14
The Gates of Uurz
The dream is one with the revolving world itself. We are currents of air gliding across stone and carving ancient patterns into the rock. We are the rock itself, born of heat and slowed to form and weight and density by time and forces unseen. We are the ocean and its waves, the storms tearing trees from the soil and the grass sprouting from mounds of black earth. We are the deep gorges and ice-crowned peaks, the parched and steaming deserts, the verdant fruits ripe with sunlight, the moldering bones of graveyards, and the living blood that courses through living things.
There is only the dream, which encircles and gives birth to the dreamer. We are motes in the great field of consciousness that is everywhere, all at once, rising and subsiding in an endless dance of creation and destruction. We are made from the light of stars and spread by the gusts of eternity.
Time and space are fleeting concepts in the greater dream, and we are their reflections, staring back at ourselves, often without recognizing our true nature.
We are patterns, like everything born of the great world-dream, spinning, churning, producing further patterns. Patterns within patterns.
This is wisdom. It is the light of the dream we inhabit.
This is peace. There are no distinctions here between what is and what has been and what will be. This is the All, and it is the center of existence.
And yet…
A glimmer of something separate intrudes on this panorama of boundless unity.
This is memory.
It floods into us like warm blood, pouring from a wound in the substance of the living world. Black talons rip at the dream, shredding it like supple flesh, bleeding awareness into our communal soul. Suddenly we remember…
I remember.
We are not one soul, but four.
This dream is not ours after all. It belongs to Udgrond. Its patterns spin across infinity, but we lose sight of them as we sink into those that are most familiar to us.
This is now.
Yes, we have awakened from Udgrond’s world-dream. Is it time?
The leaden weight of urgency falls upon me like the blow of a great hammer. How long has it been? Udgrond drew us into his dream and kept us there. But for how long?
My eyes open. I see a network of cracks and fissures like translucent veins. The crystalline quartz of our prison shatters. The great pillar in which Udgrond trapped our spirit-selves falls to pieces as our souls leave his world-dream. A fleeting vision of oneness, the dream has already left our minds.
“Iardu…”
A voice calls my name, confirming my identity. Below us the physical shards of our broken prison explode against the cavern floor. The orange flames of deep-earth fires leap from chasms in the darkness. The titan of condensed magma reclines still on his throne. His size dwarfs our floating spirits. Udgrond’s flesh has darkened, yet it has not completely cooled. Red veins of molten silver gleam across his chest and limbs. His eyes are closed and dark.
How long have we slept?
“Iardu! Awaken, you fool!”
A specter of red-black flame hovers before me. At first I do not recognize it. I turn instead to the three spirits who were entrapped with me. Sharadza blinks at me like a drowsy ghost. Alua’s spirit-self is a figure sculpted of white flame. Vaazhia’s forked tongue darts in and out of her mouth as she raises ethereal claws. She already knows who has freed us. I sense the mingled fury and fear that radiates from the lizardess.
Now I see clearly the pale face at the heart of the ebony and ruby flames. White as bone, and cruel in its loveliness. Eyes that resemble black diamonds in the physical world seem more like empty voids in this ghostly state.
“Ianthe.” I speak her name with suspicion. She is my enemy.
“Who else could have freed you from this fool’s fate?” Ianthe asks. Her void-eyes examine my three spirit companions. I recall our physical selves locked inside my sanctum in the world far above. Through the formless current that connects me to my living body, I sense that it still lives. Therefore, it is likely that my companions’ bodies are unharmed as well.
Now Sharadza recognizes the presence of the Claw. “You?” There is horror in her soundless voice. “Blood-drinking monster! Slayer of innocents! You will never reclaim me.”
Ianthe laughs. “Nor would I wish to, Daughter of Vod. You are less than nothing to me. I come for the Shaper.”
Vaazhia hisses.
Alua forms a globe of white spirit-flame and holds it in her fist like a dagger. The wife of Vireon knows she cannot harm Ianthe in this form, or there would be no stopping her from the attempt. There must be a final confrontation between these two, and it will be terrible. Yet it cannot be here in this forsaken place below the world.
“You freed us from the dream of Udgrond.” I say it to remind Alua of this fact, and because I hardly believe it myself. I do not trust this deliverance, yet I must accept it.
“If I had not done so, you would have lingered here for a thousand years,” Ianthe says. “You always were a Prince of Fools, but this is your saddest folly.”
Ianthe’s words should not sting me, but they do. She is right. I should never have come here seeking to wake Udgrond from his long dream. It was a grievous error born of desperation. This one mistake could have meant the end of everything that I worked long ages to build.
“You have my gratitude,” I tell her, “if not my love.”
“I had that long ago,” she says. “You forgot the pleasures we shared when you forgot your true self.”
“Say rather when I discovered my true self, Claw.”
Her smile is beautiful and wicked.
“I do not understand,” Sharadza says, hovering near to me. “This creature is the enemy of us all. Why has she aided us?”
Alua’s flaming spirit erupts. It rushes toward Ianthe’s ghost-self. “Twice you have murdered me,” Alua says. “I remember now.”
“No, Alua,” I warn her. “Today is not the day to pursue the vengeance rightly owed to you. We are weak in this place, and too far from our physical selves. Ianthe is our enemy, yes, but she has saved us.”
“Why?” Vaazhia spits like a cobra. If she were inside her body, it would be venom rather than mere words. “Why rescue your enemies, Bitch of Khyrei? We will not serve you. Rather put us back in the titan’s prison than ask it.”
Ianthe’s empty eyes focus on Vaazhia’s coiled spirit-self. “We have no time for this, Lizard-Queen,” says the Claw. “You are not in my debt, nor would I ever accept your service. I can see that you serve only Iardu. Has he bedded you to earn your allegiance?”
Vaazhia writhes and hisses. I calm her as best I can. A caress of my astral hand pulls her back. I move between the souls of the three women and that of the Claw.
“Enough!” I say. “How long have we slept?”
“I know not when you first stumbled into this trap like a brace of stupid hares,” says Ianthe. “My far sight found you down here four days after the taking of the Sharrian valley. A mighty slaughter it was. Your Giant-King fell to the blade of Zyung, and your northern legions were decimated. Three days from now the God-King moves his Holy Armada to take Uurz.”
Sharadza cries out when Ianthe mentions the fall of Vireon. She longs to ask if her brother still lives, but she will not lower herself to ask this of the Claw.
“You should have been there, Shaper,” says Ianthe. She grins, enjoying the pain her words bring. “Yet you were held fast in the dream of Udgrond while your body lay at rest. You slept while thousands of your people died. You abandoned them.”
“Stop it!” She has raised my ire. She has known how to do this since the world was a cooling mass of stellar gasses. “Do not tell me of my own failings! They will haunt me enough without your gloating. You say we have three days until Zyung sails for Uurz.”
“In the evening of that same day his dreadnoughts will reach the green-gold city,” she says. “This time you must be there to face him, along with any of the Old Breed who will stand with you. There are a thousand of our kind who serve Zyung, although they are Diminished in his presence. I have freed you from Udgrond only so that you may stop the advance of Zyung. Never forget that I have done so.”
“Do you then stand with us?” I ask. It cannot be so easy.
“No,” she said. “I sail with Zyung. Yet you already know this.”
“You hide your treachery well.” Suddenly it becomes plain to me why Ianthe has rescued us. We must rise and reclaim our bodies now. There will be no aid from Udgrond.
“You have three days, Shaper,” Ianthe says. Distant stars blink in the abyss of her eyes. “I could have entered your citadel and destroyed your bodies. I did not. Remember this too.”
The red-black flame rises into the raw stone of the cavern roof.
“Come,” I say. “We must arise.” I steal a last look at Udgrond slumbering on his throne.
Our spirit-selves rush upward far faster than they descended. Thousands of leagues of magma, rock, and glittering earth-crust flash by us like a torrent of waters. Yet it is our souls that move, not the substances about us. The rush of ascension is dizzying. At its end the world of flesh and blood claims us as the earth claims a falling star. Yet we have fallen upward, and the star is our united immortal essence.
Our bond fades, and our bodies reclaim their spirits.
Again my eyes open, and this time they are actual eyes. Groggy and unsteady on our feet, we rise up to stand about the circle of power. With a word of dismissal I break the spell, plucking the Flame of Intellect from the circle and restoring it to my chest. Our bodies are sore and stiff after long days of lying inert. Our bellies are empty and growling. A great thirst strikes me like a shot arrow.
“We must refresh ourselves,” I say, “then travel at once to Uurz.”
When the spirit chamber’s doors open, Eyeni greets me by rubbing her cheek against my thigh. “You slept too long, Father,” she says. “I was worried.” She lopes beside me as we walk the corridor to my dining hall. Her tiny wings flutter upon the glossy fur of her back.
“I am unharmed, child,” I reassure her, stroking her hair. I do not mention that Ianthe’s spirit-self somehow eluded my guardian’s astral vigilance and followed us into the titan’s domain. If Eyeni had stopped her, we would still be lost in his long dream. Or Ianthe would have slain Eyeni to reach me. There are some powers that cannot be prevented from going where they wish to go. I recall Ianthe’s condemnation of my own foolishness and mentally chastise myself. I cannot afford to make such a mistake again.
Thousands upon thousands have died already, and we are out of time.
My guests gather about the banquet table beneath the tapestries of fallen kingdoms. Invisible attendants bring us a meal of fruit, cheese, fresh bread, and roasted lobster. I drink deep of the wine, a heady Yaskathan vintage, and stuff my empty belly until it is full. Sharadza, Alua, and Vaazhia break their fasts as well, pausing only to ask questions of me. Sharadza eats hardly at all; concern for her brother outweighs even her deep hunger.
Outside the high windows sunlight gleams across the green ocean. The tittering of monkeys in the courtyard mingles with the joyous songs of birds. These favorite sounds revive my spirit as the food and drink enliven my body.
Sharadza speaks first. I already know the worry that darkens her emerald eyes. “Ianthe said that Vireon was dead. Is it true?” She looks at me as a child looks to its father for truth.
“We will know soon,” I tell her. “The Claw mixes lies with truth. Nor does she know all. Before the sun sets, Alua’s magic will carry us to Uurz most swiftly.”
“Vireon is my husband,” says Alua, as if remembering this for the first time. Sharadza clutches her hand. There is concern but no sadness in Alua’s eyes. I think that she still does not recall her love for the Vodson, although she remembers the man himself. When she sees Vireon in the flesh, that will be the test. And if he is truly dead, then it will be better for Alua that she does not remember too much.
“Why did the bitch truly aid us?” Vaazhia asks. She drinks wine and eats lobster, but has no taste for the other foods. I should have called for red meat to suit her tastes. But there is little time for such indulgence.
“Ianthe seeks to use us,” I say. “As she is using Zyung.”
“To what end?” says Sharadza. She knows Ianthe’s cruelty firsthand. It has left a scar upon her soul that will never be completely healed.
“She wishes to pit me and my allies against the God-King, hoping that we will defeat him.”
“Why does she not rise against him herself?” asks Sharadza. “She is of the Old Breed, and no doubt Gammir will obey her.”
“Because she fears Zyung,” I say. “As great as Ianthe’s power is, it is no match for that of Zyung. She must have fled into his service when we defeated her at Khyrei, and taken the bastard with her. These two cannot hope to stand against the God-King and his thousand High Seraphim. A legion of Old Breed has been chained to Zyung’s will, as we were chained to the dream of Udgrond for a while. Yet Zyung’s long dream is an earthly force, a grand theory put into practice, a dogma of absolute order. The longer Ianthe serves him, the more she is Diminished by his will, as these others have been.”
“She would have us rid her of Zyung,” says Alua.
“She will break Zyung’s hold on her only if we cast him down,” says Vaazhia.
“And she will claim his empire for her own,” I say. “She will become him.”
“Does she put so much faith in us?” Sharadza asks. “Can we defeat this God-King?”
There is quiet about the table.
“We must try,” I say. “Perhaps Ianthe will aid us when the time is right. I sense that Khama still lives as well. He lies recovering in Uurz even now, with the rest of the survivors.”
“Can you not sense Vireon?” Sharadza pleads.
“Vireon carries the blood of the Old Breed, but he is not one of them,” I explain. “My bond with Khama is strong. I would sense his death from any distance. As for Vireon, and the rest of the Kings, we must go to them now.”
I stand and ask Alua to work her spell. The power swells deep inside her. Vaazhia, too, seethes with restrained energies. Our return to the sunlit world has awakened her lust for life. We do not have Udgrond, but I am glad for the presence of the lizardess.
Alua spins her white flame about us and we rise, gliding through an open window. The gray-white citadel grows small beneath us. The ocean glimmers in all directions. Alua turns her eyes toward the distant coastline, and her comet streaks across the blue sky.
Sharadza’s hand slips into my own. I hold it tighter than I should. In her worried state, she does not seem to mind. If my tragic error has caused the death of her brother, I will never forgive myself.
Hand in hand, we hurtle toward the Stormlands.
The City of Wine and Song prepared for a siege. The folk of a hundred surrounding villages streamed along the Eastern and Western Roads toward the gates of Uurz. Many led entire herds of sheep, goats, or pigs, hoping to find refuge as well as profit behind the city’s walls.
From inside Alua’s rushing flame we watched the men, women, and children of the Stormlands converge on the city. The gates would remain open until Uurz had swelled to the point of saturation; those left outside would have to fend for themselves when the Hordes of Zyung came. Very few common folk knew that the sturdy walls of the city would mean nothing to an enemy who could sail above them on currents of wind.
The skies above the Stormlands were cloudy yet calm when we crossed them. If they had been raging with storms or blackened by thunderheads, I would be assured of Vireon’s health. Like his father before him, the weather often reflected his temperament. It was Vod who turned black desert to green plain, loosing rivers from the earth and rains from the sky. Vireon held this legacy and more of Vod’s magic in his blood. Lately he had discovered this fact and embraced it. Yet he had not learned the full depth of his power. If he still lived, I would show it to him.
The globe of white flame sinks toward the great palace at the heart of Uurz. I look across its jumbled vista of streets, orchards, and commons. Although every tavern and shop is crowded, there is little mirth and far less music than usual. An aura of fear hangs about the metropolis like a cloying fog.
Among verdant roof-gardens the noble families gather to fret and glare at the commoners milling below their walls. In the orchards and vineyards of the palace, groups of servants rush to fill baskets with produce that will be priceless treasures if the siege is a long one. Along the congested avenues, merchants haggle with laborers and ask triple the normal price for their goods. Farmers and brickmakers trade in their shovels and trowels for swords and spears, hiding their families in cellars, rented hovels, or overpriced inns. Legions of soldiers in green cloaks patrol the main thoroughfares while the city ramparts teem with spearmen, their eyes aimed eastward, searching for the first sign of the invaders.
Alua sets us down in the palace courtyard. Wing-helmed guards rush forward waving spears as if we four are the Hordes of Zyung. The white flame fades and I raise my hand, announcing myself and my companions. They usher us toward the Grand Hall, where I expect to see Tyro sitting bandaged and exhausted from battle and flight. Yet the Sword King Emperor is not here. The throne of Uurz–not long ago it was a double throne–sits empty now. In a high-backed chair before the royal dais sits a lean man with a prominent nose. I recognize him as Lord Mendices, Warlord of Uurz. His golden seat is the chair of a Regent. By this alone I know that Tyro is dead.
“Iardu the Shaper,” Mendices calls out to me. “We expected you at Shar Dni.” A score of guards in golden cuirasses stand between the marble pillars. A crowd of nobles and advisors lingers about Mendices, ready to carry out his orders and impress him with their counsel.
Mendices does not need to condemn me with any harsher words. The simple fact of my missing the lost battle is enough to make me cringe before his hard gaze. His shoulder is wrapped in white linen, yet still he wears the gear of an active-duty legionnaire. A sword hangs from his waist, reminding any who have eyes on the vacant throne that he, Mendices, has control of Uurz’s surviving legions. He is the one man standing between the city and a horde of invading Manslayers.
I offer him a bow of respect, yet not the low bow I would offer to a King. “It pains me to say that I was hindered by a power greater than my own,” I say. “Yet I have escaped to bring Vireon’s sister and wife, along with the sorceress Vaazhia, Queen of the Forgotten City. We stand with Uurz now in its moment of need.”
“Where is Vireon?” asks Sharadza. “Tell me he yet lives…” She cares nothing for courtly etiquette, and I cannot blame her.
Mendices studies each of my companions for a moment, his gaze falling at last upon Sharadza. “The Giant-King lives, yet I cannot say for how much longer. He is grievously wounded.”
Sharadza falls into my arms, pressing her cheek against my neck. Alua blinks at me.
“What of the Emperor?” I ask, already knowing what the Warlord will say.
“Tyro died bravely,” says Mendices. His tone is not what I expected. Instead of an accusation tinged with rage, it is the tenor of a grieving father. I see now that he loved Tyro. “He died in battle, drowned by a sea of foes that his sword could not touch. The bloodshadows of the cursed valley.”
“Why does the Empress Talondra not sit upon the throne?”
“She too is dead,” says the Warlord. “Though none can say how, I suspect sorcery.”
“These are dark days indeed,” I say. “There are no words for such deep loss. What of Undutu and D’zan?”
“The first is dead, the second yet lives. D’zan rests now in a palace bed.”
Tyro and Undutu. Lost. And Vireon dying. A slab of granite falls from my heart into my stomach. I stagger, but Sharadza’s grip keeps me from falling.
“There is no time for tears,” I say, as much to myself as to those around me. “The enemy will be at our gates in three days. Show us to the Giant-King. I will do what I can to prevent his death.”
Mendices’ long face damns me without words. There are many deaths you should have prevented. You have failed us. Yet he surprises me again by escorting us personally to the helpless Vireon’s chamber. It lies beyond a tall corridor lined with a dozen Giant guards. Some of them lean wearily upon their spears. Their thick skins bear the marks of keen metal, their furs, cloaks, and corslets begrimed with dried blood. Most of them are blue-skinned Udvorg, yet three pale Uduru stand among them.
“The Giants guard their King in shifts,” explains Mendices. “Fourteen hundred of them rest inside the palace; they cast lots for this revolving duty. It has been so since we arrived two days ago.”
“How many Men survived the battle?” I ask.
We approach the great iron doors at the end of the corridor.
Mendices winces at the pain in his shoulder. “Far too few. Two Legions of Uurz. A single legion of Udurum. Less than ten thousand soldiers, all told.”
The sheer depth of our losses steals my breath. Sharadza weeps quietly beside me. Nine out of every ten Men died in Zyung’s onslaught, as well as two brave Kings, and possibly a third. How different would the outcome have been, if only I had been there? If I had taken my three companions to the Sharrian valley instead of spirit-roaming into the depths of the earth? I will never know the answer to this question. I cannot let it torment me until I do what must be done.
Vireon must not die.
We stand before the double door now, staring at its inlaid mosaic of curling Serpents and battling Giants. Mendices knocks upon the portal with his golden vambrace. The hall and room were prepared specifically to accommodate visiting Giantkind. There are other lofty places throughout the palace, where the Udvorg have been quartered.
Before we enter I ask Mendices one more question. My voice lowers so that only he and I can hear it. “How many legions does Uurz yet possess?”
“Twelve,” says the Warlord. “Yet there is no King to lead them.” He walks back down the corridor as the big doors open from the inside. An Uduri spearmaiden stands before us. In the rush of thoughts that fills my mind, I cannot recall her name. Sharadza rushes past her. I follow with Alua and Vaazhia in tow. Alua’s steps are hesitant, as if she were a virgin bride walking to meet her ordained husband for the first time.
The chamber is a broad oval, supported by columns of purple marble veined with black. The colors of Udurum. On a great bed at its far end lies Vireon, as small now as any normal man. Twenty-two solemn Uduri stand about the flame-lit chamber, their yellow braids gleaming like strands of gemstones upon their shoulders. Their faces turn to me, then to Sharadza, and finally to Alua. Recognizing the Queen they all thought to be dead, the awed Uduri fall to their knees. All save one, who was already on her knees at the bedside of Vireon. She weeps, but her eyes are fixed upon the dying King. She holds his small hand in her great one.
Sharadza steps near to her sleeping brother. A thick bandage stained to crimson encircles Vireon’s entire abdomen. I recall the name of the Giantess who holds Vireon’s hand. It is Dahrima, first among his household guard. She embraces Sharadza as one of her sisters, and the two weep together.
As I approach with Vaazhia at my side, Alua walks more slowly. She does not know how to respond to these Giantesses who seem to worship her. Ianthe stole so much of her memory, I wonder if she remembers any of the spearmaidens.
Dahrima’s wet eyes look up from Sharadza’s to meet those of Alua.
Whatever emotions glimmer there like doused embers, I cannot name them. Yet the Giantess backs away from the returned Queen, as if in horror. Dahrima cannot long meet Alua’s gaze, so she turns away and leaves the bedside. She takes her longspear from the wall and finds her station among the rest of the Uduri, who have risen to their feet again. They stand solid as statues, waiting for their King to rise up and lead them again into battle. Or waiting perhaps to carry his bones toward a distant tomb.
Sharadza takes Vireon’s hand. She speaks his name, but his eyes do not flutter. His breathing is shallow, his face pale. There is little life remaining inside his body.
Alua looks at her husband with an impenetrable expression. Is it fear, or love, or both? Her eyes are dry, and as cool as black ice. She remains silent. The sobbing of Sharadza and the crackling of flames fills the chamber as I draw near to the one I have failed.
She had run all night long, and well into the next morning. The blood had dried across her lower body in the first few hours, a second skin of brackish purple.
When the sun arose it was a white disk set in a gray sky. A soft, warm rain fell, washing the gore from her hair and skin as she sprinted. Traces of it remained stuck in the grooves of her corslet and beneath her nails. It had stained her leggings and boots thoroughly. The great wound in Vireon’s chest, and the matching hole in his back, had clotted in her tight grip. It oozed darkly now rather than bleeding.
Her spearsisters followed, ragged and exhausted. The ones who had escaped major wounds caught up to her, while the rest fell behind. Twenty-two Uduri had survived the massacre in the valley; six spearsisters had been slain by the killing lights, yet none by the blades of Manslayers.
Dahrima wondered as she ran: How many Udvorg and Uduru had the sorcerers burned alive? Hundreds, at the least, along with thousands of Men.
She had not run toward any specific destination, not at first. She only meant to get Vireon as far away from his enemies as possible. It was a kind of madness that had fallen upon her. The madness of grief.
The soft rains grew into a steady downpour, and the stalks of steppe grass stood as high as the belts of the Uduri. Men could easily get lost in that forest of long grasses, and often they did so. It was Vantha the Tigress who had finally convinced Dahrima to stop and take a moment of rest. Vireon was still breathing, though Dahrima could not get his eyes to stay open. He felt weightless in her arms, and she feared there would be no lifeblood left inside his veins by the next sunrise.
Atha Spearhawk wrapped the Giant-King’s chest tightly with a woolen cloak taken from a passing villager. Dahrima had failed to notice the isolated farming villages that dotted the plain. The cloakless farmer ran back to his collection of tiny huts and roused his folk. They fled southwest toward the gates of Uurz. Atha told the farm folk to spread warning of the bloody horde that would soon cross their plain, and she claimed the cloak as payment for the information.
“We also must go to Uurz,” said Vantha. She kneeled next to Dahrima and studied Vireon’s bloodless face. How similar the peaceful look of dying was to the look of sleeping. “The general retreat began when we left the valley. Any survivors will come to the City of Sacred Waters. The Sword King will have physicians and wizards there to aid Vireon.”
“The Sword King is dead,” Atha said. “I saw him devoured by shadows.”
“Yet the Warlord of Uurz commands his legions still,” said Yasha the Flamehair. “He blew the horn that called the retreat.”
“Let us await the Warlord here then,” said Atha.
“No,” said Dahrima. “We must run and bring news of the defeat to Uurz. It will take the survivors at least three days to reach the city gates, perhaps longer if there are many wounded among them. Every second we delay could mean Vireon’s death.” She stood once more with the Giant-King cradled in her arms. His breathing was faint, his heart barely beating.
There were sighs of weariness and moans of pain as the spear-maidens arose about her. The rain had paused momentarily, but the wind brought it back stronger. It blew cold upon their faces.
“We are Uduri,” said Vantha. “Let us run!”
All that day and the following night they sprinted, crossing the very heart of the Stormlands. They waded across the Eastern Flow rather than wasting time to locate one of its five bridges. Always the passing of the Uduri was an unspoken warning to the villages in their path. The plantations sprouted thicker and closer together as the Giantesses neared the walls of Uurz. Sight of the sprinting Uduri convinced even the most stubborn doubters that invasion was nigh. A line of plainsmen with carts, wagons, and herds of livestock lined up before the city’s great gate.
Vantha ran ahead, shouting the crowds off the road, clearing the way for Dahrima and her burden. When the gatekeepers saw the Giant-King’s limp body, they formed an escort to accompany Dahrima’s band directly to the palace. There a nervous steward showed Dahrima to the Giant Quarters and summoned the royal physician to tend Vireon.
“There is little more that I can do,” the bearded codger told Dahrima. He had cleansed the wound, wrapped Vireon with white bandages, and poured a foul-smelling elixir down the Giant-King’s throat. He told her the medicine was brewed by a clever alchemist who was also a known wizard, and that it would revive Vireon if his spirit had not already fled the body. Yet the potion had done nothing. The next morning Vireon still lay barely breathing, pale as a corpse, and a fever had set his brow to burning.
Dahrima and her sisters had not left Vireon’s chamber. Servants brought them wine, food, and the physician treated their wounds as best he could. The more seriously wounded of the spear maidens arrived with the Warlord Mendices and his retreating forces. The Uduri respectfully ignored Dahrima’s tears. They said nothing of the way she cradled his head in the crook of her arm, or the soft words she spoke into his ear. They stood by her as she sat with him hour after hour. At times they rested on the lush carpets, only to rise and stand at attention once again.
Vireon looked so small in the bed sized for a Giant. Yet he was still the Giant-King, and while in Uurz he belonged in this chamber. Dahrima dozed for a while, her head resting on the side of his bed. When she awoke, she examined his face and saw that nothing had changed.
Come back, Son of Vod. She whispered the words so that none in the chamber would hear them but Vireon. You have a judgment to pass upon me. Cast me in chains, throw me into the dungeons of Udurum, banish me to the furthest reaches of the Icelands, but come back and sit upon your throne again.
She fell asleep a second time, dreaming that Vireon awakened, met her eyes with his own, and whispered his love for her. He kissed her while the Uduri knelt about them and hid their faces. Then she awoke gasping and fell into despair once again.
I love you, Vireon Vodson, she whispered. If this is a crime, then add it to my list.
She no longer cared if her sisters heard. Surely they must know her feelings, watching her linger by his side. A memory rushed into her head as she held his limp hand, hot as fire. She had been a girl, no more than ten or twelve seasons old, when her mother Khorima had sat beside her dying father in this exact posture. Ingthr the Steelheart had also been pale and fevered in his sickbed. The tusks of a great Udhog had pierced her father’s flesh deep in two places. He had lived long enough to be carried on a litter back to Old Udurum. This was seven hundred and fifty years before the Return of Omagh and the destruction of the Giants’ ancestral home.
Dahrima had offered her dying father a horn of bittermead, the favored drink of hunters, hoping it would revive him. Her mother had taken the flask and helped Ingthr drink a little, but it only threw him into a fit of coughing. Dahrima had recalled for decades the bloody flecks that flew from his lips during those coughs, and she was sure her well-intentioned act had caused her father’s death. Ingthr had lasted until the next morning, and Dahrima had wept for days.
Khorima had taken her daughter aside after the pyre had burned Ingthr’s body to smoke and ashes. “You must be strong,” she’d told Dahrima. “Nothing that dies is ever lost. Your father’s strength lives on in your bones. You are Uduri, and on the cusp of womanhood. Let us be done with weeping. Let the flames of your father’s pyre burn away your tears. When you run on the Long Hunt, when you face the Udhog or the mountain lion and cast a longspear, every strike will honor your father’s memory.”
Dahrima had cried no more after that. Yet her mother had wept in secret. Ten seasons later a wasting disease claimed Khorima’s life. The Uduri said she died of a broken heart. Ingthr’s wife had lived long enough to see her daughter grown, then departed the world to join her husband.
If you die, I will die as she did, Dahrima whispered now.
Come back to me.
Five days after the great defeat, Vireon lay still at the edge of death. The Uduri spoke in hushed tones about the surviving Udvorg and Uduru, the Legions of Uurz, and the death of Tyro’s Empress. Dahrima cared nothing for any of these things. It was the chattering of ravens roosted about her and waiting for death.
She realized then that she, too, waited for death, although she hoped for life.
Come back, Vodson.
At midday the chamber’s black doors opened and Iardu the Shaper entered. Dahrima had slept very little, and she did not have the strength to rage at him for abandoning Vireon to his enemies. Sharadza Vodsdaughter walked beside Iardu, and a strangely beautiful woman with a horned skull and the skin of a reptile. The fourth person to enter was a girl with unbound hair the color of spun gold and eyes the shade of deep night. A great cloak of white fur hung from her shoulders, and a gown of snow-colored fabric hugged her lean body.
Sharadza rushed to embrace Dahrima. If not for the distraction of this embrace, Dahrima would have recognized the blonde Goddess sooner. As Sharadza caressed her brother’s brow, the Uduri began dropping to their knees.
“The Queen…” Their voices were low and heavy with wonder. “The Queen lives!”
Dahrima wiped her bloodshot eyes and looked into the face of Alua.
You died. I saw your mangled corpse frozen atop the Mountain of Ghosts.
Many of my sisters perished in the quest to avenge your death.
Yet here you stand, watching with dry eyes as Vireon dies.
Dahrima might have screamed at the strangeness of the dead Queen’s presence, but then she remembered something that explained all of it.
She is a sorceress. Like Ianthe, she cannot truly die.
Iardu has brought her back to Vireon.
There was no recognition in Alua’s eyes when she looked at Dahrima. She stared at Vireon in that same blank manner, as if she observed a sick stranger instead of her own husband.
Dahrima moved away from the bed and took up her spear. She joined her sisters standing at attention between the pillars.
Save him. She watched the sorcerer and his three sorceresses gather about Vireon. It had taken far too long for Iardu to gather these powers. Yet the Shaper and his allies had come at last. The Mistress of the White Flame had returned.
Save him, Deathless Queen, and it will be enough.
He is yours, never mine. I will not forget this again.
He is my King, and I am only his servant. Only that forever.
Rekindle his dying fire with your white magic.
Let it burn away these tears.
It pains me to pull Sharadza away from her dying brother, but I must.
I lead her from the bed so that Alua can approach Vireon. Sharadza presses her tear-stained face to my shoulder. Her hands squeeze my arm. I must be the rock she clings to in this storm of grief.
Alua kneels at the bedside. Her fingers run along Vireon’s pallid cheek. Still she does not weep, but I believe she now recognizes him. The strands of her memory are thin and frayed, but not wholly broken.
“Vireon.” She says his name like a holy word. “My husband. My King.” She turns glimmering eyes to me. “I do remember him.”
Do you remember the daughter you had with him? Or the tragedy of that lie?
If she had remembered Ianthe’s posing as Maelthyn, a seven-year deception that ended in betrayal and death, she would have tried to battle Ianthe’s spirit-form in the underworld. I do not think I could have stopped her. If she remembers it now, it will surely shatter her.
“He loves you,” Sharadza tells Alua. “More than anything.” Alua kisses the Giant-King’s lips. The kiss is gentle. “I loved him too.”
Loved. Has her most recent death stolen that love? If so, can it be restored?
I have no answer for these questions. Yet now is not the time to seek them.
I lean close and peel away the stained bandage about Vireon’s midsection. The wound is terrible, a suppurating mass of ruptured flesh. It may go deeper than the flesh.
I take Alua’s hand and place it upon the open wound.
“Call upon your white flame,” I tell her. “Close this wound, Alua.”
Her look says I will try. She has no confidence. She remembers Vireon, but she has lost the deep love they shared.
Pale light slips from the skin of her palm, sinking into Vireon’s gouged flesh. It erupts into a dancing flame, like the blue Flame of Intellect dancing on my own chest. Alua’s power burns without heat. The torn flesh sears and blends, knitting itself back together. When Alua removes her hand, the wound has closed, leaving only a great scar stretching from sternum to navel.
Sharadza breathes a sigh of relief behind me. I touch the new flesh of the scar. Vireon’s skin is still pale. Still cold. I feel no heart beating in his chest. His eyes do not flutter.
“Will he live?” Sharadza asks. Her hand trembles on my shoulder.
I must tell her the truth. If he dies it is my fault. I cannot compound my crime with a lie.
“The wound is closed and the flesh is whole,” I say. “Yet the blade of Zyung tore through spirit as well as body. I fear the damage is greater than we can see.”
“What does that mean?” Sharadza asks. There is panic in her voice. Desperation. Love.
“It means we must wait,” I tell her. I hold her hands and bring my face as close to hers as I dare. Her eyes are drowning emeralds. “Alua’s presence may call him back. Or his soul may have wandered too far away from his flesh. It may be too late.”
“How long?” she asks. Always one for impossible questions.
“I cannot say. But I will not leave his side. And I will do what I can to aid him. I promise you. Try to get some rest.”
“I’ll not leave this room,” she says.
I ask an Uduri to bring a cot for her. It takes a while, but I convince Sharadza to lie upon it and sleep next to her brother’s bed. Alua sits near Vireon, his hand in her own. This reminds me of Dahrima, who did the same before we arrived. She stands now among the rest of the spearmaidens, but she does not share their icy detachment. Her eyes are red with weeping. I see the worry that obscures her face like a gray mask. I see also that Vireon is far more than a King in Dahrima’s heart.
Servants bring us wine and food. The drink eases my vigil, but the quiet of the chamber weighs upon me like a set of chains. Alua whispers to Vireon, speaking of wildflowers and snowy hillsides. Her voice and touch may be what he needs to bring him back to us.
I watch and wait. Sharadza and Vaazhia sleep.
As I pour another cup of wine, the chamber doors swing open yet again. A wounded warrior stands there. I recognize him as D’zan of Yaskatha when he shuffles into the light of flaming braziers. He moves slowly as an old man, though he is in the prime of his life. Bandages cover his arms and legs, chest and waist. Another dressing winds about his forehead, pushing back his mane of thick blond hair. I am glad to see him alive, yet the number of his wounds is appalling. The great blade of Olthacus the Stone still hangs upon his back. The weapon seems to weigh him down like a yoke of iron, yet his eyes gleam bright as candles. He has come to see his Queen.
“She sleeps,” I tell him. I offer him a chair at the table where attendants have placed pomegranates, pears, and a roasted pheasant with black bread. He bends to kiss Sharadza’s cheek without waking her, then he sits painfully. His jaw is clean-shaven, and in the absence of a beard he looks as young as a teenager. Yet the lines of worry and pain lend wisdom to his handsome face. His green eyes are troubled, restless, and distant.
“You were right,” D’zan says, cradling the cup of wine in his hands but not drinking. “The sea battle was sheer folly. We never stood a chance.”
“Undutu has paid the price for his warrior’s pride,” I say. “I could not make him listen. Khama was swept away by that same pride.”
D’zan’s face tightens. “Along with several thousand lives,” he says. “What of Vireon? Will he recover?”
“That remains to be seen.”
D’zan drinks. Words flood from his mouth while tears crawl down his cheeks. “All those men burned and drowned to gain nothing. I could have said no to Undutu. You speak of his deadly pride, yet I am as guilty of it. I should have died with my warriors. Every ship was lost and I could do nothing about it. Nothing but watch them burn and sink.”
I say nothing. D’zan needs to tell of these things. He needs me to listen.
“When the Kingspear went down, I went with it,” he says. “My armor dragged me to the bottom of the sea. I struggled to remove it, knowing I would drown before I could do so. I held my breath as long as I could, fumbling with the straps of my corslet. I even cast aside my crown. I did not want to die, but eventually I had no more breath left. All about me dying men bubbled out their last bit of air and twitched like beached fish. I thought my life was over. My lungs were fit to burst, and still I could not get the metal off my body. Panic had numbed my fingers and made them clumsy.
“So I gave up and inhaled the seawater, knowing it was death. There was nothing else I could do. My lungs filled with brine, my eyes closed. I lay there twitching like the rest of them. But I failed to die. At last I lay still, not breathing, the sea filling me up like an empty jar. My panic had been drowned, so I finally removed the corslet and greaves. The surface of the sea above me was on fire, so I could not swim to it. Realizing that I was unable to drown, I walked and sprang across the seabed, stepping over the charred and bloated corpses of Yaskathans and Mumbazans. I passed the broken and tangled wreckage of warships, some of them still burning. Not even the deep water could quench the flames of Zyung’s sorcery.
“I walked among the feasting crabs and schools of rainbow fish, through forests of seaweed and coral hills. Far above me the burning went on. I passed legions of drowned men, wondering why I was not one of them. I walked in a daze, astounded at my own existence.
“I came to a black mountain and climbed the slimy rocks. It was an island, so I climbed out of the sea to walk along its shore. I vomited seawater from my lungs and learned to breathe again. There was a broad cove not far from where I surfaced. A handful of Mumbazans had swum there all the way from their lost ship.
“I looked across the waves at the pitiful remains of our great fleet–the greatest armada in history–and I saw thousands of Zyung’s ships still blotting out the sky. Then I truly understood how stupid we had been. I called out to Khama, and he came with Undutu to carry us away. We fled like cowards instead of dying with our men.”
D’zan falls silent and swallows more wine.
“You did what Kings must do,” I say.
“We should have listened to you, Iardu. We should have gone north with Tyro and Vireon.”
His cup is empty. I refill it.
“It might have been the same, even if you had done so,” I tell him. “Tyro and Vireon both fell at Shar Dni. Tyro will never rise again. Yet you live to fight on.”
D’zan drains the second cup of wine in a series of gulps. His breathing is heavy.
“Look at me,” he says, moving his hands across the mass of linens that band his flesh. “I saw Tyro die, and Undutu. I took spears in the gut, blades in the chest. Here–see this spot?” He points to a place near his heart. “This was a killing stroke. I bled like a fountain, yet again I did not die. Mendices and I led the retreat. Zyung’s wizards could have finished us, but he let us go.”
He tells me of the hooded stranger who turned the God-King to iron for a brief moment and disappeared. He asks me who it was, but I have no idea. Ianthe helped us break the spell of Udgrond, but surely she would not move so openly against Zyung. Whoever the stranger had been, D’zan tells me, his spell had allowed Dahrima to save Vireon. Suddenly I recognize the true courage of the red-eyed Giantess who watches over her King. And I know of a certain that she loves him.
I look toward Alua. Her head lies upon Vireon’s shoulder.
She too sleeps. Vireon does not move. “Can you explain it, Shaper?” D’zan asks.
“Can you tell me why I am not dead? Is it… Is it because of the spell you worked with Sharadza? This body you created to replace the one that Elhathym destroyed? Am I no longer even a Man?”
“You are very much a Man,” I say. “Yet your woman-born body no longer carries your spirit. The body you inhabit now is a creation of our sorcery and your own willpower. It is not above death, but it is far more durable than one born of a mother’s womb. You did not drown for the same reason you did not die in battle: Your flesh is invested with Sharadza’s power and mine. It will not age or sicken. Not while we both endure.”
D’zan has lost his words. Perhaps he thinks of the guilt he will carry for the rest of his life. I might tell him that I share that same guilt, but I say nothing. He drinks a third cup of wine. Slowly this time.
He leans in close. “What of my children? Will my son be… human?”
I could tell him what Sharadza never has. That his sturdy body is a sterile thing, without the procreative power that comes from a parental bloodline. When his original body died, so did his chance at having an heir.
Yet I know that his second wife carries a child in her belly even now. A child that she says is D’zan’s own son, even though this is impossible. D’zan had thought Sharadza to be barren, and she lets him believe it to spare him grief and shame.
Should I tell him the truth? That he cast Sharadza aside for a failing that was his own? That his new woman has lied and betrayed him with a bastard offspring? Should I shatter what little remains of his fractured humanity?
I ask myself what Sharadza would want me to say.
“You need not fear,” I tell D’zan. “Your son will be fine. As will any other children you sire. This aspect of your manhood was not affected by our spells.”
The lie comforts him.
“Iardu!” Alua calls my name. Sharadza wakes, and D’zan moves to embrace her.
Vireon’s body trembles, wracked with spasms. The gaping wound has reopened. Alua’s power–Alua’s love–is not enough.
I rush to the bedside. Alua moves away, one hand covering her mouth. At last, she weeps.
Sharadza and D’zan draw near to me.
“What is happening?” she asks.
“He is dying,” I say. “His wounded spirit seeks to leave this flesh behind.”
Vireon does not realize that the choice of living or dying is his own. I must show this to him. “There is one last chance,” I say. “Only Vireon can save Vireon. The power of Vod’s blood slumbers inside him. He must awaken it.”
I lie upon the cot Sharadza was using.
“Watch over my body,” I tell her. “Let none enter this room.”
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“The only thing left to do,” I say. “I will enter the realm of Vireon’s spirit.”
Sharadza is terrified. D’zan clutches her shoulders as if she is still his lover.
“What can we do?” she asks.
“Hold my hand.” She does this. My heart leaps, and my head falls back upon the pillow.
My eyes close, and I gaze inward. As my spirit-self emerged from my body days ago to seek the heart of the world, so now it rises to seek the depths of Vireon’s soul.
Time to embrace your true heritage, Son of Vod.
You must learn or die.
I float above the Giant-King’s body and dive into the red wound, a swimmer leaping from high precipice to deep ocean.