Seven Princes

13

The Grim Mountains were well named. Four days riding up Vod’s Pass and the sun had broken the gloom only once. Each day there was rain, and as the cohort rose higher into the range, rain turned to sleet. The deep ravines and twisting gorges shared a roof of leaden clouds. At times it seemed the company traveled through some gray, subterranean realm. Small, hardy trees stood along slopes every now and then, and often green valleys stretched away to east or west like hidden oases. Ripe fruits plucked from highland glades enhanced the company’s rations. Hawks and eagles soared above the ranks of cavalry, arcing from peak to peak in search of prey. The roars of prowling tigers were common, but the predators never showed themselves. D’zan was glad of his well-armed escort, but the shadows of the great peaks weighed on his heart like chains of iron.

The pass had followed the Uduru River into the uplands until it reached the Great Falls. There a torrent of whitewater roared over a precipice, feeding the river from its source somewhere beneath the mountains. Clouds of mist cast tiny diamonds across the cloaks, armor, and helms of the Uurzian legionnaires. D’zan had found it refreshing, standing near to that raging cataract, the mist cool on his skin. The stop at the falls was a brief one, for they had lost too much time already. The company had lingered for two days at the foot of the mountains, waiting until D’zan’s bruised ribs could stand the bucking and swaying of a horse. Each night he clutched the Stone’s blade to his chest as he slept, fearing the return of the beast, or something worse. He knew Elhathym had set the demon to watch for him at the edge of the mountains, so could he not set more watchers along those heights? But no more evil spirits came. Perhaps they lay waiting for him somewhere along the pass.

The bandages tight around his midsection helped, but still he rode in discomfort. He claimed to be free of pain, but Lyrilan could tell by his eternal grimace that D’zan lied. Tyro, riding at the head of the gold-and-green column, took D’zan at his word. D’zan decided to bear the pain – he could not lie beneath those dark peaks any longer. Now, after four days of crawling up the pass, the cold numbed his pain. Despite his heavy cloak of fur and gloves of scaled lizardskin, he could barely feel his fingers and toes. The complaint of his aching ribs was a distant thing, hidden under the frigid air like grass beneath snow. He had been raised in the heated southlands, where cold came only at night and never with such violence. He marveled at the frozen peaks with their ice-clad summits, shivering in the white gleam of their glory. The wind tore at his face and cloak, a wailing ghost of winter.

Lyrilan drew his mount closer. “Yonder obelisk marks the summit of Vod’s Pass,” he told D’zan. “We should see the towers of Steephold rising directly ahead, as I remember.”

“How long?” D’zan said into a gust of wind.

“What’s that?” yelled Lyrilan.

“How long since you’ve traveled this way?”

“Three years… Tyro and I visited Udurum to represent our father at the Feast of Summer.”

D’zan grunted. “Does summer ever come to the north?”

Lyrilan grinned. “Not the summer of your native shore, Prince! But it does get far warmer once we’re down from between these dreadful peaks. We can look forward to a warm fire and dry bedding at Steephold.”

Some grumbling came back to them from the head of the column, some message passed from soldier to soldier, a swirling rumor among the ranks. D’zan could barely see Tyro topping the slope ahead, reining his steed beneath the whipping sun banner.

“Something is wrong,” Lyrilan said. He spoke with a sergeant, who leaned from his saddle to talk over the moaning wind. When the scholar turned back to D’zan, his face was worried. “Steephold has fallen.”

D’zan blinked against the words, not the wind. “Fallen?”

“Come, let us join my brother,” said Lyrilan, spurring his mount forward through the ranks. D’zan followed, a hollow sensation rising in his stomach. Their horses climbed the rocky incline until they reached the level ground. Tyro’s stallion stood alongside those of his captain and two lieutenants.

A wide bowl of flat terrain spread before them, hemmed on all sides by soaring white pinnacles. The pass proper continued along the bowl’s edge, dropping into a downward grade at its northern edge. In the bowl’s middle lay a heaped pile of ruined stone, massive blocks of basalt and granite scattered like childrens’ toys. A few walls of the toppled fortress still stood in awkward fragments. The husk of the inner keep that was the heart of Steephold lay beneath a million tons of rock – the remains of mighty towers that had crushed roof and walls. The stones were slick with mud and the purple-brown stains of dried blood. The ruins were fresh – only days old.

Tyro and his captain rode through the gaping hole where the main gate had been, horses picking their way among the rubble-strewn courtyard. The mighty gates themselves lay splintered into fragments. Lyrilan and D’zan followed, mesmerized by the heaped mounds of devastation. If there were bodies, they had been hauled away somewhere. They found no bones until Tyro dismounted and turned over a block leaning against a pillar. In the space between lay the corpse of a human soldier in the black-and-silver livery of New Udurum. The collapsing pillar had smashed his skull to pulp, but his body bore the deep marks of claws. Whoever dragged the dead from this spot had missed this fellow.

“An officer of the Udurum legions,” Tyro said. “Dead now four, maybe five days.”

Lyrilan looked about at the silent mountainsides, as if the very stones might rise up and continue the assault. “Fifty Uduru guarded this place,” he said. “Fifty Giants, seasoned warriors… What could have done this?”

D’zan’s mind raced back to the demon in his tent, squeezing the life from him, breathing death into his face. He reached behind his shoulder and grasped the hilt of the Stone’s blade. The Sun God’s ward had saved him from death, there could be no doubt. Lyrilan had agreed, when D’zan told him the whole story. The Giants of Steephold – and the Men who were also here – they had no wards.

“Something terrible,” said Tyro, remounting his horse. “We’d best not camp near these ruins. Bad luck… and s luighcavengers probably roam here after dark. The scent of blood is still strong.”

“There must be more bodies beneath these walls,” said Lyrilan.

“The castle has fallen before,” said the Uurzian captain. “The Uduru rebuilt it at Vod’s command. They’ll rebuild it again.”

“Not soon enough to do us any good,” said Tyro. He raised his arm to signal the standard-bearer.

The quake struck before he uttered a word. The horses reared and screeched in panic as the ground trembled. The mountains breathed an awful sigh of agony, and the earth beneath the crumbled fortress moaned. Men fell from their horses, and D’zan would have tumbled if Lyrilan had not reached out to grab his hand, their mounts swirling in a dance of fear. Rocks and gravel jumped, and the great stones shook, the rubble shifting and sliding as if something beneath were tearing its way through toward daylight.

“Below the fortress!” yelled Lyrilan in the roar of earth and wind. “The Giants had sealed a cavern leading to-”

Fragments of towers and walls erupted toward the ashen clouds with the sound of a splitting continent. A black whirlwind rose from the wreckage, taller than any Uduru, shedding a blanket of rock and dust from its scaly back. Clouds of dust and pulped stone rolled across the legionnaires, filling nostrils, mouths, and eyes. A bememoth pulled its body free of some deep cavern, crawling through the ruins in a blast of heat and smoke. Now its ear-splitting roar filled earth and sky. Somewhere beneath that ultimate sound, the cries of terrified men and horses rang as well. An appalling reek filled the air – burning feces, rotted flesh. The ancient stench of Serpents.

D’zan lost hold of Lyrilan’s arm and fell from his saddle. His back met the stony ground, and consciousness fled for a moment. Then he blinked in the dust and saw the vast creature crawling spans away from him, spitting a gout of flame into a mass of howling soldiers. A massive wall of scales like black iron. He caught a glimpse of its eyes, flame-red orbs of primeval hate. One of its dozen legs, six on each side, came down upon a fleeing horse. Ebony claws sank like spear blades into the steed’s round belly.

D’zan scrambled to his knees. Where was Lyrilan? Tyro? The captain? He pulled the greatsword from its scabbard and ran for cover. The beast – it was a Serpent, an Old Wyrm, he knew that – seemed intent on the mass of Uurzians. It had lain beneath the ruins, waiting for them. No… waiting for me. Could it sense him now, crouching like a coward behind a pile of broken stones?

Brave Uurzians rushed past their charred and screaming comrades, a forest of eager spears. The beast bellowed again, and avalanches of snow fell from nearby peaks. Men died squirming between its gnashing teeth, or pulped beneath its stamping claws. The front of its body rose high, six front-legs hanging in the air, dripping with bones and blood. It vomited burning pitch among the Uurzians, who ran or ducked behind oval shields. Most were caught in the flame and burned to death in an instant.

A thicket of spears protruded from the Wyrm’s pale underbelly as it dropped back to the ground, snapping with its terrible jaws. Some men scrambled toward its back end, where its tail lashed likeil d a massive whip, sending men through the air, braining them against piles of jagged masonry. D’zan saw a beefy Uurzian hacking at its rearmost leg with an axe. The man severed a single claw before the great head turned around and snapped him up.

Lyrilan lay senseless where his fear-stricken horse had bucked him. Any second now the Serpent’s legs would trample the unconscious Prince to death. Dragging the great blade behind him, D’zan ran with head down toward Lyrilan’s body. As the Serpent reared up again, spewing another gout of flame into a fresh rank of screaming Uurzians, he wondered if Lyrilan was already dead. If so, he might die trying to rescue a corpse. The heat from the sides of the beast’s blast-furnace mouth swelled over him, the biting chill of winter vanished. This warmth gave him a strange courage. He grabbed Lyrilan with his free arm, dragging him back along a cloven wall to the shadow of the fallen stones. Now the beast moved forward into the ranks that assailed it, legs tromping the burned carcasses of men and horses. It ignored the spears and the bites of tiny blades as it gnashed, tore, and ripped through the legionnaires.

Lyrilan was breathing. Thank you, Gods of Earth and Sky. Some blood in his hair – his head must have struck a stone. Where had his horse gone? Was it burned to a crisp with all the gentle Prince’s papers and quills? Enough time for that later… if they survived. D’zan peeked over the pile of stones, looking for Tyro.

The Serpent’s thrashing limbs knocked down the remains of an outer wall. It writhed and roared its hot thunder, and more men threw themselves into the death of its claws and teeth. Tyro’s commanding voice, a tiny sound, rang across the fray. The beast raised up its head and forelegs again, and the Prince called, “Run! Run!”

D’zan saw the pattern of its breathing now, the rearing that was a precursor to flaming breath, and the soldiers scattered before the rush of its flame. When the last of the gout spilled from its tongue, a volley of arrows peppered its snout. A unit of archers had fallen into place along the pass. Now the cavalrymen ran back toward the beast, stabbing at its exposed belly, Tyro at the vanguard. D’zan knew himself a coward then. How could Tyro face such a monstrosity? How could any man? They must have already given themselves over to death. Why be afraid if you welcomed death?

D’zan raised the big blade. I, too, will die like a man. He could not wield the weapon with much skill, but his target was so huge it would not matter. This great length of iron would sink deep into that thing’s belly. He left Lyrilan lying hidden behind the rubble and crept forward toward the Serpent’s right flank. He forced himself not to look away when its claws and fangs tore the guts from men, red and streaming across the ground.

Soon it would lift its head again, and D’zan would charge, strike for its damned heart.

Tyro ran from its snapping fangs, having left his spear embedded between two scales along its neck. So far it had ignored every single wound inflicted upon it. They might have been buzzing gnats against a stampeding ox. But they were Men, and they knew how to die with honor.

D’zan crouched, ready to spring and run when the serpentine head came up. Closer to it now, he heard the clang and clatter of blades against its scales. It must be the belly… There was no other way to pierce its ao phen the sncient hide. Now the steaming snout drew back. It would raise up. D’zan would run. Any second now…

The earth trembled again, and he feared a second Wyrm might rise from the ruins. A chorus of war-cries rose above the howls of dying men. From behind the mound of ruins a cloud of dust rose, and the shouts rang from its direction. Booming shadows rushed across the rubble, raising mighty axes, hammers, and blades. A troop of Uduru warriors swarmed across the ruins toward the Wyrm.

Giants! Never had D’zan seen them in the flesh until now. He could not imagine a sweeter sight than those twenty-three Giants leaping upon the tail, hindquarters, and backbone of the Serpent. The Uurzians saw their rescuers and howled at the sky. The Serpent’s head turned toward its rear quarters. A Giant hacked off its tail, and black gore spurted from the stump to steam like oil upon the rocks. Another Giant took a leg from the beast’s body easily as chopping firewood – one, two strokes of his axe and the limb was a jerking, lifeless thing. The axeman kicked it away.

The Giants wore the purple and black of Udurum, their mail and cloaks torn and crudely patched. They had survived some recent battle, probably the one that brought down their fortress. They must have hidden in the mountains nearby waiting for… what? For the Uurzians? For the Wyrm? For D’zan?

The beast reared up, switching itself toward the Uduru. The stub of its tail knocked a Giant off his feet. It rose, ready to belch flame… and now D’zan faced it from the wrong angle. He could run to join the Uduru, but by the time he faced its belly again it would be down and snapping with its teeth. Maybe he did not have to die today after all. Maybe no more Uurzians would die today. Tyro yelled commands at his men, and now they attacked the wounded beast’s backside.

The monster unleashed its breath. Fire belched forth and scattered the Giants. One of their number went down beneath the full might of the blast, the rest of them singed but unharmed.

“Now!” bellowed an Uduru gray-beard, and the Giants sprang toward the Wyrm’s belly. A pair of axes cleaved it open while a half-dozen spears drove in deeper than the height of a tall man. The beast roared, gushing hot, black blood.

The gray-beard took out one of the beast’s great eyes, sinking a greatsword into the red orb, which broke like glass and splattered his mail with steaming fluid. Giants hacked and pulled legs from the beast, some with their very hands, ripping tendon and bone from the Serpent’s sides.

One last time it reared up to breathe, but no flame came from its torn throat. Instead, the gray-beard Uduru sheared off its head with a sweep of his axe.

Headless it writhed and flailed. The Giants continued pulling off its legs one by one. The Uduru cheered, raising stained blades toward the sky, and the surviving Uurzians joined them. The mountain bowl lay strewn with the corpses of men torn, shattered, and smoldering. But here was victory, all the more sweet when snatched from the jaws of defeat.

D’zan raised his blade and walked among the milling men. His eyes were on the Giants, who slapped one another’s backs and started laying claim to fangs, bones, or scales from the dead beast. It stank more heavily now than it did whilan eree alive, crimson innards exposed and flopping among the broken stones.

Tyro hailed the Uduru with gratitude and recognition in his eyes.

“Tallim the Rockjaw!” the Prince of Uurz shouted. “Never have I been more glad to see you and your brothers!”

The gray-beard Uduru laughed, dark gore dripping from his gauntlets. “Prince Tyro? Is the Emperor with you?”

Tyro shook his head and offered his hand to the Giant. Rockjaw removed his metal glove and carefully grasped Tyro’s forearm in his fist.

“My brother Lyrilan and I-” Tyro stopped. “My brother!” He only now remembered Lyrilan, and his face was grave.

D’zan yelled to him, “Prince Lyrilan lies behind those rocks. His horse bolted and he fell. I believe he lives, so I kept him out of the way.”

Tyro spared him an approving glance and went to find his brother.

“That is a fine blade,” said Rockjaw.

D’zan realized he was still holding the greatsword. “Thank you. It was my inheritance.”

The Giant grunted. “Well now, you are not Uurzian… you have southern skin. You must be the Yaskathan Prince.”

D’zan blinked. “I am,” he said.

Rockjaw nodded, black gore dripping from his beard. “I have another Prince in my care. One who is most eager to meet you.”

D’zan sheathed his blade. It must be a Prince of Udurum. This boded well for the success of his journey. But he could not think on that while Lyrilan lay helpless and the corpse of a mythical monstrosity lay before him, being stripped of its treasures like a dog’s carcass devoured by ants.

“I look forward to meeting your Prince,” said D’zan to the Giant. “And I thank you for my life.”

The Giant bowed, then turned back to stripping the carcass with his brethren. “We’ve not seen his like since the Fall of Old Udurum…” he heard Rockjaw say.

The Uurzian captain had survived, though his cloak was burned and his cheek blistered. Still he gave orders in Tyro’s name while the Prince tended to his brother with water from a canteen. D’zan went to join Tyro. Lyrilan was coming around as his brother wrapped a white cloth about the scholar’s skull.

“What was it?” Lyrilan asked, his voice weak.

“A Serpent,” said Tyro. “It’s dead now. Rest… I will tell you all later.”

Lyrilan nodded. A field physician tended to the worst of the wounded men while soldiers helped their fellows as best they could.

“How bad is he?” asked D’zan.

“Not bad,” said Tyro without Tyht=looking at D’zan. “He’ll be all right when he gets some rest and some hot food in his belly. He is tougher than he looks.”

Lyrilan laughed, then groaned.

Tyro stood and looked at D’zan. “I should be condemning you as a coward,” he said. “But it appears you may have saved my brother’s life. So I will forgive your absence in this battle.”

Tyro’s eyes were dark steel. D’zan could not meet them, so he looked at the charred ground instead.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” he muttered.

“Say nothing to me,” said Tyro. “But thank the Gods that all these men were here to die so that you may live.”

D’zan turned his eyes to the clouded sky. If the Giants had not come, they would all be dead. But if the Men had not held off the beast as long as they did, the Giants would have come too late.

“Your training resumes tomorrow night,” said Tyro. “Pain or no pain.”

D’zan nodded.

“It is easy to be a Prince,” said Tyro. “But far harder to be a man.”

He clapped D’zan roughly on the shoulder and marched off toward his men.

D’zan knelt before Lyrilan.

“What did he say?” asked the scholar.

“Only the truth,” said D’zan.

“You saved my life?”

D’zan shrugged. “ Someone has to write my life story.”

Lyrilan smiled.

Giants and Men stripped the beast of every last fang, claw, and scale. Such tokens would bring high prices in the markets of Uurz or Udurum. A detail of Uurzians set about burying their fallen men under cairns of rock. All told, Tyro had lost forty-six good men, and more than a hundred endured wounds of various severity. The beast had only slain one Uduru this night, but half the number of Steephold’s inhabitants had died five days previous.

D’zan overheard Tyro and Rockjaw talking as the first torches of evening were lit. There would be no camping or eating until all the dead were buried. Men worked hurriedly among the cold shadows, and the moon lost itself behind the clouds.

“Oh, it was no Wyrm that destroyed Steephold,” said Rockjaw. “That devil must have crawled up out of the caverns after the fortress fell. My guess is the collapsing floors dislodged the cap we put on the old warrens. Who knows how long this thing slumbered down there in the dark until the citadel’s fall woke him to rage and hunger?”

D’zan squeezed his hands until his knuckles went white. He knew the Wyrm had awakened for one reason only… because he had come into the mountains. How could this not be the work of Elhathym and hishatst sorcery? How many had died for D’zan thus far, starting with the guard crushed by a shadow outside his tent, ending in today’s massacre? How many more would die before he regained his father’s throne or perished himself? He must get used to death. It was part of the world to which he now belonged. But he did not know if he truly could. He must try. He had no choice.

“Then… if not the Serpent,” asked Tyro, “what was it that destroyed the castle?”

Rockjaw ran a hand through his unkempt beard, and his big eyes were troubled. He looked at Tyro, his craggy face gilded by flickering torch light.

“Best to let the Prince himself answer that,” said the Giant.

The cohort followed the twenty-two Giants up the side of a mountain, picking their way along an ancient track wide enough for three horses to walk abreast. The few wounded who could not ride lay in the bed of a supply wagon. More men had died than mounts, but it took a while to gather the scattered horses. Lyrilan’s horse was among those retrieved; D’zan’s mare had been burned to death. Tyro gave him a fallen soldier’s stallion to ride. Lyrilan insisted on riding his own horse, despite Tyro’s objections. The Uduru marched with claws, whole legs, and fangs carried on their shoulders. Rockjaw carried the body of their single casualty, the Giant who had burned to death, wrapped in a shroud made from a furred cloak. For their own reasons, the Uduru would not bury him near the ruins with the Men of Uurz.

The line of Giants, Men, and horses wound its way up and around the mountain. A layer of snow coated the precarious heights. D’zan glanced over the trail’s edge when the moon sailed free of the clouds, shedding golden light across the world. He saw the ruined fortress far below, and the legless, skinned corpse of the Serpent. The stink of burned flesh still lingered in his nostrils, and he realized it had seeped into his clothes. He nearly retched, but fear of slipping over the side of the path and falling to his death pulled his stomach back down from his throat. He did not look down again.

On the western side of the mountain the Giants filed into an immense cavern where firelight danced and warm air flowed. The smell of roasting fowl replaced all others as D’zan rode into the crude sanctuary at the head of the Uurzian column. The cavern was vast enough to hold the entire cohort, not to mention its horses, wagons, and the Giants. One Uduru had stayed behind here, a Giant with his arm in a sling, tending a few injured Uduru who slept between the pointed pillars of stalagmites. There were Men here, too. At least sixty of them, a mix of black-clad soldiers from Udurum and others wearing the blue-white cloaks and turbaned helms of Shar Dni. They gathered about fires drinking wine or ale, chewing their simple dinners, or staring at nothing, lost in their own solemn thoughts.

Tyro ordered his captain to supervise the unloading of wounded men and the care of the horses. His lieutenants set about stocking and tenting the unclaimed sections of the cavern, while the men of Udurum and Shar Dni watched quietly. Many wore the bandages and slings of battle – they too had suffered. The quiet ones seemed the most damaged.

D’zan and Lyrilan dismounted, following Tyro and Rockjaw toward the back of the cavern. They passed among the silent Men and slumbering Giants, warmed by the glow of their fires. At least in here the cold was kept at bay, akepn here thnd the winds did not intrude. Weariness tugged at D’zan’s eyelids, and his fingers tingled. His side ached worse now. It was always worse after a day of riding. Falling from his horse had not helped his bruises.

Rockjaw led them through a ring of Sharrian guards. D’zan noted their splendid curved swords, the cobalt blue of their mail shirts. These were the elite of the eastern city’s royal legions. Why were they here guarding a Prince of New Udurum? Why were any Sharrians here?

The guards spread to let them pass. At their center on a bed of soft blankets, his head propped on a rolled cloak, lay a lean young man with a braided beard and a mass of curly black hair. His arms, legs, and torso were covered in bandages, some of them stained pink by leaking blood. Sweat beaded on his face, and he lay in the midst of a terrible fever. His nose was long and sharp, and a jeweled turban lay nearby, along with a scimitar with a hilt of gold, sheathed in a royal scabbard. He awoke from shallow sleep as Rockjaw kneeled at his side.

“Prince Andoses,” whispered the Giant. “The Princes Tyro and Lyrilan have arrived, and his majesty Prince D’zan of Yaskatha.”

D’zan looked about the cavern. Here was a Sharrian Prince. Where were the sons of New Udurum? It made no sense. But the wounded Prince turned his dark-rimmed eyes to D’zan and smiled. His expression said, I have been expecting you.

“Welcome, D’zan,” said Andoses. His voice was weak, but steady. “I only wish I could stand up to embrace you. As it is, my open hand will have to do.” He raised his hand shakily, and D’zan took it in his own.

“What happened to you?” asked D’zan. It was the only thing he could think to say.

“Treachery,” said Andoses. “Darkness and treachery. But I will live.”

His face turned to Tyro and Lyrilan. “Princes of Uurz…” he managed. “It is good to see your handsome faces again.”

“And you, Andoses,” said Tyro, crouching to lean over him.

“I took a knock myself,” said Lyrilan, motioning to his bandaged forehead. “We Princes are a tough breed, eh? You’ll be on your feet in no time.”

Tyro gave his brother a sharp glance, then turned back to Andoses. “Tell us now, Prince,” he said. “What happened to Steephold? And why are you here, so far from the Valley of the Bull?”

Andoses struggled to raise himself a little, Tyro creating a makeshift pillow to prop up his shoulders. A soldier brought a stone cup filled with water, and they waited for Andoses to gulp it down.

“We rode south for Uurz,” Andoses began, “a company from Udurum joining my own on behalf of Shar Dni. We were to see Dairon on an urgent matter. There is war brewing in the east. At Steephold we received word of your approach, so there we waited. The Princes… the Princes were with me…”

“Which Princes?” asked Tyro. “Tadarus and Vireon?”

Andoses shook his hes s›“ad. “Tadarus and… Fangodrel.” Andoses coughed, choking on the second name. After a moment, he continued. “A great storm came upon us… a storm of shadows… Terrible things came through the walls… darkness with claws. It was him… the eldest Prince…”

Tyro calmed Andoses with an arm about his shoulders, cradling his head. “Easy. Tell it slowly.”

Andoses took a deep breath. His eyes were bloodshot and watery.

“First we heard the horses being slaughtered in the stables… then thunder rolled over the walls and the shadows tore at us… great, unseen beasts… hideously strong…” Andoses wept as he relived the night of death. “Men died all around me… I saw their guts strung across the ceiling… Then the darkness… The torches faded… Men cried and screamed. I ran… I went to find Tadarus… I thought we could escape. Instead I found the other one…”

“Fangodrel?” asked Lyrilan.

“The sorcerer!” said Andoses. “He walked inside the shadow… drinking it in… There was blood across his body… blood running from his mouth. He… showed me the corpse of Tadarus, his own brother… drained and broken. He tossed it aside… a broken doll of sticks and twine…”

Andoses fell silent, staring into the shadows between hanging stalactites.

Tyro looked at Rockjaw, and the Giant’s big head nodded slowly. Even the massive warrior could not speak of these things. D’zan thought the Giant might weep too, but he did not. Perhaps Giants did not shed tears.

“Are you saying that Fangodrel murdered Tadarus?” asked Tyro.

Andoses nodded. “Murdered him… and drank his blood… like wine, Tyro.”

“What about the Uduru?” said Tyro. “There were fifty stationed here before.”

“The sorcerer and his demons took them,” said the Rockjaw. “Tore them apart. And the Cursed Prince drank their blood as well.”

Andoses blinked, coming back to himself. “He rose into the storm, and his demons howled… They battered against the walls… tore the pillars loose. Bones and rock shattered in their grip. I stood before a great wall as it crumbled and thought I would die. I was grateful to die in such a clean way instead of under the claws of the shadows. But Rockjaw was there… He scooped me up, and the wall fell upon his back. He carried me clear of the walls as they tumbled about us… The demons clawed at us like raving dogs… but he ran into the storm… He saved me.”

Rockjaw hung his head. “I would have stayed to fight and die,” he said. “But this was a Prince, the Queen’s nephew, and I… I knew my duty. Nearly half our number died in that dark storm, crushed by the stones of Steephold, or torn to shreds by Fangodrel’s demons.”

Andoses reached up to take D’zan’s hand again. “Prince D’zan,” he said. “We know your plight. We support your claim to the throne of Yaskatha. Shar Dni will ride with you. Udurum will ride…” His voice trailed off.

D’zan squeezed the Prince’s hand. “I thank you. Let us talk of these things later.”

“Yes,” said Tyro. “We’ll take you back to Udurum. The Queen must know of all this. And we must bury her son.”

“What happened to Fangodrel?” asked Lyrilan.

“Gone,” said Andoses. “Into the darkness with his demons. Gods curse his name.”

“When the storm ceased, we survivors sought sanctuary in this cave,” said Rockjaw. “Later we retrieved as many bodies as we could find… including that of Tadarus. For days our scouts kept a lookout for your train.”

“A good thing you did,” said Tyro. “A mighty good thing.”

“What happened?” asked Andoses.

“Later, Prince,” said Tyro. “We’ll speak of it in the morning. We are weary, wounded, and hungry. Sleep now and we’ll soon join you.”

Andoses laid his head back. He mumbled something about Mumbaza before passing out.

“He’s been like this for days,” said Rockjaw. “His fever must break soon, or he will die.”

Tyro went to meet with his captain while D’zan and Lyrilan lay down in Lyrilan’s tent, which sat now inside the cavern. Outside the great cave-mouth, a snowstorm began, great white flakes flying across the darkness.

“What does all this mean?” D’zan said, trying to wrap his head around it.

Lyrilan sighed. “It means one Prince of Udurum is dead, killed by another. It means the Sharrian Prince may die as well.” He thought for a moment. “But it also means that if he lives, you will have the backing of Shar Dni.”

“What about Udurum?”

“That will depend on Queen Shaira,” said Lyrilan. “Although there is one Prince left in the City of Men and Giants. If Tadarus meant to support you, perhaps Vireon will as well.”

D’zan’s head swam. So much was happening, and so fast. Blood pounded in his ears. He caressed his aching ribs. If Shar Dni and Udurum supported his claim, he would have the war the Stone had promised him. This was no comforting thought. War would bring only more death and destruction. How did this Fangodrel fit into the situation? He was a sorcerer, that much stood clear. Why had he murdered his brother? Was it to prevent his alliance with D’zan? If so, he would likely return to finish what the shadow-thing and the S erpent had not.

D’zan pulled the Stone’s blade from its sheath, wrapped his hands about the warded hilt, and lay back against the hard floor of the cave. He knew what Andoses meant about the shadows – one of them had come for him already. How many more were there?

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

“Yes?”

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

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

He dreamed a rushing sea of fire.

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