Seven Princes (55 page)

He fell into the cosmic orifice, shrinking as it pulled him deeper. Where Elhathym had been was now a swirling shard of the ultimate void. Iardu was a tiny speck lost in the depths of nothingness. Now rocks, trees and debris went flying into the void-mouth. It closed slowly, deliberately, until it was again the mouth of a yawning titan. Then that titan was a Giant, then the Giant was a solitary man wrapped in black silk and blood-colored jewels. He stood in triumph amid a wasteland that had once been called Zaashari.

Sharadza had crawled through the grass between mounds of rubble as he diminished. Her soundless tears spilled onto the ground like the trail a slug leaves behind as it glides.

Elhathym stood quietly in the smoking desolation. The waters of the sea had invaded the ruined cornfields, and the structures of man were obliterated. The coastline had been altered by the powers unleashed here. Perhaps he reflected on the loss of his five thousand Yaskathans or his legions of Vakai. For whatever reason, he stood silent as a statue, his silver mane waving in the wind.

Behind him Sharadza rose from a pile of pulped masonry, and she hurled the sun-spear with all her might.

It sped toward his back, and time seemed to slow. Dust-motes
danced in the air… Brown leaves blew between her and the sorcerer, stirred by the wind of her cast.

The bright spear struck Elhathym between the shoulders and passed half its length through his body. He stood transfixed by the bolt of sunfire, his robe smoking and burning, but he did not bleed.

He turned to face her, the golden spear-blade pointing from his breastbone like an accusing finger, flaming with sorcery. His eyes met hers across the brief expanse of ruined ground, and they were lightless things… as empty as the void he had become.

She held her breath. Her knees trembled.

His head fell back once again, and he laughed. The crown sparkled on his brow as he wrapped a hand about the spear and yanked it from his breast. He snapped it in two and it melted into rays of sunlight that faded on the wind.

He smiled at her, and she stared at the hole burned completely through his chest. As she watched, powerless to move, unable to fall or scream or even speak, shadows bled forth to fill that gaping wound.

He has no physical body
.

This is only a garment he wears to disguise his true substance
.

He is not a man at all
.

Elhathym reached a claw toward her, and a second claw, much larger and made of darkness, wrapped itself about her body. She reacted instinctively in the only way she could. Her flesh took on the gray pitted substance of the rocks under her feet. She became a statue of solid stone, frozen in his awful grip, but rigid and unfeeling. She could not have borne his chill touch on her soft flesh. It would have killed her.

He drew her close to study her granite features, admiring a skillful piece of sculpture.

“Princess,” he said, and even with ears of stone she heard him.

Inside the stone her consciousness lived and was fully aware.

Trapped.

“You have taken a form that is pleasing to me,” he whispered. “What a fine ornament you will make for my throne room.”

The dark claw shrank, and the Sharadza-statue shrank with it. She was fully in his power now. She could no more regain her fleshly substance than she could speak or run. Now she dwindled to a tiny figurine, a mere trinket in the palm of Elhathym’s hand.

“Perhaps in a while I’ll restore your tender and lovely flesh,” he said, “and you will please me in other ways.”

He tucked her into a pocket of his black robe. After that she knew only darkness.

Despite all her efforts, war had come and swept over her, a tide she did not even see until it completely drowned her. Like the ocean that drank the torn fields of Zaashari, it would spill across the land and devour every living thing.

She wanted to weep for Iardu, for Khama, both of whom had died because of her.

But a stone figurine could not weep any more than the statue of a Giantess could.

Gods of Earth and Sky, forgive me
.

T
he legions of Mumbaza moved across the plains of northern Yaskatha, a sea of white silk, bronze blades, and ebony faces. In their fists gleamed ten thousand spears, and tall plumes waved atop their masked helms. The vanguard was three legions of horsemen, their stallions caparisoned with silver and gold. At their center rode a blended cohort of warriors from Uurz, Shar Dni, and Udurum, northern banners flapping beside the flag of the Feathered Serpent. D’zan, Tyro, and Lyrilan rode in the front ranks, alongside a coal-black charger that carried the High General Tsoti. A blade of Udurum steel hung at the general’s side, a golden spear in his hand.

Behind the cavalry came five thousand spearmen on foot, wrapped in ivory cloaks and corselets of boiled leather. Each man bore a curved bronze blade and dagger, but they were devotees of the spear. Their shields were pointed vertical ovals made from wood, hide, and bone reinforced with ribs of bronze. In lieu of metal helms the footmen wore headdresses of war, towering displays of plumage on frameworks of bone and wire. From afar they seemed a vast flock of predatory birds.

Two thousand archers marched behind the spearmen, their
great bows of horn and cedar hung with the pale feathers of seabirds. Quivers stuffed with barbed arrows hung on their backs and bronze blades at their belts. They were Fangs of the Sky God, elite bowmen whose skills were legend across the continent.

A train of wagons bearing servants, supplies, fletchers, armorers, and weaponsmiths rolled after the archers, pulled by two hundred oxen and three hundred dromedaries. The rearguard was another legion of mounted cavalry to protect the precious caravan.

Priests of Sky, Sun, Earth, and Sea walked among the ranks, blessing warriors and speaking ancient parables. The six Adjutant Generals rode at strategic points among the legions, each reporting twice a day to Lord Tsoti. Since passing through the remains of Zaashari, the Mumbazans had craved priestly comfort more than ever.

In three days this massive force had been assembled under Lord Tsoti’s supervision. The Boy-King must remain in the city, so Tsoti was his eyes, ears, and hands in the field. D’zan learned quickly that the man was a hero to his people, a figure of nearly divine esteem. Tsoti stood taller than any man D’zan had seen, excepting the Giants of the northlands. His muscles seemed hewn from onyx, and the gray at his temples was the only sign of his age. Although Mumbaza had avoided war for a century, Tsoti had earned fame as a mercenary fighting in Trimesqua’s armies during the Island Wars. They said he slew a flesh-eating monster on some deserted island where his ship had been wrecked, saving hundreds of lives. D’zan met him in the Boy-King’s throne room, where he reported the readiness of his legions. He looked upon D’zan, the son of his old comrade, with fatherly eyes.

“Prince.” He greeted D’zan with a bow and a voice smooth as molten iron. “I knew you only as a babe in your mother’s arms. Now you are a man… and soon you will be a King.” He embraced D’zan, and the Prince could only smile and thank him.
Tsoti asked for word of Olthacus the Stone. His wide grin turned to a frown when D’zan gave him the news. That day had begun the trek southward, and D’zan was proud to ride in his company.

Four days later the vanguard discovered the mass of debris and wasted ground where proud Zaashari had recently thrived. There was nothing left of it but piles of crumbled stones. Tsoti pointed to where the hill-fortress had stood. The ground there now was flat and littered with black dust.

As the sun fell low beyond the sea, rotted corpses rose dumbly from the rubble and dirt. They stumbled toward the Mumbazans with gleaming dead eyes, and their grave-stench poisoned the air. Some were Zaashari folk, and some were the remains of Yaskathan soldiers. They grasped at the necks and limbs of living men, jaws snapping like vicious turtles. Tsoti sent warriors among them with spear and sword, but the dead men refused to die again.

“Flame,” D’zan told the High General. “We must burn them. Only flame will set them free.”

Tsoti drew his forces back and called for a cohort of archers, their arrows dipped in pitch and set alight. The Fangs of the Sky God never missed their shambling targets. In less than an hour every walking corpse was pinned and flaming. The reek of corrupt flesh was smothered by that of burning flesh. The dead things fell into heaps of ash and bone.

“This place must have been the center of the earthquakes we felt,” said Lyrilan from his saddle. He never strayed far from D’zan, and his presence was a steady comfort. “There is nothing left here.”

“Nothing but the dead,” said Tyro, “who now have truly died.”

“What forces must have been unleashed on this place…” Lyrilan mused.

D’zan shook his head. “The same forces that stole my father’s kingdom. This place has the stink of Elhathym. They must have
faced him here. There was a great battle, and these cursed dead were the result.”

“Then where are Khama, Sharadza, and Iardu?” asked Lyrilan. “If they were triumphant, we should find them here. If not, where is Elhathym?”

“He’s gone back to Yaskatha,” said D’zan. “I saw him in a dream last night, as I often do, sitting on father’s—on
my
throne. If he were dead, I would know it. He was
weakened
here, not defeated.”

“He will march north again,” said Tyro. He pulled his horse aside as a flaming revenant stumbled past and fell to the earth.

“We will not give him the chance,” said General Tsoti, riding back from his parley with the archer captain. “This usurper has wiped Zaashari from the map. There were five thousand citizens of Mumbaza living here, and three thousand soldiers garrisoned in the citadel. It is all gone… This is a war not of defense… but
vengeance
.”

“He has killed even more Yaskathans,” said D’zan. “Death is the wine he drinks, the wind he breathes across the world. We fight him not only for Yaskatha’s liberation and Mumbaza’s sovereignty, but for all of civilization.”

General Tsoti blinked his eyes beneath the brow of his golden helm. “You are your father’s son, D’zan,” he said.

The Mumbazan host made camp in the ruined valley. D’zan spoke with the High Sun-Priest about the ward on his greatsword. “This is an ancient symbol,” said the ecclesiastic. “It is indeed a symbol of the Bright God, and we can mark it upon the shields and spears of our warriors. But the secret of its magic has been lost to us for centuries. I cannot say if it will have much power over these shadow demons.”

“Perhaps if the men believe in its power,” said General Tsoti, “that power will manifest. I have found that, in battle, what a man
believes
gives him the power of life or death.”

So the Sun Priests worked their antique sigils on the shields and blades of the army. D’zan saw wisdom in Tsoti’s words. He prayed to the Bright God to invest these marks of ink and ash with all the power of the one he carried on his own blade. Either way the Mumbazans would face whatever evils Elhathym cast at them. He made sure that Tyro and Lyrilan were also marked with the sun symbol. Lyrilan wore his gilded mail; now he carried spear and longblade instead of quill and parchment.

D’zan remarked on this when morning broke over dead Zaashari. The Mumbazans pavilioned in round tents assembled from hide and wooden hoops. He entered Lyrilan’s tent as the Prince was pulling on his mail shirt.

“You no longer carry a manuscript,” said D’zan. “Have you given up on writing my life’s story?” He smiled to show his good humor.

Lyrilan strapped the longblade to his belt and tied his long curls behind his head. “Not at all,” he said. “I simply realized I was going about it all wrong. The story has grown, D’zan. As much as I tried to stand outside its pages to chronicle its characters and events, I could not do it. I am a part of the story now, whether I like it or not. My mistake was in trying to write the thing down as it was happening. I need to
live
the story first, as you do. When it has finally ended, only then can I go back and write it. The Sea Beast taught me that. I will not ignore its lesson.”

D’zan clapped him on the shoulder. “You are a good friend, Lyrilan. You could have walked away from this at any time. Yet here you stand. I will never forget what you and Tyro have done for me.”

Lyrilan splashed cold water on his face from a bowl. “How could I walk away from such a compelling tale?” he said. “As for Tyro… well, he loves a good fight.”

Four more days along the coast and the brown hills became the green plains of northern Yaskatha. Groves of cypress grew infrequently about the rolling landscape. Directly south, another two days’ travel, lay the seacoast city where Elhathym sat on Trimesqua’s throne. The tyrant would not allow a siege; instead he sent the Yaskathan legions northward to secure the border plains. From the crest of a high ridge, D’zan, Tyro, Lyrilan, and General Tsoti observed the massive host sent to thwart their advance.

Twelve legions of Yaskathans were assembled in vast four-sided formations spread across the green tableland. Their colors were silver and crimson. At their head flew the tree-and-sword banner, which Elhathym in his cunning had not sought to change. These men would fight for the flag of their nation no matter who sat upon the throne. If he had replaced that national emblem with one of his own creation, it would only dampen the morale of his troops. Their cavalry were as mighty as the Mumbazans’, and more numerous: three-thousand mailed lancers mounted on chargers bred for battle. Thousands of footmen with pike, sword, and shield comprised the bulk of their forces, and a great cohort of archers was stationed as expected – in the rear of the host, where they could send volleys arcing over the heads of the forward ranks.