Seven Princes (31 page)

“D’zan?” said Lyrilan in the dark of the tent.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For saving me from the Serpent. I won’t forget it.”

D’zan said nothing. He clasped the sword’s hilt tightly in his fists, the blade pointing between his feet, and fell to sleep on the rugs of Lyrilan’s tent. He’d grown accustomed to sleeping in that position, like a dead warrior laid to rest in his tomb.

He dreamed a rushing sea of fire.

The bones of dead men danced there, blackened and terrible.

H
e woke shivering in the cold rain. The world was made of mud and tall green blades of grass. He lay in a sea of that grass, staring into the heaving stormclouds. The wind tore at his naked flesh as he crouched like an animal, hugging his knees for warmth. His right fist clutched something, sodden purple fabric. By its silver trim he knew it – the cloak of his non-brother Tadarus. He pulled it about his pale shoulders, pulled the hood over his head. Now he could at least stand and face the hateful wind. The brightness of the gray day troubled him.

The rain had washed all the blood from his body, although under his fingernails lingered a brown residue, and there were congealed clots in his sopping black hair. He recalled the taste of the blood on his tongue, the sweet bitterness of it, the coppery tang. The power it brought him… the Dwellers in Shadow flocking to his command. Where were they now, his children of the night? His army of unseen terrors?

Rain swept across the Stormlands plains in all directions. At his back rose the green foothills and beyond those the black immensity of the Grim Mountains. The storm of blood and shadows, the
storm he had commanded, had carried him southward. He saw the tumbling walls of Steephold in the diamond panes of his memory… his amorphous children pulling them down upon the heads of Men and Giants. The screaming, the feasting… the blood. The delicious flowing blood. Such a tempest his brother’s blood had fueled. Now he was spent. And alone.

“Ianthe,” he said into the swirling clouds. “Grandmother!”

Distant thunder was the only answer. Where was his power? Where were his ghostly servants? She had given him the key to greatness and he had squandered it in a single night of destruction. His stomach growled like a famished lion, but he did not hunger. He
thirsted
.

Blood… he must have more of it. The source of his power. And this time he must not waste it; he must learn to savor it. Like fine wine. Not swill and spew it forth like some drunkard wandering the back alleys of Udurum. This time he would drink wisely. But he would drink deeply.

His thirst was not only physical, but spiritual, emotional, mental. He longed for the hot sticky fluid of life. He drank some cold rain from his hands and grimaced at the bitter blandness of it. He spat, trying to rid his mouth of the earthy taste. There was no satisfying his thirst that way.

He walked through the blowing storm. Far enough from the mountains he would find some village or trading post. He walked south, bare feet sinking in the mud. The day was leaden, but the sun lingered high behind those rushing slabs of cloud. Once it broke free and a golden ray fell across his face, piercing the shadows of his hood. He cried out and pulled the fabric tighter about his head, squinting. Then the golden orb hid once more behind a bank of thunderheads, and he was glad.

He walked all day, finding no signs of road, settlement, or traveler. A wild dog, lean and starving, ran howling from his gaze.
Its base ichor held no appeal for him. Now that he had sampled the blood of Men, he would not drink that of a cur again. Not even his terrible thirst would force him to that.

As the gloom fell into purple dusk, and night rose from eastern plains to crawl westward, he saw the lights of a tiny village. It lay at the end of an unpaved road, surrounded by ploughed fields. Somewhere to the west that crude track must intersect the Northern Road, which ran from the Gates of Uurz all the way to Vod’s Pass. But this hamlet was far from the main way, nestled among a few scattered cedar trees. To its south a stream flowed heavily in the wash from the storm; likely some tributary feeding the waters of the Eastern Flow.

He walked toward the collection of thatched roofs and walls of baked mud. Goats and swine stared from their wooden-walled pens, moving away from him as he passed. Coils of sooty smoke rose from the chimneys. A central plaza stood empty but for a rudely sculpted statue of Vod the Giant-King.

At the nearest of the hovels he knocked on a wooden door. The smells of roasting lamb and vegetables wafted through a round window, and curtains of rainwater fell from the eaves. A face peered out the window, silhouetted by the glow of a hearthfire. Then the door opened slightly, a young girl barely visible in the crack.

“Yes?” She was no more than fourteen, a peasant, not especially lovely or comely. Brown hair in braids, small brown eyes.

“Can you help me?” he asked. His teeth chattered. “So cold…”

The girl turned away but did not shut the door. “It’s a man,” he heard her say. “A beggar. He has no shoes.”

Now the jowly face of an older woman peered out at him. “What do you want?” she asked.

“I am lost,” he told her, “and hungry. May I sit by your fire for a little while?”

She eyed him suspiciously but relented. “Come in,” she said. “Take off that filthy cloak.”

“I am naked underneath,” he said. The woman and her daughter exchanged a look of shock.

“Gods of Earth and Sky, you
are
a poor one,” she said. “Nellea, fetch a dry robe for this poor man.”

He trembled in the doorway until the girl returned with a simple robe of white linen. Mother and daughter turned away while he slipped off the wet cloak and pulled the smock over his thin body. His stomach growled. His lips twitched.

“Thank you for this hospitality,” he said.

The hovel featured a table, a hearth, some blankets spread on a wooden floor, and a small back room, obviously a shared bedroom.

The woman picked up the purple cloak and wrung it with her hands just outside the door. The girl scooped broth from a boiling kettle into a stone bowl and set it at the table.

“What is your name, sir?” the girl asked. She sat across the table from him, some part of her still afraid, even in the midst of her overwhelming pity. Her mother hung the cloak on a peg next to the fireplace.

“Gammir,” he said. He stared into the steaming broth.

“Well eat, Gammir,” said the mother. “You may stay with us until the rain lets up, then you must go.”

He did not touch the bowl, or the wooden spoon she gave him.

“Ah,” the mother said, as if she had forgotten something. “You’ll need some water to wash that down.” She got up to fetch her bucket.

“No, thank you,” he said.

The woman smiled, her face pink and heavy with an old sadness. “I suppose you’ve gotten enough water out there this evening…”

“Call me Nellea,” said the girl. “My mother is Naomi. Please eat, Gammir. It is all right.”

“What is the name of this village?” he asked. Still he did not touch the broth. He stared at the fire. The warmth made his thirst grow, and the dancing flames made him think of the Red Dream. He no longer needed the bloodflower to enter that special place.

“Vod’s Way,” said Naomi. “You’ve seen the statue? They say the Giant-King once slept here, in this very spot, when this place was still a desert. That the stream sprang up to quench his thirst when he woke.”

Gammir laughed. The irony was delectable.

Naomi stood behind her daughter, hands on her shoulders.

“Where do you come from, Sir Gammir?” she asked. A cooking knife lay on the shelf at her right elbow, just below the circular window.

“From the south,” he said. “And the north. Do you
believe
the legend of your village?”

Naomi shrugged. “It’s what they say…”

Gammir nodded. “Yes, they say so many things about Vod, don’t they? Such a hero, such a legend… The truth is that Vod was a liar.”

Mother and daughter looked at one another. “You’d better go, sir,” said Naomi. “You are frightening my daughter…”

Gammir smiled. He smelled the blood pulsing in their wrists, necks, and thighs. His nostrils twitched. His stomach roared. The flames in the fireplace raged like the fire in his blood.

“I told you I was hungry,” he said.

“Then eat and go!” said the mother. She grabbed the cooking knife and pointed it at him. Nellea wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist, one eye still focused on Gammir, wide and white-rimmed.

Gammir nodded. “Oh, I will.” He lunged across the table, a white panther in the shape of a man.

Beneath the wind, rain, and thunder rang the screams of mother and daughter. If anyone heard they chose to ignore the sounds and stay warm inside their cozy huts.

Presently the white robe was stained to brightest red. The uneaten broth grew cold in its bowl. Gammir rose from his feast, took up the cloak of Tadarus, and walked into the storm once again, following the main track out of the village, then turning back into the tall grasses.

Lightning danced in the sky and in his veins. He laughed at the chaos above. He spread his arms, and the winds swirled about him. The Red Dream rose into his eyes, and he called for his grandmother. She came to him wreathed in vines of orange flame.

“Sweet Prince,” she cooed. “Now you see the truth of the blood. You know its power.”

“Yes.” He told her of the destruction he had wrought in the mountains, of his great triumph, and the exaltation of slaughter.

“Now you must learn not to waste your power,” she told him. He already knew this, but he did not mind her guidance. She doted on him as a mother on her favorite son. “Use it as you need, call upon the shadows when you must, but do not squander the gifts of the blood. I have much more to teach you.”

“I will come to you now,” he said. “Across the Golden Sea… to your black palace and your crimson jungles… to your soft bosom, warm as a hearthfire.”

For a timeless moment she held him in her arms, his head against her bosom.

This is what it was like to be loved.

“No,” she said. “Not yet. Go first to Shar Dni.”

“Why?” he asked, a petulant child.

“To spread terror and death among our enemies,” she said. “To
drink more royal blood and harness its power. When you come across the water, you will come to me as a true Prince of Khyrei, with a legion of shadows at your back. Then our war song can truly begin.”

“I understand,” he whispered into the wind, and opened his eyes.

The moon and stars were lost in the upper dark, and the night poured down upon him. He must go east now, and he must not walk. He must ride.

He spoke an incantation, eyes blazing, and shadows raced toward him from the mouth of night. Down from the mountains they flowed like floods of dark water, converging among the grasslands at his feet.

“My children…” he said. The shapes of shifting darkness sniffed at his bare heels, wolvish, serpentine, ever-changing, and eager. They worshipped the blood in his belly, in his veins, spilled across his chest.

The shadows flowed into a shoulder-high form, an ebony stallion, snorting and stamping, digging razor hooves into the wet earth. Its mane flowed upward from its neck, like black seaweed waving in unseen waters. Wisps of dark smoke trailed from its nostrils. He pulled himself up onto its back, a saddle of shadow-stuff forming beneath him. The dark flow continued, wrapping about his body like slithering eels, shredding the stained robe. He wore a suit of darkness now, black mail like that of a Khyrein warrior, and the purple cloak of Tadarus flapped at his back. There was another non-brother to kill… but that would come later. A pleasure rushed and not savored was a pleasure wasted.

The black steed galloped across the plains. A horde of shadows followed in its wake, dark plumes trailing after a thunderbolt. Gammir laughed, breathed in the wet freedom of night, the cold
air of liberation. The scent of ancient darkness. Faster and faster the phantom horse carried him across the Stormlands.

The blood lingered on his tongue, in his throat. He would not waste this power. Not as he had done at Steephold. He would conserve it, use it sparingly to satisfy his whims and the justice of his impending throne. The power was his and no matter how much of it he drained and swallowed and poured across the earth, there would always be more.

Always more ruby liquid flowing hot and luscious in the veins of the living.

Across an interval of darkness lay Shar Dni. An entire city filled with red blood, ripe for the taking. He threw his head back, laughing with terrible joy.

The wraith-horse sprouted black wings from its sides, flapping planes of leather which beat faster than its hooves, and it carried him into the sky. The moon, full and bloated, rose above a bank of clouds. He soared beneath its golden glow, howling gleefully into the night.

A red blush smudged the horizon just before dawn. A few cold stars glittered above the clouds, and the dark expanse of the Golden Sea lay directly ahead. As the night lost its hold on the world, the winged specter slowed its flight and Gammir sank toward the rolling plain. Between himself and the sea lay the River Orra, flowing through the broad Valley of the Bull, and there stood the white towers and blue pyramids of Shar Dni. Soon the dawn would rise up, turn the sea to molten gold, and set the city ablaze with light.