Seven Princes (39 page)

Andoses looked from face to face, and back to Fangodrim’s grim visage. “You’re giving us your women?”

“No!” said Fangodrim, displeased with Andoses’ manner. “Our women will not come with us. They can bear no children, and they understand this. They have chosen to stay and ordered us to go.
They
are giving
us
… to the fertile Udvorg women.”

“Andoses, have you read the Uduru Sagas?” said Lyrilan. “The Uduri are every bit as fierce and terrible as Uduru. After all, these ninety-nine survived the death of Old Udurum, the Coming of the Serpent-Father.”

“So we will have three armies of men,” said Andoses, tugging at his braided beard, “and ninety-nine Uduri.”

Tyro nodded. “Where the south has two armies, each led by a sorcerer. Have we any sorcerers?”

Lyrilan laughed. No one else did.

Vireon whispered something in Alua’s ear. Shyly, she raised a hand over the table. A white flame sprang from her open palm, dancing and twisting with life.

The feasters leaned back in their chairs.

“Alua…” said Vireon. “She is a sorceress.”

Andoses smiled. “Will you join our cause, Great Lady? Will you go with us to—”

“She goes with
me
, Cousin,” said Vireon. “She goes wherever I go.”

Andoses grew calm. “And where
do
you go, cousin?”

Vireon held back his words and turned his eyes to meet those of Alua. She closed her palm, and the flame was gone without a trace of smoke.

“You heard my vow,” Vireon told the table. “I go to seek vengeance for my brother. I seek the head of the Kinslayer.”

“Then you are going to Khyrei,” said the Queen, her voice suddenly weak. “For that must be where Fangodrel has fled.” She exchanged a mysterious look with Vireon. “I know that you are a born hunter, Vireon. I have accepted this. Go… and do what you must.”

Andoses crossed his arms. Tyro expected him to speak, but the Sharrian said nothing.

“What of Mumbaza?” Tyro was forced to ask. “Queen Shaira, you speak wisdom. We need to win the support of Mumbaza. Now more than ever.”

Now Andoses did speak. “Such was the goal of our mission, Tadarus and I,” he said. “We were to see Dairon in Uurz, then on to Mumbaza to win the Boy-King’s favor.”

“So that mission must resume,” said the Queen.

Tyro smiled grimly. “Winter has come. Vod’s Pass will soon be impassable.”

“Then you must go
quickly
,” said the Queen. “Rockjaw has cleared the northern half of the pass.”

“If there are no more early storms,” said Vireon, “our passage should be smooth.”

So the plans of war were drawn: Shaira’s messengers would go immediately to Uurz and Shar Dni. The five Princes, with a cohort of four hundred, would go to Murala and sail south to secure Mumbaza’s alliance. D’zan, Tyro, and Lyrilan would then lead half the cohort directly into Yaskatha to foster rebellion and take the throne.

When the winter broke, Shaira and her Uduri would lead the Udurum host across the pass to join Dairon’s legions in Uurz. Ammon’s Sharrian host would meet them at Allundra, where The Great Earth-Wall met the Golden Sea. Vireon and Andoses would guide the forces of Mumbaza to rally at Allundra, completing the Alliance of Four Armies before midsummer. Then their hosts would cross the border to Khyrei and victory.

“I do not wish to go to Mumbaza,” Vireon protested, “but directly to Khyrei to find the Kinslayer.”

“You are the Lord of Udurum now, son,” said his mother. “You will be King soon. You must go to Mumbaza and extend the hand of our kingdom. It is your duty. Then you will on your way to Khyrei.”

Vireon agreed to the Queen’s plan. Tyro breathed a sigh of relief. This endeavor needed the son of Vod more than any other Prince. Here was a hero whose deeds could put fire in the hearts of a million soldiers. Tyro and Andoses were the brains of this campaign, but Vireon would be its handsome face and its strong right arm.

Weary from a long night of planning and studying maps in the
Queen’s council chamber, Tyro reflected on the bitter satisfaction of getting what he had wanted all along.

There would be war.

He should feel triumphant, exhilarated, eager for the taste of battle. Yet he felt only exhausted, and he dreaded another march over Vod’s Pass. The path to war was long and difficult. Patience was the armor he must wear.

Yes, there would be war. A season of death, blood, and glory.

A season that, like any other, manifested ever-so-slowly to cover the world.

All his life he had been waiting for it.

Even now it sank shallow roots into the ground, colored the dawn sky with bloody gloom, whispered its coming on the wind.

Let it come, this savage season
.

I am ready
.

T
he moon was a pale and scarred face haunting the night. The waters of the Golden Sea sparkled with a million reflected stars. The only sound was the rushing wind and the beating of the black horse’s leathery wings. Gammir, formerly Fangodrel, sat comfortably on its back in his mail of gleaming shadow, basking in his mastery of the night-time world. A black cloud that was not a cloud at all flowed across the sea behind him, a mass of shadow-things exhumed from mountains, valleys, tombs, and graveyards. The rich blood of a King lined his throat and stomach, suffused the substance of his pale flesh, mingled with that of seven Princesses and a young Sharrian Duke.

Spots of dried brown ichor speckled his lean chin and cheeks. He should have taken that last one as well… There was no good reason to let him live. No good reason, only the damning visage of his own dead brother. The words that only he could hear.

Curse him! Curse his rotting bones… He’d best not cross this sea with the rest of the shades
.

King Ammon had received Gammir with open arms, calling for a feast to honor his presence. He had even kissed his nephew on each cheek (there were no bloodstains there yet). He must have
assumed that his sister in Udurum was sending her eldest to observe the Khyrein piracy problems.

“It has been too long since you visited us, Fangodrel,” Ammon cooed. He stroked the braids of his black beard, the same irritating mannerism his son Andoses had adopted. Ammon’s seven sisters would join them at table, and the two grown sons of his brother Omirus, who was still at sea protecting trade routes from Khyrein reavers. “Why did Andoses not come back with you?” he asked.

Gammir smiled, refusing wine. His thirst was great, but not for the blood of grapes. “Andoses and Tadarus have gone to seek the favor of Uurz,” he said. The name of Tadarus was a sour taste on his tongue. Then he remembered the sweetness of his half-brother’s blood and rediscovered his smile.

“This is good,” said Ammon from his throne of ivory and onyx. “My sister gathers support for a war against these jungle devils.” The banner of the white bull on a sky-blue field hung behind him. Servants bustled in carrying the feasting table. They placed it directly before the Sharrian throne, which sat on ground level with the rest of the chamber. Gammir found it odd that the Sharrian Kings chose not to raise themselves upon a royal dais. Some ancient tradition perhaps. Ammon was all but ruled by the Seven Priests who guided his every decision. Perhaps it was they who kept the Sharrian Kings at ground level.

“Tell me, Uncle,” said Gammir. “Why do you wish to bring war upon Khyrei?”

Ammon’s face grew petulant, his lips pursing. “Have you not heard my son’s words? They are pirates, murderers, and thieves. They ruin trade by sacking our ships, and take our mariners as slaves. They are an unwholesome race who have long resented our prosperity.”

“I have heard they are a great and noble people,” said Gammir. “That they lived at peace with Shar Dni until wronged by the
sorcery of Vod. Did he not steal my mother from the Prince of Khyrei? Did he not murder the Khyrein Emperor and his son?”

Ammon laid his head back against the satin lining of his throne. His eyes searched the face of the man he still thought was Fangodrel, perhaps only now realizing that this was not him. The blue jewels hanging from his turban crown trembled as his arms shook with restrained rage.

“You speak ill of your own father?” shouted Ammon. Servants withdrew, and the noble women who were gathering at the table cast their eyes downward at its mahogany surface. Children squealed and ran into adjoining corridors. “You find sympathy for the pale demons of the south? Has my sister never told you the truth of her marriage to Prince Gammir?”

Guards in blue surcoats and gilded mail moved restlessly between the pillars as the King stood up to tower over his nephew. “No! She could never tell you! Gammir was a beast. He tortured her. He kept her as a slave until Vod came. A Princess of the Sharrian House locked in a dank cell like an animal!”

The King had drunk too much wine and was obviously not used to anyone telling him what he did not want to hear.
Anyone but the Seven Priests
, thought Gammir. Those holy personages were in their great temples conducting the Rites of Twilight. Would he have raged so in their presence? Gammir doubted it. These lies about his true father must come to an end.

“He was her master,” said Gammir in a quiet voice. “Was it not his right to treat her in whatever way he chose? He was a Prince; she was his property.”

King Ammon beat his fist upon the table and silverware jumped among the dishes. His sisters coughed and sipped at their wine, hoping the rest of the food would arrive soon to fill both King and Prince’s mouths. Now the Dukes Dutho and Pyrus, the teenage Sons of Omirus, entered the hall and came to the table.
They were dressed in the manner of warriors, though Gammir doubted if they had ever left the palace grounds.

“You are young and ignorant,” said Ammon, returning to the seat of his throne. He grasped his wine goblet with an agitated hand. “There is nothing of Vod in your looks… in your manner… and I’ll wager there is none in your veins either.”

The table grew silent. Two servants carried the steaming carcass of a roast pig across the floor, placing it at the center of the board. No one dared say a word. The King gulped his wine and would not look at the nephew he had insulted.

Gammir did then what they least expected him to do. He laughed. Threw back his head and howled. The assembled Princesses, Dukes, and guards turned all eyes upon him. Still no one spoke and still Ammon ignored him.

Finally, grasping his stomach, Gammir let his mirth fade. “You are quite correct, Uncle,” he announced so that all there would hear it. “I am no son of Vod. Gammir the First was my father. Vod stole me from my rightful home and murdered my sire. This was the fruit of a conspiracy hatched before I was born.”

Now King Ammon did turn to face him, his face a purple mask of rage and shock. The torches in their sconces, freshly lit to ward off the growing darkness, dimmed and snuffed themselves. The flames dancing in the twin braziers at either side of the hall fell away to fading embers. A ray of silver-gold moonlight streamed through the skylight at the apex of the throne room, bathing the table in pale gloom. In this gloom, Gammir’s black mail gleamed and sparkled like the midnight sea.

“Your fool of a son is dead,” Gammir told Ammon. “By my own hand.”

He raised that same hand like some white jewel to glimmer in the moonlight. The King’s eyes, and the eyes of all those at the table, watched his writhing fingers. Gammir smiled.

The hand struck like a pallid viper and seized the throat of Ammon. The King’s eyes bulged, his wine spilled across the table, and the ladies of the court screamed. A roar like that of a tiger split the air, and Gammir’s teeth sank into Ammon’s throat. A gout of scarlet spewed across the plates, goblets, and the steaming pig carcass.

The guards rushed forward, crying alarm, but the shadows along the walls rose up to seize them, ripping mail and flesh with phantom claws. Gammir drank deep of the blood gushing from his uncle’s pierced neck vein, his merciless hand holding Ammon still against his own feasting board. The sons of Omirus rushed at him, raising jeweled scimitars. A glance from Gammir froze them in terror, and the shadows rushed forth to enshroud them, lifting them above the marble floor. They slashed futilely at the air with their weapons, bellowing hate and fear.

The seven sisters of Ammon ran, but rising walls of darkness blocked every exit. Terrible things floated out from those walls to gather them up in arms cold as death. The throne room was a vault of echoing screams, splashing blood, and death. Gammir, finished at last with the King’s sharp juices, turned one by one to the other guests. He let the Dwellers in Shadow take the impotent guardsmen and the terrified servants. He heard their bones crunching and the pieces of their torn bodies slapping against the floor as he went from lady to lady… aunt to aunt… sucking at the necks of his mother’s sisters. A wolf among penned sheep would have had no easier a feast.

This royal blood was saccharine, tasting of privilege, ripe fruits, good wine, and glittering ruby. It spilled across the table, the floor, stained the white-gold pillars to the red of cherries. The blood that fell across Gammir’s black mail seeped into the non-metal, feeding its enchantment. Gammir saved the two young Dukes for last. They wept like infants, minds reeling in the horror of the slaughter whose every second they had witnessed.