Seven Princes (21 page)

They rested in the valley until the sun sank behind the white-capped mountains. The Ice King’s mountains… realm of the Ice Clans.

“
Long ago… we and the Uduru… were one people
.”

Did Fangodrim know about these
Udvorg
? Did any other Uduru know? Did they remember at all their lost cousins in the north?

Vireon thought of the blue-skin babies, the Udvorg children sleeping in their icy home.

He thought of his uncle and all his Giant cousins, aging and resigned to extinction. He thought of the Uduri, barren of womb and empty of hope. Did the Uduru really have to die out?

Could this mean hope for Vod’s people?

My people
.

He stroked a hand across his lover’s cheek, pulling her close.

“I have to go back,” he told her. “I have to make peace with the Ice King.”

She blinked at him, pink lips forming a half-smile.

He kissed her again and pondered his impossible task.

T
he sky was an inverted landscape, rolling hills of gray and black, an upside-down world given form by continental stormclouds. Every now and then a ravine opened in the cloudscape, a fissure of blue sky, or a crevice pouring rays of sunlight onto the green fields. Rain fell in unbroken sheets, at times hard and angry, at others calm and gentle. Thunder moaned from one flat horizon to the other, occasionally clapping terribly, but usually distant and wreathed in echoes. Flares of lightning turned the gloom of a Stormlands day into whitewashed noon for seconds at a time, then disappeared only to spring up in some distant corner of the cloud kingdom. The wind blew meek or fierce, depending on its mood, but always wet, cool, and haunted by creeping fogs.

For days the jagged silhouettes of the Grim Mountains grew taller on the northern horizon. Now their immensity blotted out half the sky, a wall that separated two worlds, the ramparts guarding the Giantlands. The cohort of mounted Uurzians followed the Northern Road alongside the Uduru River, all the way from Vod’s Lake. The farther north they went, the fewer villages they passed. Tonight the company camped in the shadow of the peaks, where no settlements had dared take root. The northern winds blew
stronger where the land rose into a swathe of grassy foothills divided by the silvery ribbon of river.

D’zan had grown used to the perpetual damp, the cold winds, and the biting rain. This was the land of storms after all. It was the colossal darkness of the mountains that worried him.

All the way from Uurz, ten days at the front of these four hundred warriors, the Stone’s greatsword hung heavily between his shoulders. It was the physical embodiment of his challenge. Dairon had given it to him after Olthacus’ funeral, thinking he actually wanted it. D’zan would rather have seen the blade interred with the Stone’s body; he had never seen Olthacus without it. It seemed a part of him. What’s more, it was too large and heavy for D’zan to wield. All his training had been with Yaskathan longblades, lighter and quicker weapons of bronze half as tall as himself. The Stone’s two-handed broadsword nearly matched D’zan’s height. Its iron blade was twice as wide as a longblade at the hilt, though it tapered gradually toward its point. D’zan could lift it using both hands, but swinging it effectively was another matter, one in which he displayed little grace. To fight with the greatsword required an entirely different technique, and more raw power than he could muster.

So he carried it on his back in the way the Stone had done, but it was only a symbol of his legacy. Another, slimmer blade hung at his waist, one he could use with some basic skill if pressed. The jade dagger that had killed Olthacus he kept shoved into his boot, its blade scoured clean of poison. It was a constant reminder that he could never be truly at ease, never take for granted his safety no matter where he lay his head. It reminded him also of Khyrei, a nation of enemies. He thought of pacts, infernal and political, that must have sealed the Empress of Khyrei to the service of Elhathym the Usurper. Another twist in the long road he must follow back to the rule of his own people. Another evil to burn
from the world, when the time came. Or another source of death that might be winging its way toward him even now.

Prince Tyro led the cohort. He professed friendship and dedication to D’zan and his cause. Prince Lyrilan had become D’zan’s shadow, riding next to him through the rain, pitching a pavilion next to his own at every dusk, and peppering him with endless questions. Questions about D’zan’s upbringing and his life in the royal courts of Yaskatha. Questions about his father and the conquests he made before and after D’zan’s birth. Questions about his mother, whose face he could not remember. These and more questions, to the point of triviality. Lyrilan took mental notes during the days of riding, and each night scribbled his musings into a leather-bound tome carried in a waterproof bladder. He was wholly dedicated to chronicling the life of D’zan, and at times his attention was wearisome. But it kept D’zan from dwelling on the futility of his own task, or from brooding too deeply on his losses. He found that he enjoyed Lyrilan’s company, if not his queries.

Tyro rode always at the head of the cohort, next to the standard-bearer with the gold-and-green banner. D’zan spoke with him only at the evening meal, where they drank wine – Tyro in great quantities. He told second-hand tales of the Old Desert and the Ancient North. Every night was the same: Lyrilan’s pavilion on one side of D’zan’s and Tyro’s on the other. Tyro displayed a protectiveness for him, and D’zan saw him as a smaller, if no less martial, version of the Stone.

“Now that is a fine weapon,” Tyro told him on the first day of their journey. “Takes a powerful arm to swing that blade.”

D’zan sat glumly in his saddle, soft rain pelting his hood as Tyro and Lyrilan rode on either side. “More power than I have,” he admitted.

“Is that so?” said Tyro. “You have skill with smaller blades?”

“Some,” said D’zan. “Olthacus trained me… I have three years.”

Tyro chuckled. “Three years! You should be a master of the longblade by now.”

Lyrilan jumped to his defense. “Not everyone is as single-minded as you, Brother.”

Tyro glanced at the scholar, not quite sure if he had just been insulted. He turned back to D’zan as his horse tramped through a mud hole. Behind them the cohort wound across the green-gray plain in four parallel columns of a hundred riders each. In their midst rolled a trio of canopied wagons carrying servants and supplies.

“Lyrilan has never cared for weapons,” said Tyro. “Such is the privilege of a high-born lad – nobody forces you to fight and bleed. He chooses books over blades… as if
they
could fortify the walls of our kingdom.”

“They do,” said Lyrilan.

Tyro ignored the comment. “D’zan, I can teach you how to use that greatsword. It will be the icon of your birthright. Troops will rally around it during battle. The merest glimpse or mention of it will invoke your quest and inspire men to die for you. If you learn to carry it proudly. If it only hangs upon your back, I am afraid it will do you no good at all.”

“You’d school me as Olthacus did?” D’zan asked.

“Tonight, when we pavilion,” said Tyro, “we’ll begin. First we’ll build strength in your arms using rods of bronze instead of blades. After a few weeks of swinging metal, the Stone’s blade will feel as light as a rose in your grasp.”

Lyrilan huffed. “A gross exaggeration.”

D’zan smiled. “Thank you, Tyro.”

Tyro ran a gauntlet across his stallion’s sodden mane. “I’ll teach you technique as well. If you have the willpower, you will learn.”

Every night after a crude supper, D’zan joined Tyro in his wide
pavilion, where the tables and braziers were cleared to form a practice space. He sparred there with Tyro using span-length cylinders of bronze. When they clashed metal against metal, D’zan’s bones trembled. The bronze was among other commodities to be traded on the streets of Udurum. The bronze of Uurz could in no way match Uduru steel, or southern iron, but it was the best bronze smelted anywhere in the north. The folk of Udurum used it for armor and implements, but not for weapons. Fighting with the bronze bars served D’zan well, sharpening his swordcraft, building his muscles, leaving his arms sore and aching every morning. After seven days he already felt stronger. Not strong enough to wield the greatsword – not even close – but enough to consider it more than some impossible dream.

Now the smokes of a hundred campfires rose into the damp night air at the very foot of the Grim Mountains, directly east of the river. This would be their last pavilion before they entered the mountain pass. The Uurzians camped in concentric circles, with the three Princes and their servants nestled in the center. Tarps propped upon cedar poles sheltered the fires, and soldiers gathered in units of four or five about the warm flames. Shifts of night guards patrolled the perimeter of the camp in pairs. D’zan felt safer in the midst of all these spear-bearing warriors than he had in the depths of Dairon’s palace. And with good reason, for hadn’t the Death-Bringers of Khyrei found him there?

He sat on a folding chair in his pavilion, listening to the patter of rain on the canvas roof. Scattered rugs comprised a makeshift floor, providing relief from the constant mud of the fields. Except for one night spent in Lakehold, a fortress manned by the men of Uurz on the edge of Vod’s Lake, every evening was spent in such tents. Servants built them up and tore them down in minutes, and despite their mobile nature the pavilions gave him a measure of dry comfort.

A single brazier lit the tent, fuming with sweet incense, and D’zan sat with the Stone’s blade lying across his knees. His eyes ran from the rounded pommel with its spherical amethyst to the two-handed grip, wrapped tight in oiled leather, to the flaring black quillions of the guard, spreading wing-like to either side of the blade. At the blade’s base were set a trio of fire opals, scintillating red in the light of the brazier. In the exact center of those gems he noticed an insignia or sigil of some sort. A circular impression radiating spokes like a sun, centered within a trio of inverted, overlapping triangles forming a nine-pointed star. D’zan ran his index finger over the engraving. Among the tiny arabesques and details of the hiltwork, he had overlooked this symbol until now.

The guard outside his pavilion called out to him: “Prince Lyrilan approaches!” A dark shape stood before the tent’s entrance, and he recognized the tall, slim frame. The guard had no need to shout; who else could that shadow belong to?

“Enter,” said D’zan, his eyes lingering on the trio of jewels and the mysterious character at their center. Lyrilan spread the canvas flap and walked inside. He carried the working tome under his cloak, safe from the rain, a white quill stuck into its pages like a feathery bookmark. A bottle of ink bulged in the pocket of his flared trousers; his muddy boots contrasted greatly with the fine silks that draped his legs, arms and middle. His long hair was an oiled mass of curls that fell free as he tossed back his hood.

“Evenbliss,” Lyrilan greeted him.

D’zan looked up for a moment. “Have a seat,” he said. “You have more questions for me, I suppose?”

Lyrilan smiled, dropping into a pile of cushions. “An infinite number, Majesty…”

D’zan nodded. “I have one for
you
actually,” he said. He motioned for Lyrilan to come closer. After spreading out his book, quill, and ink bottle on a well-placed rug, Lyrilan drew near to
him. His eyes followed D’zan’s to the base of the heavy blade, into the triangle of crimson opals, and the sigil where Dzan’s fingertip pointed. “What do you make of this?”

Lyrilan craned his neck, squinting his eyes, lowering them close to the blade. “It’s a rune,” he said. “Much like the Sun God’s symbol, but markedly different. Older, perhaps.”

“A rune?” said D’zan.

“Yes, I’ve seen this sigil before,” said Lyrilan. He snapped his fingers. “In
The Codex of Ancient Icons
. It’s a
ward
, I’m sure of it.”

“What does that mean?”

“A ward is a rune that protects its bearer from evil spirits.”

“Evil spirits.”

“Yes, some orders of the Sun God carve a ward like this on their talismans. Sometimes the priests inscribe them on the shields of warriors bound to a holy cause. The Sun is the eternal enemy of darkness, where evil dwells.”

“So… some Sun Priest placed a ward on the Stone’s blade?”

“Most likely… or it was engraved during the forging of the sword. Based on the pattern of these gems, I’d say that is most likely.”

D’zan thought of the Stone carrying this sword across a blood-soaked battlefield, smiting terrible monsters and living men, wading through a swamp of black gore. If only it could have protected him from the assassins who finally took his life. But they had been living men, not spirits. Evil, yes, but flesh and blood.

“This is a priceless treasure,” said Lyrilan. “My brother was right: it should be your standard… the icon of your cause. Guard it carefully.”

D’zan nodded. He flexed his sore arms, more determined than ever to master the wielding of this weapon. Until then it would ride upon his back, symbol of all he strove to accomplish.

Lyrilan shifted back to his cushions and took the book up onto
his knees. He dipped his quill in the open ink bottle and looked up at D’zan. “So… where were we?” His eyes scanned the last paragraph he had written. “Ah, yes… You were six years old when your father returned from the Battle of Teryllope. What do you remember from that day?”