The sea cliffs lay far behind her. The land spread green and flat to the west, and the Golden Sea reflected sunfire to the east. Dahrima walked between the two worlds of steppe and ocean, alone but for the parade of memories in her head. Her boots left deep tracks in the wet sand. The sound of the rushing surf had become a soothing refrain, a song of water meeting earth that rose and fell in ceaseless rhythm. Somewhere leagues ahead of her the River Orra rushed along the haunted valley and poured itself into the sea.
Once it had been called the Valley of the Bull, when its slopes were filled with terraced croplands. In those days not so long ago the towers of Shar Dni stood white and strong between the blue temple-pyramids of the Sky God. Dahrima had never seen it in person, only in colorful landscapes adorning the halls of the palace at Udurum. Queen Shaira, Vireon’s mother, was born a Sharrian and retained the pride of her heritage. Dahrima did not know Shaira well–certainly not as she had known Vod himself–but she understood Shaira’s love of her homeland and respected her for it. Scenes of the Sharrian valley were common throughout Vod’s palace, whether rendered in oils, woven in tapestries, or crafted into stone murals. Men said the deep green of the valley’s grass could be seen in Shaira’s eyes. Sharadza Vodsdaughter had those same eyes, though she was a child of Udurum.
Shar Dni was only a pile of cursed ruins now. Ghosts and devils were said to roam the valley. Perhaps these rumors accounted for why no living men had resettled the valley after Gammir and Ianthe destroyed and plundered it. Dahrima recalled the blood-shadows that had crept into Vireon’s chambers and fed upon the blood of her spearsisters. The ghosts had nearly claimed Dahrima’s life as well, but Vireon had saved her by driving out the witch who wore the shape of his daughter. Dahrima could not imagine the pain of losing a child to such dreadful sorcery. Vireon had lost Alua as well. This war had begun with bloody betrayal inside the Giant-King’s house, and the revelation of Ianthe’s rebirth inside poor, doomed Maelthyn.
Vireon had lost all that he loved on that night. The burden of a King was heavy, and loneliness was his usual recompense. Dahrima realized days ago that it must be loneliness, an unshakable sense of loss, that had driven Vireon into the arms of Varda. Even cold arms must provide comfort to one who suffered as Vireon did. Yet Dahrima, in a fit of rage, had robbed her King of that small comfort. For this she hated herself, even though she knew that Varda’s comfort was a false one. Nothing more than a strategy for gaining Vireon’s trust.
Dahrima would atone for her crime somehow. She must stay alive at least long enough to do this. Let Vireon’s justice fall upon her if it must, but first she would stand against his enemies. She may have broken the vow of service with her hands, but not with her heart.
He needs me.
On the second day, her flight had turned into a scouting mission. She decided on reaching Shar Dni before the forces of Uurz and Udurum. Alone she could run faster than any marching legions. Let her spearsisters stay behind and march with the Udvorg–they had not sinned against the blue-skins. If Dahrima had stayed, her sisters would have risen to protect her from any reprisals. Slaying Varda was a matter of personal honor, every Uduri would argue. This was the way Uduri had always settled their conflicts, with strength of arm and, if necessary, naked steel. It was Varda who drew steel first and thus sealed her own fate; otherwise the witch might have endured only a sound beating. Of course, the Udvorg might not see it this way. Perhaps Vireon would not either. Yet by moving ahead and scouting the way for the northern hosts, Dahrima could still be of service. When the battle began, she would be there, ready to slay and die for her King.
Her running had slowed when she approached the harbor town of Allundra. At the foot of the Earth Wall it nestled above a small bay. Trading galleons from all the great cities were moored at its wharves, along with a dozen Jade Isle traders. There were even a few Khyrein reavers docked there, having escaped the revolution that placed the black fleet into the service of Tong the Avenger. They were likely pirates now, expatriate seadogs who would rather sail the main preying on merchant vessels than pledge fealty to the King of New Khyrei. Allundra was a haven for any ship that dared its port, no matter its nation or purpose. The town had long been neutral in affairs of state, even allowing Khyrein slavers access to its taverns and warehouses. Though it lay at the southeastern edge of the Stormlands, it was not claimed by either Uurz or Khyrei. Despite Allundra’s important position as a crossroads for seagoing merchants, it was little more than a haven for smugglers, pirates, and outlaws.
Dahrima had not liked the smells of raw fish, human waste, and rotting seaweed that wafted from the seaport. The jumble of red-tiled roofs leaked a thousand gray smokes. She decided against braving the muddy streets to seek ale and fresh meat. Instead she rested until sundown and ran on, skirting the edge of the town. She crossed the inland road under cover of night.
The following sunset she discovered a cluster of fishing villages girding the delta of the Eastern Flow. Tiny two-man boats dotted the ocean here, and children in brown tunics played along the beaches. These settlements seemed more wholesome than Allundra, but again Dahrima hid herself from those who might gawk at a lone Giantess and carry word of her far and wide. She waded across the delta by moonlight and sprinted away from the villages.
The next day rains rolled off the sea, cool and heavy. Dahrima slept a little beneath a crag of chalky stone overlooking the waves. She was far enough from the river delta to avoid the fisherfolk. Upon waking she killed a hare with a throw of her knife, and built a small fire to cook it before resuming her northward run.
Another day of moving along the coast brought her to a sheltered cove, where she stopped to pick oysters from the shallows. She ate them raw and drank from a rocky stream feeding the inlet. She slept there in the damp shadows of the cove.
Now she walked the eastern edge of the Stormlands once again. Looking out across the peaceful turquoise waters, she could not envision the great armada sailing above it. Perhaps Zyung’s forces had already reached the haunted valley. If so, Vireon must know. This was another important reason why she must scout ahead. What human could travel as far and as fast as she could with as little nourishment or rest? Knowing that she was close now, Dahrima picked up her speed. Her memory of maps was keen, and she estimated that another day of running would bring her to the Valley of the Bull which was now a valley of death.
The sun was an orange disk of flame hovering at the blue sky’s zenith when Dahrima topped a ridge and found her destination. The land fell away from her in graceful curves, green and pleasant despite the rumors of evil that hung about it. The broad, flat valley narrowed as it approached the seacoast. The Orra was a silver ribbon winding from misty highlands to pour itself into the sea at the mouth of the vale. Dahrima had left the rain behind when she departed the oyster cove; this was no longer the Stormlands with its daily showers. Yet plenty of white clouds floated above the valley, reminders that storms were not unknown here.
Across the silver river lay the shattered stones of Shar Dni. In the eight years since its doom, the city’s jumbled remains had been smothered by a multitude of mosses: green, brown, ochre, yellow, and azure. In the bright sunlight it seemed a scattering of jewels lay among the weedy pavements and toppled walls. The great stones that were not covered by moss had faded from white to gray, and nothing remained of the city’s towers but the jagged stubs of splintered foundations. They stood here and there among the devastation like the toothy stumps of fallen Uyga trees. No trace of the blue temple-pyramids remained, or if they did the creeping mosses had blanketed them entirely.
White gulls flew in flocks above the river, picking fish from the shallows. The rotted husks of warships and trading vessels lay half buried in sand about the crescent bay. One pointed prow stuck up from between the reeds of the delta, the rest of its bulk having been swallowed by mud. When Dahrima looked carefully, she saw the white glimmer of scattered bones beneath the moss and weeds.
A great arched bridge of stone had once straddled the river, connecting the western road with the threshold of the city gate. A few of the bridge’s great stones protruded from the river’s placid surface. Only the eastern and western ends of the crumbled bridge remained intact, each one arcing now into thin air. All the Sharrian wall gates were gone, leaving hollow gaps in the disintegrating ramparts. The damp sea air ate away at the mortar slowly. In a few more years what sections of the city wall that remained would be nothing more than piles of broken stone, like the rest of the city.
Dahrima was pleased to see that the grasses of the valley were as verdant and healthy as legend insisted. She walked down the hillside toward the shattered bridge. The ruins did not seem haunted from this vantage. Sad, perhaps, but not cursed. It reminded her of Old Udurum when the titanic Serpent-Father had reduced it to rubble. Yet the Valley of the Bull did not fill her with the foreboding and unease she had expected.
Memories of Old Udurum played through her mind as she waded across the cool river. Thirty years as Men counted the calendar had passed since the oldest enemy of Men and Giants had risen from beneath the Grim Mountains to destroy the old City of Giants. In those days the Uduru dwelled apart from their small cousins, as they had for three thousand years. Fangodrel the First, father of Vod, had ruled the city then. Those were days of lasting peace, long hunts, and endless revelry.
Dahrima had lived for eight centuries behind the walls of Hreeg’s City. Often the wilderness of Uduria had called her to the hunt. She had known a dozen lovers in those days. She had never blamed King Fangodrel for the curse of barrenness that had fallen upon her kind. The wise among them said it was mighty Hreeg’s fault, for the original Giant-King had driven Omagh the Serpent-Father back into the deep earth without killing him. Sleeping in his underground haunt for two thousand years, the Lord of Serpents had dreamed a curse upon Giantkind. The curse of gradual extinction borne by the Uduri. Sterility.
When Fangodrel’s first son was born, an exception to the growing curse, the City of Giants had erupted in celebration and song. Yet it was only a few days later that the infant Vod was stolen away by a great black eagle. King Fangodrel had trekked south for years to search for him. While he was away, new Serpents began to crawl out of the mountains and devour Giants. Fangodrel returned eventually to stand against Omagh himself, when the Serpent-Father awoke from his long sleep and fell upon the city. Fangodrel had failed to find his lost son, and he failed to protect the city from Omagh’s wrath. Vod’s father died in battle, impaled by one of Omagh’s great fangs, and the behemoth tore the city to pieces.
Thousands of Uduru had perished in that battle. The race was already dwindling in numbers due to the lack of birthings, but now multitudes were crushed, burned, and devoured by Omagh and his brood. Dahrima had killed Serpents for days on end, and like all the Uduru she learned to skin the beasts and use their black scales for armor. In the end it was Ghaldrim the Golden who saved them all. He gathered the last of the Uduru, some twelve hundred Giants, and led them south into the lands of Men. Ghaldrim was the first to realize that there would be no reclaiming shattered Udurum with such tiny numbers. The Serpent-Father made his nest in the piled ruins, large as a mountain, while Ghaldrim led the Uduru across the mountains into the Desert of Many Thunders.
If Ghaldrim had not led the Giants to assault the gates of Uurz in their desperation, Vod would never have discovered his lost heritage. The Uduru would never have regained their lost King. And Vod would never have marched north to slay the Serpent-Father, in the process altering the shape of the world and giving birth to the Stormlands. Vod later rebuilt Udurum stronger than it had ever been, and he opened its gates to Men.
Dahrima had lain with Vod when he rediscovered his Giant heritage. Soon after their night together, he won rulership of the Uduru from Ghaldrim. She had hoped Vod’s royal seed in her belly would give her the child that she had never been able to conceive. But not even Vod’s magic could quicken her empty womb, and her charms were not great enough to hold his attention for long. Vod loved a human girl; he had even taken the form of a Man to win her hand. Shaira of Shar Dni would bear his strong sons, not Dahrima the Axe.
Vireon had been the proud result of Vod and Shaira’s union. Dahrima understood now that it was all for the best. If she had claimed a child fathered by Vod, he might never have taken Shaira as his Queen. Then Vireon would never have been born to unite the Uduru with their cousins the Udvorg. He might not now wear the crown of Udurum, as well as that of the Udvorg. Vireon was in all ways the Son of Vod, heir to greatness. The King of All Giants.
The greatest honor in Dahrima’s life had been to serve him.
She walked among the mossy stones of the dead city while the sun sank toward the sea. The shadows grew long and she found an arch of pale granite under which she might sleep. There was no sign of creeping bloodshadows, foreign ships, or other threats. She would wait here for the armies of Vireon and Tyro, watching the sea for signs of enemies. She would run and carry news of Zyung’s arrival, should it come before Vireon’s. She was the Giant-King’s eyes in the valley of death.
In the glow of twilight she began a search for wild game among the stones. Instead she found the imprint of a human foot in a bed of orange moss. It was freshly made, and she sensed the odor of Mansweat on the breeze. She could not be sure if there were more than one set of tracks, but she knew now that she was not alone in this forsaken place.
There was no trace of hare, squirrel, or other wildlife among the ruins. It was as if animals avoided this place altogether. Except for the seagulls that came close enough to fish in the delta. The absence of game was not as troubling as the presence of a man, or men, in the dead city.
She lay beneath the arch, pretending to take an early sleep. The sun hovered low above the purpling ocean. Shadows filled the nooks and crevices of the ruins. It was not long before she heard the scrape of a foot upon bare stone. Something climbed a nearby block of granite large as a fisherman’s hut and crouched atop it. Dahrima felt the subtle caress of eyes upon her.
She opened her own eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of her observer: a man-shaped silhouette limned in twilight. It squatted like an ape on its stony perch. A glint of metal or precious stone glimmered below its round head.
She heard shallow breathing now. Smelled the stench of filthy flesh.
Her knuckles tightened about the handle of her knife as the shadow leaped.
The armies of Uurz and Udurum set camp for the night on the plain southwest of the Eastern Flow. The glow of a thousand cook-fires painted the tents in shades of red and orange. The moon cast its silver across the tall grass and the distant ocean. Tyro sat in a folding chair in his royal pavilion drinking yellow wine from Yaskatha. Mendices had taken a cadre of Uurzian soldiers into the cluster of fishing villages to purchase fresh seafood, vegetables, and hearth-baked bread.
The sound of grumbling and laughing Giants wafted over the tents to the Sword King’s ears. Vireon had furnished them with a hundred kegs of ale when the armies passed Allundra. All it took was red meat and good ale to keep the Giants happy. Unlike the dour, grim-faced soldiers of Uurz, the Udvorg did not dread the great battle that lay ahead. While the Uurzians oiled their blades, sparred, and mended the straps of their armor, the blue-skinned Giants continued to jest, sing, and wrestle about their fires. A visitor to the camp would never know the Giants had lost both their King and their shamaness. The Udvorg were not mourners.
Yet Tyro had heard their complaints to Vireon, and he admired the grace with which the Giant-King dismissed their concerns. Losing Varda of the Keen Eyes was a personal inconvenience for Vireon, but he proclaimed it an Uduri affair. Dahrima’s slaying of the blue witch was just by Uduri Law, which allowed for personal duels. When Vireon had replaced Angrid as King of the Udvorg, his word had become incontestable. In private, Vireon brooded over the loss of the two Giantesses who were foremost in his confidence. Dahrima, the murderess, had fled into the sea, or along the northern coast. No one seemed quite sure which was the case. Tyro did not question Vireon’s judgment on the matter, although if Dahrima had slain one of his own warriors, the act would have had far greater ramifications.
Tyro propped his feet upon the low table. Two days of nonstop riding from the bottom of the Great Stair had not made up for the time lost by marching inland to use it. Yet there had been no other way to get the northern host down from the High Realm into the bosom of the Stormlands. The Udvorg might have climbed down the Earth Wall–in fact several of them did so on a dare–but the Men and horses and supply wagons could only return the way they had come in the first place. Tyro took solace in the fact that the legions were far closer to the Sharrian valley now than to Uurz. Another three days of marching should bring them to the ruins.
Vireon’s faith in Iardu’s word was unquestionable, so Tyro kept any doubts to himself. The wizard had said Zyung would beach his horde at Shar Dni rather than Khyrei, so Tyro had little choice but to accept this northward journey. Mendices warned him constantly against taking the Shaper’s council, but Mendices did not trust the Giant-King either. Tyro had thrown in his lot with Vireon and increased the power of Uurz by doing so. Now was not the time to second-guess or defy Vireon’s decisions. Whatever their Kings’ personal squabbles might be, Uurz and Udurum were at their mightiest when allied. In truth, Tyro cared little whether they fought a battle among the Sharrian ruins or on the shores of Khyrei. Now that the black city was no longer an enemy, these invaders would serve well to test the mettle of the northern forces. Fighting a common enemy would strengthen the Uurz–Udurum alliance even further, as well as bringing glory to the victors for repelling the greatest invasion in history.
The few Khyrein ships anchored at Allundra had quickly raised their sails and taken to the sea when the vanguard of Giants came marching out of the Earth Wall’s shadow. Tyro had enjoyed watching the black reavers flee like a startled flock of crows, yet it had reminded him of the triple fleet that sailed to intercept Zyung at Ongthaia. There had been no word since its departure. Had the battle been joined there yet? Would the Kings of Yaskatha and Mumbaza return alive to bring knowledge of their common foes, or were the Southern fleets doomed as Iardu had said they would be? Tyro did not know the full power of Khama the Feathered Serpent, but perhaps it would be enough to win at least a small victory. In his heart, Tyro did not believe they would save the Jade Isles. But if they could weaken the floating horde in some significant way–tear a few ships out of the sky and kill a few thousand Manslayers–that would provide some edge in the coming battle.
Since Varda’s death, Vireon had ridden in silence on a black warhorse, something he could only do at the size of a Man. When camp was made each night, the Giant-King brooded in his royal tent. Tyro had tried to speak with him three times, but in each case Vireon proved tight-lipped and surly. Let the Man-Giant work through his grief, Tyro decided. When they reached the dead city, Vireon must break his silence for a council of strategy. No use having that discussion before they set eyes on the landscape and evaluated its tactical resources.
So Tyro sat alone tonight and enjoyed the wine, occupying his thoughts with memories of Talondra. It had been many weeks since he departed Uurz. He imagined that her taut, brown belly would be lightly swollen by now. He looked into the future, imagining his son as a young lad learning the art of swordplay. Tyro would teach Dairon the Second himself if, Gods willing, he survived this war. His own father had entrusted Tyro’s training to old Lord Zormicus, who had done a fine job. Yet Tyro remembered wishing the Emperor would enter the training yard himself and show his son the proper way to hold and swing a sword. Or at least observe his son’s progress from time to time. However, Dairon the First had been far too busy running the affairs of Uurz to sit and watch a boy swinging a practice blade. Tyro promised himself that he would put his son first. Matters of state should never interfere with matters of family.
This reminded him of Lyrilan, and the bitter power struggle that had seen his brother exiled and his sister-in-law murdered. He poured another cup of wine from the flagon and drank deep. The irony of his own considerations was not lost upon him.
I had to put the good of the realm before Lyrilan. There was no other choice.
I will never do this with my own son.
Perhaps Mendices was right. Tyro’s best course of action might be to bring his legions back to Uurz and secure its walls, letting the Men and Giants of Udurum face the onslaught of Zyung by themselves. If he did this now, Tyro was certain to reach home in time to witness the birth of his son. If he maintained his present course, however, he might never see the boy. In the final analysis, it was a question of honor. He could not abandon Vireon without disgracing himself in the eyes of Udurum and its people, including the great folk of the Icelands.
Suddenly a new thought struck him: How many Giants remained still in the Frozen North? How many more legions of them could Vireon summon to fight for him? This was another reason why Uurz must remain allied with Udurum. If Zyung’s horde was as massive as Iardu’s vision showed it to be, the Land of the Five Cities might need more Giants to come to its aid. Putting aside the invasion of Zyung, Vireon might also be the only thing standing between the wild Giants and the gates of Uurz. Better to fight alongside the King of Giants than to oppose him, even if the war was costly. Having the united Giantlands as an enemy was unthinkable.
Tyro stood to unbuckle his breastplate when the sound of beating hooves cut through the clutter of camp noises. Someone spoke in a loud, urgent voice. A mount whinnied as it was led away to be groomed and fed. A soldier entered through the royal pavilion’s flap, his green cloak swirling in the evening breeze.
“Majesty, a herald arrives from Uurz.”
Tyro nodded. He knew the sound of a herald’s advent well. “Have him fed and washed. I will see him within the hour.”
“My Lord…” said the soldier, his eyes steady upon those of his King. Tyro recalled that his name was Aerodus, or it could have been Aerion. The two men were brothers and much alike. Another reminder of Lyrilan. There were so many of late. “This herald has ridden through the night. He says his message cannot wait. He wishes to see you immediately, if it please you.”
Tyro wished Mendices was back from his fish-buying to meet with the messenger. Politics never ceased to complicate his life, even hundreds of leagues away from the City of Sacred Waters. “Very well,” he said. “Admit him.”
Tyro settled back into his chair and filled a second copper goblet for the herald. Soon the man came stamping into the tent, mud and road-dirt dripping from cloak and greaves. He smelled strongly of horse, and the soiled state of his garments evinced several days of hard riding. An unkempt beard of several days’ growth obscured his chin; without the green-gold livery of an Uurzian official he might have passed as a vagabond.
The herald sank to one knee, clutching his tarnished helm in the crook of an arm. He carried no scroll or missive that Tyro could see. The message must be a private one, meant only for the King’s ears. Perhaps this was more than a political development that needed his attention.
“Rise,” said Tyro. “Will you drink?”
The worn-out herald shook his head. His breath was heavy, his eyes weary. Tyro realized this could only be bad news.
“Majesty,” the herald said. “I have ridden six days from Uurz to bring you ill tidings.”
Of course. Tyro nodded. “Speak then,” he said, taking another swig of wine. Someone must have died. Could the Green and Gold factions still be quarreling even after Lyrilan’s humiliation and exile?
The herald would not meet his eyes as he spoke. “Empress Talondra…” His voice became a stammer. In the early ages heralds who brought bad news were often slain immediately. “She was found…”
Tyro’s temper kindled. Let the man be brave enough to speak his message. Tyro was no barbarian chief to slit the throat of a loyal servant. Any man of Uurz should know that about him.
“Speak,” said Tyro. A hollow hunger yawned in his gut. He had not taken supper.
“The Empress Talondra was found… dead, Sire. In her bed-chamber. Seven days past.” The herald kept his gaze fixed upon the faded carpets of the tent.
Tyro stood up and grabbed the man by his throat, pulling him to his feet. The hunger in his belly was replaced by a black claw ripping at his intestines. The rider repeated his message at Tyro’s command. Tyro stared into his gray eyes, looking for signs of falsehood. The messenger wept, his tears carving channels through the grime of his worried face.
“I am sorry, Majesty,” whispered the soldier. “By the Four Gods, I am so sorry…”
Tyro dropped the man to the carpet. His own legs failed, but he found the seat in time to catch him. He drained the full cup of wine, spilling it on either side of his mouth.
“How?” he asked. There was no strength left in his voice. His eyes welled.
“No one knows,” said the herald. “Her flesh and bones were… crushed… as if by a heavy stone, or a constricting Serpent.”
Tyro grabbed the flagon and turned it to his lips. Wine poured bitter into his mouth while hot tears poured from his eyes. He tossed the empty bottle across the tent where it clanged off a round shield bearing the sun standard of Uurz. His head swam and his fists clenched. His body quivered with a sickening blend of rage and despair.
His wife and unborn son were dead. It seemed unreal. A nightmare. Was he lying on the cushions awaiting the return of Mendices and dreaming this tragedy?
Talondra. Crushed to death?
Sorcery. It must be. One of his many enemies. Could Zyung’s magic have raced ahead of his armada to slaughter Tyro’s family? If so, why not slaughter the Sword King himself? Ianthe and Gammir had been destroyed by Iardu and Sharadza. Or so they told him.
My son will never be born.
He remembered Talondra’s sweet face, her eyes bright as sapphires, her touch hot as flame. His tigress. His Empress. She had survived the Doom of Shar Dni only to perish behind the mighty walls of Uurz. Madness rose like bile from the core of his stomach and thundered into his skull. He must not go mad with grief. He must be strong. Still it rose, like the ocean tide rising in the evening to drown the sand. It could not be stopped. No more than rushing blood could be stopped spilling from sliced flesh.
The Emperor of Uurz fell to his knees and screamed like a wounded animal. The herald rushed from the tent, terror on his face, tears in his eyes. The silks and fabrics of the tent became a blur of colors as Tyro ripped and tore them to ribbons. The clanging of metal implements and the splintering of wooden furniture were drowned by his wailing. A ring of soldiers rushed into the pavilion, standing about him like gilded pillars. He hurled himself against their raised shields, banging at the embossed metal with his fists until his knuckles were torn and bloody. He knocked men down, but others replaced them. They did not touch him, or offer him comfort–what comfort could they offer a raging Emperor?–but simply allowed him to bellow his pain and batter at their metal until he fell spent upon the carpets and cried like an infant.
Mendices found him like that. The Warlord quickly dismissed the soldiers. “Any man who speaks of this will be executed!” spat the Warlord. These were the cruel words that penetrated the fog of madness and brought Tyro back to his senses.
Mendices righted the overturned cot and laid Tyro upon it. Like a father tending a sick son, he leaned over Tyro and poured cold water between his lips.
“She’s dead,” Tyro whispered. “She’s dead.”
Mendices held him fast as fresh sobs brought fresh convulsions.
Tyro did not recall passing from grief into slumber, but at some point exhaustion and the weight of loss pulled him under. He welcomed the blackness, but not the dreams of flowing blood, pulped flesh, and cracked bone that replaced the waking world.
He tossed and turned, and finally opened his eyes to the gloom of the reordered tent. Mendices lay snoring nearby on a pile of pillows. A single brazier lighted the interior, sending a trail of black smoke to curl about the hole in its roof. The great camp was oddly quiet beyond the walls of mud-stained canvas.
At first Tyro thought the herald had returned to stand at attention in the corner of the pavilion. He raised his head, blinking blood-rimmed eyes, and saw that it was not the herald at all who stood watching him sleep. It was none of his soldiers either.
The figure wore a robe of sable with runes stitched in green thread about the sleeves and neck. Emeralds glittered somewhere among the dark folds. A mane of black wavy hair framed the head like a hood. The face that stared at Tyro was his own.
The scale is balanced, said the apparition.
Lyrilan’s voice.
Your wife and child have joined mine.
Tyro whimpered. He could not move arms or legs. To cry out was impossible. His broadsword lay upon the cushions ten handspans away. It might as well be ten thousand leagues from him.
Do not despair, brother, said Lyrilan. You will see them again when you enter the valley of death.
Tyro leaped up suddenly, as if a great stone had rolled off his chest.
Lyrilan was gone, if he had ever been there at all. The brazier’s flame was dead.
The Emperor of Uurz sat on the edge of his cot and wept in the darkness.
Dahrima’s fingers closed about the scrambling creature’s neck. It squealed and tore at her wrist with dirty fingernails as she raised the knife. This was no creature of the shadow world who stalked her, but only a hairy, disheveled wretch. She hesitated to call it a Man; it gagged and screeched like a dying pig as she dragged it into the moonlight to get a better look.
“Please,” gasped the creature. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!”
The moon on its face showed her a round head, bald on the pate but sprouting a dirty brown beard about the mouth, jaw, and chin. Its sunken chest and limbs were hairy as well, but no more than some northerners she had seen shirtless. A loincloth of dirty rags was its only garment. The beard was matted with mud, dried insect husks, and possibly blood. It was the tiny, desperate eyes that assured her it was a human after all. They were tarnished green, almost olive, bloodshot, and full of darting madness.
She held the blade of her long knife before one of those eyes.
“Name yourself,” she said in the language common to Men.
“I have no name,” blurted the wretch. “I lost it. I lost it among the shattered stones.” Foam dripped from his swollen lips. “I lost everything. I am nothing! Please don’t hurt me.”
Dahrima sheathed the knife but kept hold of the scrawny neck.
“All right, Sir Nothing,” she said. “Are there any more of your kind living among these ruins? Speak the truth and I’ll not harm you. Lie to me and I will roast your flesh and crunch your bones between my teeth.” She smiled to show him her teeth. Most humans south of the Grim were ignorant of Giant culture; this one might actually believe the old tales about Giants eating manflesh.
“Nobody!” said Sir Nothing. “They are all dead here. All dead…”
“Promise you’ll not run away and I will release you,” said Dahrima.
“I’ll not run!” wheezed Sir Nothing. The olive eyes watered and pleaded. “I’ll not run…”
She turned him loose and he fell back against the big stone, grasping his neck and drawing in ragged breaths. Below the tangled beard hung the gleaming stone she had noticed earlier. On a narrow strip of worn leather dangled a sapphire large as a robin’s egg. Some sigil or rune was etched into its surface, but she couldn’t make it out in the gloom.
Sir Nothing kept his ratlike eyes on her face. She loomed over him, and he smiled at her the way a child smiles at his doting mother.
“Such beauty…” he muttered. “Tall as the sun, bright as the sea. You must be the Queen of Giants.”
Dahrima laughed. “Flattery will not work on me, Sir Nothing. Are you Sharrian?” She recognized the brown skin, the dark hair, the green eyes. She already knew the answer.
Nothing’s eyes scanned the dark stones lying about them in jagged confusion. “I am of this place,” he said. His voice was faraway now, the voice of an old sage. Or a madman.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“All my life, Lady,” he replied. “I was born in the great palace that used to stand there.” He pointed a bony finger toward the center of the ruins. A cold breeze blew off the sea and he shrank toward the earth with sudden alarm. “You cannot stay here! Oh, no… nobody stays here. They linger beneath the stones, you see.” His voice fell to a guarded whisper. “They still hunger.”
Dahrima looked about the ruined landscape and saw nothing but the rising moon, the glimmering sea, and the hills of the valley being swallowed by darkness. If there were bloodshadows lurking in this place, they showed no sign of themselves. Perhaps they awaited the passing of the last rays of sun. The river glided through the gloom, a silent silver mystery.
“Come,” said Nothing. “I will show you out of the valley. You cannot stay here. They will come for you. The night draws them out like crabs from the sea. Delicious crabs, crawling and feasting…”
“If spirits haunt this valley,” Dahrima said, refusing to move, “then why have they not devoured you long before now?”
Sir Nothing grabbed the stone hanging from his neck. “This!” He whispered. “My savior, my protector. I found it in the basement of a ruined temple. Oh, the temples were so grand here once. Sky-blue pyramids topped with pearly clouds… Oh, the holy smokes that rose to honor the Gods!” He inhaled the night air, smelling memories. “They reeked of holiness and meadowflower, the sweet smokes. How I miss them, Lady.” His voice had risen to a poetic timbre, but now it dropped again to a whisper. “This amulet belonged to a priest of the Sky God. I plucked it from his bones when the black slayers departed. I’ve worn it ever since. It keeps the hungry shadows from me, you see. Only me!” He drew away from her, suddenly afraid she would steal his magic stone. She understood then that it was a talisman, protection from evil spirits. At least to this deranged hermit. The sigil on its surface resembled a cloud.
“In the Giantlands we worship different Gods than Men do,” said Dahrima. “Or perhaps they are the same Gods with different names.”
Sir Nothing drew near to her foot like a fawning puppy, nuzzling her ankle. “The Gods have forsaken this place,” he said. “But I have not. And I never will.”
Dahrima wanted to push him away. His stink rose into her nostrils again. But she pitied him, so she endured his touch and his odor. The poor fellow had lost his mind long ago.
“Why don’t you leave these crumbled stones?” she asked. “You would find fellowship and comfort in Udurum or Uurz. Are you not lonely?”
He leaped away from her, curling into a ball. “Don’t take me away,” he cried. “Please don’t take me away! This is where I belong…”
“This is a place of death and foul spirits,” she told him. He gazed at the stars now, perhaps not hearing her words. “You can have no life here.”
Sir Nothing looked at her again, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. “This is my kingdom,” he said proudly. He tried to stand up straight before her, but his crooked back would not allow it. His long arms hung at his sides, and again he reminded her of a southern ape. “I am the last royal heir, you see.”
Dahrima smiled. “You told me you were nothing.”
“I am the King of Shar Dni,” he told her. “This is my realm. All the others are dead, but I still rule this place. The ghosts of my people serve me and call me Majesty. Nobody can hear them but me. They need their King.”
Dahrima recalled the account she had read of the Doom of Shar Dni in Shaira’s library. When Gammir and Ianthe led the hosts of Khyrei across the sea to raze the city, Vireon and Alua had arrived too late to save it. Yet they drove the conquerors out of the valley and took thousands of refugees back to Udurum. Andoses, the heir to King Ammon’s throne, died in that battle. Andoses had fathered no children, so this madman could not be his heir. Unless he were some other relative of Ammon’s.
“Tell me what happened,” Dahrima said. She used the voice she might offer a child. Gentleness did not come easily to her, but she attempted it for the sake of the truth buried here. “Where were you when the Khyreins came?”
Nothing slumped into a bed of crackling moss. The shadow of the broken arch obscured his face, but his dull green eyes glowed. “They locked me in a room,” he said. “I screamed and yelled and cried… but they said I must behave until my cousin returned. He would be the new King. Ammon was his father.”
“You speak of Andoses?”
He looked at her face again, his eyes growing wide. “Andoses the Brave,” he smiled. “My cousin had gone to visit the Giants. Did you know him? Tell me you knew him, Lady.”
Dahrima nodded. She had seen Shaira’s nephew about the palace of Udurum when he visited, but had never shared words with him. She knew only that he had traveled south with Tadarus, Fangodrel, Vireon, and D’zan, and that he had died at the Doom of Shar Dni.
“Why did they lock you up?” she asked. “Were you a criminal?” Silence. The night winds picked up, roaring through the valley.
“They said I was mad,” he told her, “because of what I had seen. The Prince of Shadows did it to me… He should have killed me, you see, but he left me alive and mad. That was what they told me. I remember it, too.”
The Prince of Shadows? He must mean Gammir.
“He came to visit my uncle the King. There were pirates in those days, you see. Horrid reavers spilling blood on the Golden Sea. Ammon–he was my uncle–wanted help from the City of Men and Giants. They sent Fangodrel, Son of Vod, to us then. Oh, he was a fine spectacle in his black mail and cloak of shadows. Yet he was terrifying, Lady. So terrifying…”
Fangodrel was the northern name of Gammir. He must have visited Shar Dni on his way to take the throne of Khyrei from his sorceress grandmother. Ianthe had called him to her side, urging him to murder his own brother, Tadarus. Fangodrel was not truly the Son of Vod. He was a bastard and the heir to Ianthe’s blood magic.
“Tell me all of it,” Dahrima asked.
“A feast!” Sir Nothing started. He danced a jig between the broken stones, then stopped and came near her with a whisper. “There was a feast to honor the Shadow Prince. But he did not want food. No, he wanted blood.”
The madman wept as he continued. “My seven cousins were there, the daughters of Ammon. Such beautiful Princesses as you will never find elsewhere. And my brother Dutho–he was named Duke that year. He was at the feast too… Oh, Gods, would that he were not. The Shadow Prince drank their blood, one by one. His army of shadows poured forth to strangle the guardsmen. My uncle–he was the King, you see–he died first. Oh, the screams of the Princesses were terrible. I still hear them when I close my eyes.”
He did close his eyes then, lost in a dark reverie. Dahrima waited for him to finish the tale. Tears squeezed from beneath his eyelids, streaming to join the filth trapped in his beard.
His eyes flew open. “Blood! So much blood! The Prince of Shadows took their lives and their blood. I was the last. I begged him for mercy… Oh, how I begged, Lady. He took pity on me. He chose not to drink my blood. Tell them, he said to me. Tell them what happened. His teeth were wolves’ teeth. He sprouted black wings and flew away…”
Sir Nothing cradled his head in the palms of his hands, fingers twitching on his scalp.
“They locked me in the yellow room after that. There I stayed, laughing and screaming. I had to tell them, you see. He had commanded me to tell them. Oh, the blood… the blood. Then he returned with the Pale Queen and her armies of black metal. The city burned and fell to ash. Someone broke open the door of the yellow room. They tortured me. They had the faces of demons. Then they were gone and I was alone. There are no more left of the King’s bloodline. I am the last.”
“What of your father?” she asked. “Who was he?”
“He died at sea, battling demon-faced pirates.”
Brother of Dutho. Nephew of Ammon. That made him Shaira’s nephew as well. Dahrima did not know enough of Sharrian genealogy to guess his name. Vireon would know. Perhaps a name was all the poor wretch needed to end the spell of madness that held him here.
As if sensing her thoughts, he whispered a final confession.
“I was Pyrus, Son of Omirus.”
Dahrima met his sad eyes and offered him a smile. She bent to one knee before him.
“Hail, Pyrus,” she said. “Last King of Shar Dni. I am Dahrima the Axe. I serve Vireon, King of Giants and Men, Son of Vod, Lord of Udurum and the Icelands.”
“Pyrus…” He repeated the name, as if remembering it again for the first time.
She stood then. Her courtly gesture had not impressed him. The memories must weigh too heavily on his broken mind. He had lived like a rat in these haunted ruins for eight years. He could not be older than thirty, though he looked closer to sixty.
“Are you hungry, Pyrus?” she asked.
He smiled at her, displaying rotted teeth. “There are plenty of fish in the river, Lady.”
Pyrus seemed to forget the sad tale he had told as he led her through the ruins to the bank of the Orra. There he produced a crude spear from its hiding place inside a hollow log. He waded into the shallows and tried several times to skewer a passing fish. Dahrima was amazed that he could see so well in the moonlight. Yet he speared one and raised it wriggling from the water. He offered her another crooked smile as he climbed back onto the riverbank.
“I will build a fire,” Dahrima said. She gathered enough twigs to serve and sparked them with a piece of flint from her belt. As she blew on the tiny flame to make it grow, Pyrus used a sharp rock to scale and gut his catch. Soon it was spitted and roasting above the flame. He watched it with an eager glee, licking his lips.
“Soon there will be great danger here,” she told him. “A great foreign army sails toward this valley, and the Legions of Uurz and Udurum are marching to stand against them.”
Pyrus ignored her words, intent on the cooking fish.
Dahrima gazed at the stars. The night was clear and the moon was bright above the valley. “It will not be safe for you to stay here much longer,” she said. “Do you understand?”
Pyrus nodded his head and removed the spit from the cookfire. “It is done!” He tore a chunk from the fish and offered her the rest of it. She nodded thanks and accepted it. She would have to force him to leave the valley before the battle began. She put that unpleasant thought aside for later and enjoyed the taste of the fish. It was not bad, despite the lack of seasoning. Not a Giant’s preferred fare, but it filled her belly.
After the meal they lay back and watched the stars. Pyrus hummed an ancient melody of the Sharrian folk. He nodded off and she followed soon after.
There was no way of knowing how long she slept before the darkness rose to wrap itself about her throat, arms, and legs. She came awake in its frigid grip, limbs of solid shadow reaching out of the ground to seize her with claws sharp as daggers. They raked across her flesh, tore the bronze corslet from her body, and stole the breath from her lungs. She strove to rise, to suck in air before she suffocated. Her fingers found nothing to grasp. The shadows were going to rip her apart and she could not touch them.
She gagged and kicked and rolled across the glowing embers. The bodiless claws tore at her stubborn flesh. An Uduri’s skin was tough enough to turn arrows, but the bloodshadows would keep at it until her insides burst forth and her blood spilled out to feed them. Pairs of eyes like crimson coals hovered in the mass of living darkness, radiant with malice. A scream escaped her throat as the first set of claws pierced her shoulder. Another tore the flesh of her thigh. Every second, more of them found ingress to her flesh. They sucked at her seeping blood like a cloud of formless leeches.
She could no longer even squirm or kick. The shadows took on the shapes of wolves and gliding vipers, beating wings like a flock of bats about her captured body.
Something cold and hard met the palm of her right hand. Her fingers were shoved tight about it. A blue glow infused the air and the shadows dispersed in a fog of hissing and rustling half-shapes. Dahrima lay gasping and bleeding on the raw earth while the shadows converged nearby.
A high, moaning sound filled her ears. The sound of a man screaming.
She raised her fist and saw the object Pyrus had forced into her grasp. The blue stone worn about his neck. The Sky God’s amulet. His only protection from the bloodshadows. She’d had none, and he had tried to warn her of this fact. Now the talisman’s potency was proven.
Dahrima struggled to her knees. Pyrus lay beneath the feasting shadows, who no longer could touch her. His arms and legs twitched. He no longer screamed. The sound of crunching bones came next.
She crawled toward the mass of shadows, waving the blue stone amid the darkness. The blood drinkers flew into the night on leathery wings, taking with them the Last King of Shar Dni. Drops of red blood marked his passing. They fell like raindrops across the bed of moss.
“Pyrus!” She called after him, but her voice was only a parched croak.
Dahrima clutched the Sky God’s stone and took up her great axe. Yet there was no foe left to fight, no enemy’s skull to split. The man who had saved her life was gone, and she could do nothing to avenge him. There was no further sign of bloodshadows.
She tied the amulet about her neck and walked to the shore to wash her wounds. The cold saltwater stung her broken skin and revived her senses. No one was there to witness her shed tears for the noble madman, so she let them flow.
She sat on the beach until dawn, axe balanced on her knees, and watched the red horizon for signs of flesh-and-bone enemies.
Many Kings had died in this cursed valley.
Pyrus would not be the last.