Seven Kings

20

It was not the heat of the midday sun that woke him, but the stench of blood, feces, and rotten vegetation wafting from the mangled marshland. Weariness hung like an iron chain about his body, the invisible weight of it pressing him against the earth. He forced himself into a sitting position, grimacing at the ache of limbs and joints.

His skin was raw. Resting his elbows on his upraised knees, he saw that his color was no longer a sun-kissed bronze, but a ruddy copper. He looked like a creature born of the red jungle. His body ached, but his head was clear. This clarity filled him with a deep calm as he peered about the makeshift camp.

Dahrima stood leaning against the crimson bole of a jungle tree, a spear nestled between her folded arms. Her dark eyes were on him, but she did not trouble him with words. White bandages wrapped portions of both her arms and left thigh. Her corselet of black bronze showed the dents and scars of recent battle, and the mud on her boots was murky with congealed blood. The shadow of fatigue dulled the brightness of her face, yet her braided hair gleamed like red gold. On crude pallets beneath a canopy of low-hanging vines, the band of surviving Uduri lay at rest, camped in a ring about Vireon while he slumbered.

A few other spearmaidens turned their faces toward him, watching as he forced himself to stand on wobbly legs. He put a hand against the tree until the jungle stopped spinning about his head. Beyond lay a rugged trail torn, stamped, and smashed into the jungle by Giants. The wide swathe of upturned soil and felled trees ran along a shallow hillside and disappeared into the steaming marsh. A flock of vultures picked at the carcasses and entrails littering the wetlands. Piles of Khyrein bodies bulged from the fen waters, dead black beetles in crumpled armor. The stubs of broken spears stood thick as weeds among the carnage.

The basalt fragments of the tower his mountainous foot had crushed lay a bowshot away. The muddy Giant-trail ran toward a massive campsite of felled trees stretching eastward into the jungle. Tents had been set up on the leveled ground for the care of wounded and dying men. Their moans floated to Vireon’s ears on a warm breeze.

In a broad circle surrounding the tents of the wounded sat several legions of Udurumites and Uurzians, mostly cavalrymen tending to their horses. Their ranks seemed far thinner than before the swamp crossing. Vireon counted the green-gold banners of two full Uurzian legions, and a single Udurum legion milling beneath the Hammer and Fist standard.

He stood naked but for a loincloth someone had wrapped about his waist. His Giant-blade had been cleaned and polished to a cold blue shine. Dahrima, no doubt. It stood propped against the tree next to his pallet of sweat-stained blankets, its ornate scabbard missing. He coughed, spewing mucous and mud from the back of his throat onto the ground, then raised his eyes toward the roof of bloodshot foliage. From north and south came the deep cries of Giants, the clashing of metal and stone.

Dahrima brought him a skinful of fresh water. He took it and drained half its contents, wiped his parched lips with the back of his hand. “Tyro?” he asked.

“The Sword King lives.” She nodded toward the crude northern trail. “Quite the warrior, that one. He took several legions and a cohort of Udvorg to bring down the watchtower between here and the coast. The one called Mendices took another force south to assault the nearest tower in that direction. The gate to Khyrei has been opened.”

Vireon grunted, rubbing the back of his neck. Someone had tended him, wiped the filth from his body, carried him here, and provided his rude clothing. He looked up into Dahrima’s tired face. She wore a look he had never seen before. Concern? Disbelief? Some other mysterious emotion that only a woman could put a name to?

“Men leading Giants,” he said. “It seems unreal.”

“They lead in your name,” said Dahrima. “Othgar the Strong heads the northern contingent, Korek the Mace heads the southern.”

Vireon nodded. “What are our numbers?”

“We lost twelve sisters.” A cold blade in his heart. How many more of Dahrima’s sisters would die because of their faith in him? “Nearly five hundred Udvorg and six brave Uduru are also dead.”

Gods of Earth and Sky! So many deaths. And they had not even reached the black city.

“And the Men?”

She turned to stare at the collection of tents. Vireon saw a blue flame moving about the pavilions of the wounded. “Both armies lost a full legion to the swamp. A third of the horses are gone as well. Taken by the monster you killed. Yet the Border Legions of Khyrei are broken. Once the Swamp God died, victory was no great feat.”

Vireon rolled the numbers through his mind, breathing deeply of the dank air. So many lost. But still the triple host stood strong and victorious.

“That blue-skin witch has some skill at healing,” said Dahrima. She offered him a strip of dried beef. He waved it away. The memory of his torment inside the Swamp God’s belly drove away all hunger. “That cold flame of hers restores the Udvorgs’ strength instantly. I have never seen the like. Yet she will not use it on Men. Them she tends with herb and leaf. A fever has begun to spread among the legions. Varda says the filth of the swamp has poisoned their wounds.”

Vireon asked for wine. When she returned with a skinful of some Uurzian vintage, he asked the question he had been dreading. “Any sign of Angrid?”

Dahrima shook her head. “Only his crown of black iron.”

“Where is it?”

She motioned toward the blue flame dancing between the tents. “The witch keeps it. I believe she intends to make it yours. Now that you have proven yourself a true Giant.”

Vireon swallowed wine and stretched his arms. Already the pain of his burned skin was lessening. He hoped Tyro and Mendices did not stray far in their campaign to take the nearest watchtowers. The legions there had likely fled in the face of defeat. The triple host would have to leave the wounded here at the edge of the jungle. The northern forces must move forward as soon as possible. Days of marching through the deadly jungle lay ahead of them.

“Any sign of a road in there?” he asked, pointing to the deep glades.

“Not much of one,” Dahrima answered. “Little more than an overgrown footpath.”

“It will serve,” he said. “And be widened by our passage.”

Varda walked toward him from the mass of Men and tents. She carried something in her free hand, a glimmering loop of metal. Angrid’s crown.

He met her scarlet eyes as she came near. Her stature dwarfed his natural size, as did that of all Giants. His head barely reached the height of her waist. She sank to one knee before him, bringing their heads to a level. Her black hair was tousled and wild, full of briars, mud, and dust. Yet she carried a savage dignity. The azure flame quivered atop her staff.

She laid the crown at his feet and bowed her head. Vireon could not help but stare at it. A massive coronet of iron set with three great sapphires bright as the cold flame itself. At this size, he might only wear it as a belt.

A band of blue-skins came from the edges of the camp to stand about the scene. They followed Varda’s lead, kneeling before the Son of Vod. The worn faces of twenty-eight Uduri turned toward him as well. Beyond the ring of Giant and Giantess, Men in pocked armor stared through the red gloom.

“Angrid is dead,” said Varda. “His three heirs are only boys, and they are far from us. His crown falls to you, Vireon Vodson. Vireon the Slayer. Vireon the Man-Giant.”

Vireon stared at the crown, then at the blue faces and white manes of the Giants.

“I already have a crown,” he said. “It waits for me behind the gates of Udurum.”

“We have seen your power, Great One,” said Varda, her voice loud enough that all could hear her plainly. “You grew as your father did… tall enough to trample mountains… tall enough to reforge the world and release its deep waters… tall enough to crush the Swamp God and save us all. You are both Man and Giant. The Lord of Hosts. A Worthy King of All Giantkind. Only take this crown, and let it be so.”

Vireon shook his head. The power of his father had finally leaped into his heart. At last he understood the awe and worship that Men and Giants held for Vod. “The crown should go to Angrid’s blood. His eldest son when he comes of age.”

“That will be another hundred years,” said Varda. She lowered her voice for Vireon’s sake. “Until then we need a King. Can you deny it? I have already told the Udvorg you would lead them in Angrid’s stead. If I did not make this choice for you, we might abandon this war of yours and march back to our frosty climes. I will not have Angrid’s death rendered meaningless. He died for your cause… your vengeance. Wear the crown, Vireon.”

Vireon lifted the heavy loop of metal and held it in his hands, studying the intricate grooves of its ancient design. A ring of tiny runes was etched about the outer edge. The sapphires were each large enough to ransom a kingdom. He had never seen jewels that could rival them. Taking this crown would make him lord of two kingdoms. He considered the responsibility of such a thing, and he realized that Varda spoke truth. There was no real choice here. He could not afford to lose the Ice Giants as he had lost their ruler. Not with Khyrei and Ianthe so close.

He closed his eyes and willed himself larger. Fresh agony spread throughout his limbs, although this time he was prepared for it. As his flesh and bones expanded, he stifled the cry of pain that he desperately wanted to unleash. Then it was over, and he stood the full height of an Uduru. The Giants caught their breaths, and now even the Uduri kneeled in a show of amazed fealty.

Slowly but surely he lifted the iron crown-not so heavy now-to his head and placed it securely about his shaggy skull.

The Giants cheered his name. “Vireon! King of Giants! Lord of the Giantlands! Vireon!”

He endured it for a while, then waved them into silence. He bade them stand up, and now he stood in their midst as one of their own. He met Dahrima’s eyes briefly and was surprised to see tears brimming there. They did not fall, only lingered above her cheeks like pools of silver light.

“I take this crown to honor the memory of Angrid the Long-Arm,” he told them. “Until the day his eldest son comes to claim it along with his icy throne. Today, we march onward to finish what Angrid began. We march to end the tyranny of Khyrei. To bring down the walls of the black city!”

The cheers of Men joined those of the Giants. Vireon let it wash over him like a warm rain. Cherry-hued palm leaves fell from the branches, and flocks of bright birds fled the trees about the camp. He did not want to rule the blue-skins, but he had come all this way, dragging them along, to find justice for Alua and Maelthyn.

Justice or vengeance. Which was the truth? He would have to decide that later. There was no turning back now. No restoring the lives of the Men and Giants who had perished in the swamp. War was a decision that, once made, could never be reversed. Even if he refused the crown and lost the Udvorg, he would still march onward with the Men and the remaining Uduri. Knowing this, he could not afford to lose the might of the Ice Giants; that would only mean greater numbers of dead Men ahead. He must be their King. “Send riders to gather the cohorts of Tyro and Mendices,” he ordered. He lifted the Giant-blade, light as a dagger in his behemoth hand. “We march to Khyrei before the sun dies.”

Giants and Men scuffled to do his bidding, and to spread the word of the new Giant-King. The legend of Vireon the Slayer would only continue to grow. They had seen the breadth of his inherited sorcery. They knew what he was capable of, and it filled their hearts with confidence.

He turned to Dahrima. “A tunic, breastplate, and sandals,” he said. “And I’ll have a haunch of that beef now.”

“As you wish, Majesty,” she answered.

He sat himself upon one of the great stones from the smashed tower, drinking wine and chewing dried meat.

In his mind’s eye the black gates of Khyrei stood already before him. All the deaths, the terror of the marshlands, he had expected these. Yet still he had not been prepared.

All these Men and Giants, dead because of me.

He drained the wineskin.

More would die gladly, screaming his name.

For the first time, he felt the true power of Kinghood.

It rivaled the power of the sorcery simmering in his veins.

Thank you, Father.

May the Gods forgive me.

Tyro rode at the head of a cavalry legion winding out of the northern jungle. His gray stallion was draped in a chain-mail caparison. Dark stains lay upon the silvery links, and the bearing of the Men who rode with him spoke of victory. They tossed laughter among themselves along with waterskins. Pale Khyrein heads hung by the hair from the pommels of saddles, although Tyro himself carried no such trophies. Shorn of their devilish masks the Khyrein faces were sad and wide-eyed, the faces of confused boys.

Tyro slid from the saddle and walked across the encampment to the great slab of basalt where Vireon sat brooding. His wineskin was empty, and he had called for another. Dahrima had gone to scrounge for the last of the Uurzian vintage. Vireon watched the King of Uurz approach in silence, admiring his outward display of strength. The rigors of combat and lack of sleep had lined the Sword King’s face with wrinkles.

Tyro doffed his winged helm and unclasped his green cloak. He wore a fresh corselet, lacquered green with a golden sun spreading its rays across his chest. In the wake of the Uurzian cavalry marched the cohort of Udvorg. It was obvious they had done the bulk of the tower-toppling. They too held bundles of Khyrein heads as prizes, but these hung from their belts like clusters of pallid grapes. Their snowy manes were wild above faces of scowling indigo, red eyes deepened to maroon by the jungle gloom.

“King Vireon!” Tyro greeted him with a raised palm. The Emperor of Uurz stood barely a third of Vireon’s size now. “You bear a new stature and a new crown this day. I salute your unmatched greatness. Our campaign is not without losses, but it goes well. The tower between this glade and the northern coast is fallen.”

Tyro’s brawny arms and legs were wrapped in bandages, stained maroon by the slow seeping of his blood. Beneath the lower lip of his gilded corselet showed the hem of more bandages, likewise reddened by the stress of riding. Vireon marveled at the man’s endurance. He should be lying in one of the tents with Varda tending his wounds, yet he had led the northern sortie in Vireon’s stead. Beads of sweat dropped from his forehead and chin. Signs of fever, or simply the signs of heat and fatigue? Vireon could not tell, so solid was the Uurzian’s demeanor. Tyro slipped off the belt supporting his broadsword and laid it against the block of basalt.

“It gladdens me to see you hearty and whole,” said Vireon. “The Udvorg have named me their King in the wake of Angrid’s fall.”

“So I hear,” said Tyro, stripping off his breastplate. More leaking bandages. The worst of them was a growing blot of crimson above his right hip. He grimaced at the pain of removing the corselet, making sure that none but Vireon saw his face. “Your Uduri have found our route to the black city. Mendices will return before sunset with the rest of our legions. We may rest here tonight and march at dawn. We are close, Brother. So close!”

“No,” said Vireon. “We march tonight. If we wait until dawn the city may be warned by those who have escaped the towers. Already we risk that chance.”

Tyro accepted a cup of wine from an Uurzian captain. He poured the drink into his mouth and stared at the Giant-King. The sounds of jungle birds rattled among the treetops. Tyro mopped his face and brow with a wet cloth. At last he nodded.

“You speak wisdom,” Tyro said. “We’ll leave the wounded here then, with a cohort of horsemen to guard them. Can you spare a few Giants for this purpose?”

Vireon looked toward the tents. Hundreds of Men lay suffering beneath the flimsy canvas structures. There would be jungle cats, vipers, and possibly outlying squads of Khyreins. “Thirty Udvorg will stand with your horsemen.”

“Very well,” said Tyro. With a slight groan he settled himself on a smaller piece of stone and took a deep breath. “They can begin the process of burying the slain.”

Vireon nodded.

“How long do you intend to maintain this… bulk?” asked Tyro.

“I am their King,” Vireon said. “It is fitting.”

Tyro smiled and drained his cup. A warrior came forward with a poultice and rolls of linen. He began removing the bindings from Tyro’s wounds one at a time, cleaning the raw flesh and replacing the bandages with new ones. The gash in Tyro’s side was crudely stitched together. He would bear a mighty scar there for the rest of his days.

“Sleep now if you can,” Vireon said. “I see the weariness in your face. But we must move into the jungle. Soon.”

Tyro agreed. He walked toward the sea of tents, taking pains to hide his limp. The sound of breaking trees filled the glade. The Udvorg were expanding their camp yet again. Tyro halted and turned back to Vireon. “We found fresh meat and produce in the northern tower. Along with wine and medicines. We secured it all before the Giants demolished the structure. They would conquer the world for you if you asked them.” He turned and disappeared among the tents.

Vireon stared into the depths of the red jungle.

“Khyrei will be enough.”

The poison jungle enclosed them in its endless corridors of leaf, root, stem, and fern. Vireon was glad to leave the stink of the marsh and its rotting dead behind him. The jungle was full of perils: every berry, blossom, or sprout that grew here would bring a quick death. The host would find no easy game to hunt in the sweltering wilderness. Quickly passing through was the northern Kings’ best chance of limiting fever and death among the Men.

Mendices had returned to camp shortly after Tyro, announcing a similar victory in the south. Vireon gave him two hours to rest, then called for the breaking of camp and resumption of the march. The hawk-nosed Warlord of Uurz had survived thus far without a single wound. Here was a man skilled at letting others do the fighting for him. Unlike Tyro, Mendices had held back and directed his ranks from a vantage point of security. How he had managed this even in the depths of the Swamp God’s terrain, Vireon had no idea. He would not underestimate the war skill of Tyro’s general. Even the Udvorg now spoke of him with respect.

With only an hour of daylight remaining, the triple host entered the deep jungle. Vireon took his man-sized form again and rode alongside Tyro on a sable charger. The crown of iron and sapphire shrank to fit his head, along with his new tunic and sandals. The Giant-blade in its new scabbard on his back did not change its size; his strength as a human was still that of an Uduru. Like his father, he was now both Giant and Man. What that would ultimately mean, he could only guess. His skin had already healed to its customary shade of bronze. A corselet of boiled leather, black with golden trim, held the clasps of his purple cloak at the shoulders.

The Uduri formed an unofficial vanguard, scouting ahead and clearing the overgrown road. Even a Giant could not run full speed through the dense undergrowth without falling face first into a thicket, a ravine, or patch of stubborn mire. The hidden road was an ancient one, likely cut from the jungle fresh every few months for the passage of Khyrein troops or supply trains. Yet the forest crept quickly back to reclaim the ground every time. The Uduri were skilled trackers and hunters: they followed the road with little difficulty, carving it free of encroaching vegetation with axe and sword.

Behind the two mounted Kings came Varda and a cohort of Udvorg calling themselves the King’s Guard. Where they had served Angrid, they now served Vireon. When more than half their number had died along with the blue-skin King, other Udvorg stepped forth to fill the ranks, anxious to serve their new monarch. Vireon reckoned they had never seen such power as he wielded against the leviathan. This was true of himself as well, though none would believe it if he told them so. He kept his wonder at his newfound powers to himself, bearing the gift of his father as he bore the crown of the Icelands. Both were only tools. Weapons he must carry to win this war.

Hordes of carmine bats flitted between the massive trees. The roars of tigers filled distant glades, yet none of the great cats was foolish enough to approach the host. Behind the first cohort of Udvorg came the legions of Udurum marching shoulder to shoulder with the Uurzians. Despite their losses and the cloud of weariness that hung about them, morale was high. All of these Men and Giants had witnessed a miracle tall enough to shake the foundations of the world. Was this how Men had regarded Vod in the glory of his youth? Did they expect Vireon now to follow Vod’s course, to reshape the landscape of nations? Perhaps he was already engaged in such a bold venture. He chose not to think of destiny and fate and the future, but to concentrate on the bloody road before him.

At the rear of the host came a second cohort of Udvorg, with the few surviving Uduru mixed among them. Here Mendices rode with his honor guard. If any Khyrein forces were to approach them from behind, however unlikely this was, Vireon trusted that Mendices would be up to the challenge.

The jungle might be a wonderland painted in a thousand shades of magenta, were it not for the poisonous nature of its flora and the unknown menace of its fauna. As night spread its wings over the vanguard, shades of glimmering scarlet turned to deepest black, and the jungle lost its eerie color. The host proceeded by torchlight. In the grip of constant shadow, Vireon found it easy to imagine himself traveling the road of some northern forest, albeit in a time of great heat. The muggy air had cooled only slightly with the falling of night.

Midway through the night march Tyro wavered in his saddle like a drunken man. Vireon called for a brief respite. Men lay down upon the rough road and slept for perhaps an hour, while the Giants traded war stories and swapped kegs of wine from the downed watchtowers. Varda went among them scattering the coolness of the blue flame. It revived the Udvorg far more than a full night’s sleep would have done for the Men.

Vireon discussed siege plans with Mendices while Tyro lay slumbering by the side of the road, a guard of twelve Uurzians stationed about his pallet. Varda examined his wounds while he slept, calling for a new set of bandages. She prepared a fresh poultice for the worst of his lacerations. When she was finished, she breathed on the blue flame and it flashed in Tyro’s face, waking him as surely as a toss of cold water.

The triple host marched on through the night, surrounded by the curious and indecipherable sounds of the dark jungle. A viper crawled across the road and bit the leg of a horse, which had to be put down. The archers among the Men began a grim game then, watching with nocked arrows for any sign of viper or crawling vermin. Before dawn broke over the scarlet canopy, seventeen such reptiles had been skewered by feathered shafts, along with nine venomous toads. Hundreds of soldiers stumbled in the grip of fever now. It spread slowly through the ranks, but the host moved onward. The heat of day returned swiftly, and the jungle came alive in a thousand shades of red.

In the hour after dawn, with the jungle stretching away in all directions, the Uduri came back from their scouting with three Khyrein captives. The warriors spoke only Khyrein, and there were few interpreters among the triple host. The northmen had not come south to speak, but only to slay. Yet Vireon could tell from the motions of the Khyreins’ hands and faces that they had fled the black city in the wake of something terrible. Tyro questioned them for a while, but could gain nothing of any use. He ordered them put to death, since the traveling host could not spare resources to escort prisoners.

In the second hour after dawn, Dahrima reported to Vireon that other Khyreins were fleeing southward. Some of these groups were as large as military cohorts, but they marched in fear, fleeing into the mazy deeps of the jungle when they saw the Uduri. Vireon ordered one of his warriors to climb a lofty tree-the highest here grew three times the height of Giants-and the scout reported seeing the Golden Sea on the distant horizon. A pall of black smoke hung between it and the jungle’s edge. The climber felt sure the black city must have lain within his sight, if only smoke was not obscuring the vista. Another day, perhaps a day and a half, and the triple host would reach its destination.

Vireon was ready to call another respite when the crimson canopy split beneath the wings of a golden eagle. It flapped down to perch in the road within a knife’s throw of Vireon’s horse. The great bird seemed unnatural both to the climate and the color of the jungle. It stood tall as a man, proud beak and black eyes focusing on the Giant-King. Vireon called the host to a halt. Tyro, who had ridden in silence, raised his head to stare at the eagle. About the two Kings rang the sounds of swords being drawn from their scabbards.

A flash of light blinded the vanguard for a moment. When Vireon’s vision cleared seconds later, a Giantess with a familiar face stood where the eagle had been. Her long black hair stirred in a wind that he could not feel. Green eyes flashed against the copper gloom.

“Sharadza…” He called out the name of his sister with sudden certainty. There was no doubting that face or those eyes, though he had never seen her standing at the height of an Uduri before now. This double height must be the mark of their inheritance. She also shared Vod’s gift. He could not help but smile at the sight of her.

“Vireon.” She beamed, and bowed to one knee. “Greetings King of Udurum.” She said it proudly, and he knew she rejoiced to see him. How many years had it been? He had thought her safely nestled in the bosom of D’zan’s palace in Yaskatha. Obviously, there were many things about his sister that he had yet to learn. She was no longer a girl, but a grown woman.

Far more than that. A sorceress.

“And King of the Icelands,” added Varda from somewhere behind him. “Lord of the Giantlands.”

Vireon leaped off his horse and rushed to wrap Sharadza in his arms. A sudden burst of emotion brought tears to his eyes as he grew to match her Uduri tallness. The pain of it was barely noticeable this time. She laughed and squeezed him desperately. He pulled back to look at her. She wore only a gown of golden silk. It matched the feathers she had worn as an eagle, and her feet were bare. Her body seethed with a great heat, as if she were the antithesis of Varda’s blue flame.

“You’ve grown taller,” he said, grinning.

“And you!” she replied.

Again they embraced, and Vireon felt the host milling and clanking with restless activity behind him. He turned round and called for a fresh respite. Men dismounted and found their places to rest. Tyro stayed alert upon his gray stallion, his eyes focused on the Giant brother and sister.

“Why are you here in this forsaken place?” Vireon asked. “You should be in Yaskatha.”

She frowned, then smiled. “I come from the liberation of Khyrei. We have much to discuss.”

He waved Tyro forward. The three of them, along with Dahrima and Varda, sat in a circle upon a square of muddy blankets. Sharadza told them of the great rebellion, the burning of the fields, the taking of the city, and the crowning of a humble slave as the King of New Khyrei. She spoke of Iardu, and the eyeless Sydathians that poured out of the jungle to foster the liberation of an oppressed people. Finally, she spoke of Gammir, who had been their brother Fangodrel in another life. Gammir, whose head Vireon had removed eight years ago. Yet he had lived again in a new body formed of blood and shadows.

“I have burned his life away,” she said. “He will trouble us no more.”

“What of Ianthe?” Vireon asked. His heart pounded.

Poor little Maelthyn.

“She drank the blood of Iardu,” said Sharadza, “and it destroyed her. She, too, is no more.”

Vireon stood and paced about the road. An abiding emptiness yawned in his stomach. His fingers and toes felt numb. His own sister had stolen his vengeance. Somewhere among the ranks a Giant’s voice bellowed a hunting song.

Tyro stared at Sharadza in disbelief. “Surely this is some trick,” he said. “How do we know you are truly Vireon’s sister, not some minion of the Claw? You might tell us anything.”

“Have you not seen the black smokes rising in the north?” she asked.

Tyro had no answer.

“And the refugees fleeing south,” said Dahrima. “Yes, we have seen them.”

“I speak only truth,” said Sharadza. “Khyrei has fallen. Tong the Liberator now wears the crown. It happened only last night. The black city is no longer in the hands of Gammir and Ianthe. The last of the Slaving Empires is broken. There is only the black city and a multitude of freed slaves. They will decide what happens next.”

“No,” said Tyro, rising painfully to his feet. “We have come to storm the black city and storm it we will. What should we do-turn round and march home? Dishonor our fallen comrades with cowardice? No, our crusade must continue. We will show this Slave King mercy, but his city must fall before Uurz and Udurum, not before an army of beasts and slaves.”

“There is more,” Sharadza said. Her emerald eyes turned to Vireon. “Iardu sends me with a message for you and your host. You come to fight a war, and war you shall have. But Khyrei is not your enemy. Not anymore. The true enemy comes from across the Golden Sea. From the other side of the world.”

Tyro tossed his wineskin to the ground. “What nonsense!” He turned as if to plead with Vireon. “What enemy could be greater than Khyrei the Wicked? The other side of the world?” He turned back to Sharadza. “You speak in riddles, woman. Stand aside and let us pass or be trampled ’neath our hooves.”

Vireon’s hand reached out to grab Tyro’s shoulder. “You speak to my sister and the Queen of Yaskatha. Be mindful of your tongue.”

Tyro stared at him in disbelief. “Surely you don’t believe this mummery? Not you, Vireon. Can you not see a snare when it is set at your very feet?”

“Follow me to the black city,” said Sharadza. “See for yourself. Speak with Iardu and let him show you what the future holds. Your enemy comes from beyond the sea, not from the black city.”

Tyro turned his angry face to her again. “I will hear no wizard’s words! We’ve come south to slay two wizards, not to fall for their tricks.” A feverish heat burned in the Sword King’s face. Vireon saw this, even if Tyro himself did not. For all his courage, all his might in battle, he was still only a Man, with a Man’s weaknesses.

“We will hear Iardu,” Vireon said. If Ianthe were dead already, what else could he do? And yet… she had been dead before. Hiding in the womb of Alua… waiting to be reborn. Perhaps vengeance was beyond his reach. Perhaps justice had already been delivered by Iardu, Sharadza, and a horde of eyeless monsters. The tale seemed incredible, yet this was surely Sharadza, and she surely would not lie to her brother.

Tyro scowled at Vireon. “You may hear the sorcerer, but I will not.”

“You will,” said Vireon, glowering at him.

A moment of awkward silence hung between the two Kings.

“You are not the Emperor of Uurz,” Tyro whispered. Beads of sweat glistened on his red face.

“No,” said Vireon. “I am the Lord of the Giantlands. If you were not my friend and ally, I might slay you this moment and take your legions for my own.”

Tyro’s hand hovered above the pommel of his broadsword. His nostrils flared and his dark eyes smoldered.

“You would not dare,” he said, voice ringing with a stubborn defiance.

“Come and hear Iardu’s words,” said Vireon. “Then make your decision.”

Tyro folded his bandaged arms and gritted his teeth. He stared into the tangle of vines beneath the great red trees. “It seems I have little choice.” He wiped at the sweat streaming from his brow.

Sharadza smiled, raising her voice to dispel the tension.

“A Council of Kings, then,” she said.

Tyro stalked away to find Mendices. Vireon watched his green cloak flapping among the restive Men and Giants.

“What is this new enemy?” he asked.

Sharadza looked at him. She had his mother’s eyes and kindly face. He loved her. Had he ever told her so? Suddenly he missed Tadarus, his dead brother. He longed for the sweet faces of Alua and Maelthyn.

The world was filled with death, an endless ocean of it. Tiny islands of joy floated on that sea of woe. He stood on such an island at this very moment, knowing the dark waters would soon rush in to drown him once again.

“Zyung,” she said, and would say no more until they reached the gates of the black city.