throne, Fangodrel squirmed like a shadow from the chair.

  Alua wreathed herself in white flame and fell upon Ianthe. They shrieked at one another like vicious eagles, and in the corner of his eye Vireon saw the Khyrein become a pale and massive panther, snapping ivory fangs. He did not see Andoses, but heard him in the clang of swordplay at his back. He had refused to stay upon the ridge. Andoses fought the masked murderers with naked steel. The conquering of his city had driven him mad with rage. He shouted a Sharrian war cry, and Khyreins died on his curved blade.

  The Kinslayer slithered across the floor like a black eel and rose to his feet, hoisted by shadows spewing from cracks between the flagstones. The demon things glared at Vireon with eyes red as blood and hot as fire, stretching liquid arms toward him. These were the fiends that had drunk his brother’s life. He sliced into them with the Giant-blade, but it was like cleaving smoke. They rushed upon him like a torrent of black water, fangs and claws taking on the hardness of onyx. Fangodrel stood behind them, shouting.

  “You saved me the trouble of finding you, Brother!” said the Kinslayer. He spat this last word as if it were venom. “Always too stupid to know what was good for you.”

  Vireon dove through the coalescing shadows, aiming the point of his blade at Fangodrel’s heart. But the demons grabbed him and he could not move. A wolf-like maw opened above his throat. A blast of white flame tore the shadows from his body like wisps of crackling paper. They howled and he shut his eyes. Alua’s flame would not burn him, nor anyone she wished to protect. But the demons could not stand it.

  He staggered backward as white brilliance filled the chamber. More shadow-things rushed up from the floor, seeking to escape through windows and doorways. They burned away to nothing in less than an instant.

  Fangodrel too burned in the flames. His dark mail melted in the sorcerous fire. His pale skin shriveled and blackened. He howled like a wounded child.

  Alua screamed, and the flames died instantly. The white panther clasped her in its jaws, tearing and tossing her as a hound rends a captured hare. The flames wreathing her body dripped away, and her red blood splashed the piles of gold and jewels.

  Vireon screamed her name. He would have gone to slay the panther, but Fangodrel flew upon him. A crippled husk sheathed in crackling, melting skin, the Kinslayer wrapped bony hands about his neck and bared yellow fangs in a desperate hiss. Even the tongue within was charred.

  “Your blood will restore me,” rasped the burned thing. “I cannot die…”

  Vireon hurled him against the floor with a crunch of bones. He raised the blade high.

  “I curse you, Vireon!” spat the Kinslayer. “Your children will be born into shadow—”

  Vireon did not hear the rest of the curse. His blade sheared off the Kinslayer’s scorched head, which rolled like a black melon into a pile of bloodied gold.

  “For Tadarus!” Vireon stamped the blackened skull into ashes.

  The white panther screeched and tossed Alua’s limp body across the room. Andoses rode on its singed back now, his scimitar buried to the hilt in its flank. Crimson gushed from the wound, even as Alua’s blood dripped from the ivory fangs. The great cat bucked and twisted, but Andoses held on, twisting the blade deeper into its side.

  A dozen Khyrein swordsmen rushed at Vireon, their faces those of bronze devils. He cut them down two at a time, and those beyond hesitated as their Panther-Queen writhed and danced with the Prince of Shar Dni astride her. Now Andoses lost his grip on the sword-hilt and fell among the scattered wealth. Vireon raced toward the roaring panther, while Andoses rolled to his feet and pulled a dagger from his belt.

  The panther swiped a massive claw at Andoses. It tore through his flesh and sent him careening against a fat pillar with terrible force.

  Vireon came at it from behind, but it swirled and cast blue lightning from its eyes, blasting him through a tall window. He fell steaming among the terrified Sharrians in the courtyard. More masked Khyreins fell upon him as he rose from the trampled ground. He grabbed them by the heads and arms, tossing them aside like dolls. He found the Giant-blade lying amid a group of terrified women and took it up again, turning toward the palace.

  The white panther burst from the hall now, trailing white flame. Alua held its thrashing tail in her fists, sending torrents of fire along its hide. Khyreins and Sharrians fled in horror as the Beast-Queen sped across the courtyard, roaring, dragging Alua behind her.

  The sunlight dimmed as a host of shadows flowed up from the streets, tombs, and low places of the city. They converged like a black storm upon the white panther. They lifted her into the sky, swirling about her like a cloud of darkness filled with crimson embers. Alua floated now in the sky among them, bleeding and burning. Then her scream met Vireon’s ears.

  “Nooooo mooooore!”

  She exploded with pale fire, burning the horde of shadows to oblivion in an instant. The flash blinded Vireon. All those in the courtyard covered their eyes with hands, forearms, or shields. Some fell to the gro
und, calling upon the Four Gods. Shrieking spirit voices filled the luminous sky. Vireon could see nothing.

  “Alua!” he shouted into the brilliance.

  Thunderbolts flared along the ground, tearing the earth, igniting trees and hedges. Slaves and soldiers alike fled, running blindly across the grounds. Sharrians and Khyreins were united in sheer terror of rampant celestial forces. The sky fell into silence while chaos poured across the slain city.

  Vireon’s sight returned gradually. White spots of flame still danced in his vision. Alua lay upon the charred ground, naked, torn, and bloodied. A few tiny flames danced along her limbs. He ran to her.

  “Alua…” He raised her into his arms, where she lay limp and senseless. The panther’s fangs had gashed her slim waist and marred her tender breasts. He cradled her cheek against his own, the water of his eyes spilling across her hot skin. She grew cooler, and a throng of awed Sharrians gathered about them. The distant calls of Khyrein captains rang beyond the palace walls. They were the commands of retreat.

  Alua coughed and opened her eyes. She smiled at him weakly and spoke his name.

  “Is she…”

  “She is gone,” he told her. “You have taken your vengeance. We both have.”

  Yet why does it feel so hollow? he wondered. I wanted only to kill Fangodrel, to avenge Tadarus. Yet now both my brothers are dead and I feel… I feel only love for this dying girl.

  “Do not worry for me,” she whispered, pushing him gently away. She conjured a small flame into her hand and touched it to her torn flesh. She sucked air in through her teeth as the lacerations and punctures closed one by one. When she was done, not even scars remained on her snowy skin. He helped her to stand, and the Sharrians brought the cloak of a dead Khyrein to cover her nakedness. She was so very weak, but alive. His heart sang.

  They looked across the smoking city, through the broken city wall, and saw the black fleet begin to sail away. The Sharrian survivors cheered him, asked his name, and cheered again. Then they fell quickly back to mourning their multitude of dead. The invaders were departing, their Queen and Prince were slain, but Shar Dni was broken and ruined. Its people would be refugees now.

  Vireon found Andoses in the throne room, lying bloody among the treasures of his royal house. He called for water, and a woman rushed off to get it.

  “Cousin!” There was no answer. He felt the shifting of splintered bones beneath his hands. “Can you heal him?” he asked Alua.

  She poured the white flame along his body, but it was too late. “His bones…” she whispered. “The blow was too great… or I am too weak.” She wept quietly.

  Andoses’ eyes fluttered open. Vireon carried him to the throne and sat him upon it.

  “You are King now, Cousin,” Vireon told him. “This was your father’s throne.”

  Andoses smiled, then coughed blood.

  “Too late,” he whispered. “When the kingdom dies… the King must die too.”

  “You were both King and Warrior,” said Vireon. “You saved Alua. I will look after your people. Go now and join your father.”

  Andoses grew very still upon the throne. His eyes stared beyond the shattered windows into some unknown land, and he died.

  So this is the cost of vengeance. The price that a Prince must pay to be a King.

  Vireon wept in the cool shelter of Alua’s arms… for his cousin, his brother, his father, for Shar Dni.

  “It is too much,” he whispered.

  It is too much…

  32

  Beginnings (Kings and Queens)

  The streets of Yaskatha boomed with song and cheer. Months of misery and fear were replaced by a flood of goodwill and wild celebrations. D’zan’s name rang through the avenues, plazas, and orchards. Well-wishers and skeptics flocked into the city from outlying farms and villages. Wine and ale flowed in rivers, men carried girls on their shoulders, and children stuffed themselves with the sweetmeats of vendors made generous by joy. D’zan had not yet emerged to walk among his people, and tales of his battle wound explained his immediate privacy. The Yaskathans wrote verse about him and sang his praises. The legend of his vanquishing Elhathym grew wilder with each telling.

  In the midst of this jubilation, Sharadza sat with Iardu in a grove of the palace gardens and wept. She gazed into a pool below a sculpted fountain. Atop the water gleamed a vision of Vireon and Alua kneeling before the throne of dead Andoses. Iardu put his arm about her shoulders. She had learned the spell of scrying from him, though she already regretted looking toward Shar Dni. So much death… An entire city, more or less, murdered in a single night.

  Poor Andoses. He looked so pitiful slumped in his father’s throne, a pile of broken bones and punctured flesh. The headless corpse of Fangodrel lay nearby, blackened and shriveled. Sharadza had watched it all, helpless to give Vireon aid. Unlike the Glass of Eternity, the enchanted water could not be used as a gateway, only a window. She could look across the world, view any scene she wished, yet was powerless to affect it from so far away. She felt useless.

  All the suffering and devastation of the Sharrians… It was the very thing she had tried to prevent. War and death had come despite her intervention. Iardu had been right all along. War is a tide that flows where and when it will. A storm of tragedy too great and powerful for any man or woman to control. The Khyreins had struck first and decimated the Sharrians; Elhathym had struck first and annihilated Zaashari. Perhaps if she had not rushed off to save the world, the attacks would have been postponed. Perhaps Shar Dni might still exist today. Andoses might still be alive… and the people of Zaashari… and D’zan. What a piteous thing this handsome Prince had become. Dead, yet undying, what future could he have among the living?

  What difference have I made at all?

  What if I had done nothing?

  “Dry your tears,” said Iardu, patting her shoulder. “It’s not as bad as all that.”

  She glared at him. His eyes gleamed in their myriad colors. The blue flame guttered low on his chest. His robes had been restored, but the dark bruises on his skin remained.

  “My cousins are all dead,” she reminded him. “My aunts, uncles… an entire city!”

  “No,” he said. “Thousands of women and children survive. See them milling in the courtyard there. Vireon is their hero, their savior. Alua is their new Goddess.”

  Sharadza watched them in the ensorcelled water. Grimy faces bright with tears stared upon Vireon and Alua, raw hope glimmering in their eyes. Among the smoking ruins of an empire, those people refused to give up. Surely Vireon would take them to Udurum. And there he would be King. What of Shar Dni? Perhaps, over time, it might be rebuilt as Udurum once was. Yet there were no Giants to rear its new walls and raise its towers. No, it would remain a haunted ruin.

  Iardu waved his hand and the watery view shifted to the open sea. The black ships of Khyrei sailed southward. What must those captains and soldiers feel in their hearts now that their wicked Empress was gone? Which one of them would rise to replace her, and bring more war in some distant year?

  “Their fleet is leaderless and vulnerable,” said Iardu. “If you wish, I might summon a hurricane and drown them all.”

  “No!” She shook her head, a mass of black curls twirling. “There has been enough death. Leave them be.”

  “As you wish,” he said. “Perhaps they will choose a more peaceful way of life without Ianthe the Claw driving them to conquest.”

  She heard the doubt in his words. He did not believe them himself.

  “What about D’zan?” she said. “What has happened to him?”

  Iardu dispelled the image with a dip of his finger into the pool. The vision turned to ordinary ripples. Songbirds trilled in the cypress branches, and the smell of citrus hung heavily about the garden. Somewhere inside the palace walls D’zan sat or wandered wordless and grim, a prisoner of his own dead flesh.

  “Elhathym killed him,” said Iardu. “Yet his spirit refused to abandon his body. By embracing dea
th instead of running from it, he defeated his enemy.”

  “How could he do this?” she asked.

  Iardu shrugged. “You saw the gleaming sign on his forehead, the mark of the Sun God. His belief in this power made it real. This is the sorcery that all men are capable of working… the magic of Faith. They give credit to the Gods for their own works. Try to tell them this, however, and they call you Heretic.” He smiled.

  “What will become of him?”

  “His physical shell will continue to rot and decay with his spirit trapped inside. Eventually, he will be a dried, animate skeleton. The people will fear him and call him worse than Elhathym. Unless…”

  “Unless what?” she asked. “What can we do?”

  Iardu stared into the green leaves dappled with sunlight. The Flame of Intellect blazed on his breast. “Did you know that the hair and fingernails of corpses continue to grow even in the grave?”

  They left the gardens and entered the palace. Servants and soldiers were busy removing all trace of Elhathym’s brief reign, cleaning for the coming feasts and the official coronation of the young King. Sharadza and Iardu found D’zan sitting still upon his throne, from which he barely moved at all. In the last few hours the throne room had regained much of its grandeur. Fresh tapestries of Yaskathan ancestry lined the walls. Dust and blood and bones had been scoured away, and the Vizier’s podium was restored to its rightful place. The throne that Iardu had conjured from marble had been set with a fresh coterie of jewels. Beams of sunlight showered through the vertical casements.