Seven Princes (36 page)

“Have you not visited Udurum before?” asked D’zan.

“I have,” said Lyrilan. “It was summer, and I rode in a coach. I remember sleeping during this part of the journey.”

D’zan laughed.

“I was much younger then,” Lyrilan reminded him.

They rode the rest of the day and pavilioned at the very edge of the forest. The concentric camp lines took formation to the east of the wide road that ran directly into the gargantuan wall of trees. The night was chill, but far warmer than Vod’s Pass. The wind was less here, and the light snow melted about their fires. D’zan stood outside his tent and pondered the depths of those great woods. What creatures lurked in their dark underbrush? Or lived in the vast expanses of their branches? He heard tales of colossal elk, of moose large as houses, and even wolves tall enough to bite a man in half. How much of these tales were true he had no idea.

At length he went inside his tent to undress. Each Prince would have his own pavilion tonight, so D’zan would enjoy relative comfort. First he would heat a pot of water and soak his feet. Then drink some mulled wine and fall asleep under a pile of furs.
His goal was so near now… already he felt a lightening of spirits.

Prince Tyro came stamping into the tent. “Well, D’zan, welcome to the Giantlands. Don’t take off those boots. It’s time for your lessons to resume.”

D’zan sighed. “I thought we’d rest first and in the morning—”

Tyro grunted. “When the sun rises we’ll be marching toward Udurum. We’ve wasted too many good days in that pass. Pick up your blade and follow me. Quickly now, I’m tired too.”

D’zan pulled on his cloak, took up the Stone’s blade, and joined Tyro in the frosted shortgrass. As campfires blinked to life about them, men unloaded wagons, fed horses, and settled down for the night. D’zan ran through the warm-up exercises under Tyro’s critical eye. Next came the sparring with bronze rods. D’zan performed exceptionally badly and earned several new bruises. Before the session was over, the smell of cooking meat filled the night air and the deep laughter of Uduru floated among the smoke. His arms were numb when Tyro finally dismissed him.

“Get some sleep,” Tyro said. “Tomorrow, if no storm slows us, you will meet the Queen of Udurum.”

D’zan went back to his tent, forgot about the hot water, drank a cup of chilled wine instead, and crawled beneath the covers of his cot. Some time during the middle of the night he woke in a panic, realizing he did not have the Stone’s blade in his hand. He grabbed it up from the rugs and placed it upon his chest, pommel pointing toward his chin, fists wrapped firmly about the hilt. Sleep returned, swift as an eagle.

The colossal forest was an amazing sight, but the City of Men and Giants dwarfed it for sheer spectacle. It rose from a vast clearing in the center of the woodland, encircled by outlying farms, and its great black wall stood taller than the tremendous Uyga trees. The
gates stood open as the four Princes approached, the lowering sun at their backs. They had ridden all day through the forest and were arriving as Tyro had anticipated – in the orange glow of early evening. Behind the Princes a pair of horses pulled the wagon housing Tadarus’ body, and behind that came a company of twenty-two Uduru. The long train of cavalrymen followed at their heels, winding outward from the shadows of the trees.

The flames of great braziers burned at intervals atop the wall, and men tiny as ants walked the high ramparts. Here and there an Uduru strolled between battlements, but the Men far outnumbered the Giants.

An advance rider had galloped through the forest that morning, carrying word of the company’s approach. Now a contingent of Uduru, led by a graybeard in sable and silver, came to greet them at the Great Gate. The Giants stood like iron statues, dressed in full armor and the purple cloaks of sentinels. Beyond, in the city proper, a crowd of humans braved the cold to catch a glimpse of the arriving Princes. Other than a few wall-guards and the contingent of royal escorts, no other Giants could be seen.

The ebony spires of Vod’s Palace stood at the city’s heart, each wearing a crown of pristine snow. Here was a castle that set all other castles to shame; it made the great edifice D’zan’s father had kept in Yaskatha look like a pile of sticks and tinder. Here was a palace – and a whole city – built for giants. To find humans here at all was an astounding thing. It had not always been this way. Yet when Vod rebuilt the original city, he planned it to accommodate the sizes of both races. D’zan’s mind boggled at the blend of great and small architectures comprising the streets, plazas, houses, shops, and taverns. Through the arching gate, he saw all these structures and more. The gray-bearded Giant raised his arm and bellowed a greeting.

“Hail, Princes of Uurz! Hail, Prince of Shar Dni and Queen’s Cousin!”

Tyro spoke for all of them. “Hail, Fangodrim the Gray, First Among Giants!” As they reined their horses at the very lip of the gates, Tyro spoke again to the Giant. “Know that Prince D’zan, Heir of Yaskatha, rides with us.”

Fangodrim the Gray turned his grizzled face to D’zan. His courteous bow was slight, but proper. “Hail, Prince of Yaskatha. The Queen of Udurum heeds your coming and welcomes you.”

The Giants walked beside the mounted Princes as they proceeded along the broad cobbled street. The curious faces of children, laborers, soldiers, wives, and merchants looked up at them, white breath rushing from their mouths and nostrils. Behind the Princes the innocuous death wagon rolled along the street, its tragic cargo yet to be revealed. Now the twenty-two Uduru from Steephold filed through the gate. Fangodrim went back to greet them personally, and he embraced Rockjaw.

“Where are Tadarus and Fangodrel?” Fangodrim asked Rockjaw. “Your rider’s message said nothing of them.”

Rockjaw’s response was a half-grunt, half-moan. “Best to ask the Prince Andoses,” he said. “I would not speak for him.”

Fangodrim turned his big face toward Andoses, but the Sharrian Prince looked straight ahead, toward the black palace in its cloak of snow. “I bring grim news,” said Andoses. “It should be the Queen’s ears that hear it first.”

Fangodrim grunted. “She awaits you in the Great Hall with Vireon.”

At the palace gates grooms took their tired horses toward the stables. A squad of men came forth to assign lodging and barracks to the warriors of Shar Dni and Uurz, while the returning Men of Udurum were greeted with smiles and handshakes. None of them spoke yet of the sad news they too carried.

Rockjaw himself took the body of Tadarus from the wagon, carrying it through the arch of the palace gate. Trailing behind the Lord of Steephold, his face dour, Fangodrim escorted the Princes through the snowy courtyard, up the marble steps, and into the massive hall. It seemed a curtain of heat hung there above the steps, and D’zan almost fainted when he entered it. He had lived with the cold for weeks now; this haven of crackling flames was like a paradise. Fires roared in huge braziers hung from iron chains. Pillars of jet streaked with gold and silver supported the enormous vault of the roof, and tapestries stitched with untold wealth sparkled along the walls.

Six armored Uduru stood on either side of the royal dais, and twelve human guards lined north and south walls. A Giant’s throne sat empty in the shadows at the rear of the dais, and before it sat two normal-sized chairs, carved and jeweled to rival the glory of the Great Throne. In one of these seats reclined the Queen of Udurum, a small yet beautiful woman with long flowing hair the color of night. Jewels and gold glimmered on her fingers and at her neck; even from a distance D’zan could see the emerald green of her eyes. In the chair beside her sat not her husband, but a young man of powerful build, a narrow-faced Tadarus dressed in a tunic of purple silk and cloak of white fur. This must be Prince Vireon, brother of the dead man. At his feet on the highest step of the dais sat a gorgeous girl with flowing blonde hair, dressed in a rather simple gown the color of fresh snow.

Rockjaw walked in solemn grace, sinking to one knee before the dais and placing the enshrouded body on the marble floor. Tyro, Lyrilan, and Andoses went also to their knees, heads bowed, and D’zan knew enough court etiquette to follow their lead. He stared at the floor and did not watch Vireon come down the steps and pull back the shroud. Nor did he see the Queen rise from her throne and rush down the steps. But he heard too well her awful
scream as she saw the face of her dead son. It rang through the Great Hall, a demon-struck bell reverberating among the splendor and flames.

Her scream faded to fierce sobbing. The Princes kept their eyes on the polished floor, but D’zan dared a peek in the Queen’s direction. Vireon held her now, and her body writhed in the storm of her grief. Diamond tears welled in Vireon’s eyes, and D’zan knew this was a man who had loved his brother greatly. He saw tears also in the eyes of the great Rockjaw, and the Giant sentinels wiped at their eyes with the hems of their cloaks. He could not see if the human soldiers along the walls cried too. He returned his gaze to the floor.

“You
knew
,” the Queen said to Vireon, accusing him of prescience with her streaming eyes. “Somehow you knew, didn’t you?”

Vireon nodded, holding her hands. He looked at the withered flesh that had been Tadarus. “I only felt it… in my bones,” he said.

Fangodrim spoke gently. “The bond between brothers is a powerful thing. This is a terrible day for Uduru and men alike. Our recent bliss now turns to sorrow. Tadarus was the noblest of men.”

Rockjaw spoke next. “A young King he was. All who saw him knew he would rule with honor and strength.” He turned his reddened eyes to Vireon. “My Prince… my Queen… his death falls upon me. He died at Steephold, even as our walls fell about us…”

Vireon raised a hand. “Let my mother rest and reclaim herself,” he said, “and we will hear all that is to be said.”

“No!” said the Queen, breaking away from him. She knelt and put the shroud back over Tadarus’ dead face. “Tell me now. Tell me everything. Where is… where is
Fangodrel
?”

D’zan could not tell if she spoke in fear, anger, or sorrow.
Perhaps a mix of all three. She looked not at Rockjaw, but at Prince Andoses, whose eyes were downcast.

“Andoses!” she demanded. She rose and stepped toward him. “Where is my other son?”

Andoses looked up. D’zan could not see if he wept. He spoke as if the words caused him pain. Likely, they did.

“Gone,” said Andoses. He pointed at the corpse. “The Pale Prince slew his own brother… and escaped into the night.”

The Queen gasped. Vireon’s fists clenched.

“He killed many more besides,” said Andoses. “And nearly myself.” He threw back his cloak and opened his shirt, showing the fresh scars and bandages retained from the night of terror. “Steephold fell under his will alone. His… and that which he commanded.”

“What did he command?” asked Vireon. His eyes simmered, pools of blue fire.

“Sorcery,” said Andoses. “A host of shadows… demons… ghosts. Things that crawled out of the night to kill Men and Giants. They brought the walls of Steephold crumbling on our heads!” Now the Sharrian wept openly, and D’zan felt pity for him.

“Why?” asked the Queen, ignoring the fresh tears on her cheeks. “Why would he do this?”

Andoses shook his head and wiped at his eyes.

The Queen turned to Rockjaw. The Giant had no answer either.

Finally she embraced Tyro, then Lyrilan. “Sons of my dear friend, would that we met under less tragic circumstances. What do you know of this?”

“Nothing at all, Majesty,” answered Tyro. “We arrived to find the castle broken. Rockjaw and his sentinels met us there, and we learned the fate of poor Tadarus.”

“There was a Serpent,” said Lyrilan. The Queen turned her face to him. “An Old Wyrm crawled up from beneath the ruins.”

Rockjaw grunted. “An aged beast, stirred by the commotion. We slew it easily enough.”

Tyro bristled. Only one Giant had died battling the Wyrm, but nearly fifty Men.

“Great Queen,” said D’zan, “I might know something of this evil that plagues both our houses.”

“May I present Prince D’zan,” said Tyro. “Scion of Yaskatha. He has come a very long way to seek audience with Your Majesty.”

“Prince D’zan,” said the Queen, turning her green eyes on him. Their heat seemed more dangerous than the flames leaping from the braziers. “Of what evil do you speak?”

“The Sorcerer Elhathym, who slew my father, desecrated the bones of my family, and stole my ancestral throne for himself. His power is terrible, and his reach is long. Already he has allied himself with the Empress of Khyrei and sent assassins to murder me. He fears I will return to claim my throne.”

The Queen thought for a moment. “What has this usurper to do with Fangodrel?”

“I know not, Majesty,” said D’zan. “Yet when one speaks of sorcery, all things must be considered.”

Vireon spoke up. “Could this Elhathym be responsible for Fangodrel’s betrayal? Tadarus’ death? Is that what you’re saying?”

D’zan stared up at the half-Giant Prince who was a full head taller than him. “I-I cannot say,” he stammered. “Perhaps the death… the demons… were meant for me. As was the Serpent.”

“Then why are you not dead?” asked Vireon.

“I carry a ward against evil,” said D’zan.

“So you bring a plague of sorcery into our land…” said Vireon, his voice rising. D’zan feared the man might strike him.
I must maintain courtesy and grace, or be disgraced in this court
.