3
The Axe
For three days the armies of Men and Giants marched north along the Golden Sea coast, and for three days rain fell from the leaden sky.
In a double line they marched, like twin Serpents winding along cliff tops that grew ever higher as they left the drowned marshlands. The head of the first Serpent was Vireon Vodson. As tall as any of his Giant cousins, he stalked through the mud. The purple cloak of Udurum flapped at his shoulders, and the crown of iron and sapphire gleamed rain-slick on his head. Behind the rippling hammer-and-fist banner paced an entire legion of blue-skinned Udvorg Giants armed with spears, axes, swords, and maces of northern steel. A hundred and twenty pale-skinned Giants of Uduria marched at the center of the great Udvorg line. In their wake trudged the twenty-nine Uduri who used to be their wives and lovers.
Dahrima the Axe walked in the midst of the sullen spear-maidens, glad today of the distance between herself and her King.
Behind the Giants came the Men of Udurum, eight legions strong, even after their losses in the Khyrein swamps. The first of these legions was cavalry, hardy northmen armored in plates of blackened bronze with spears of Udurum steel bright as silver in their fists. Greatswords hung from their waists or upon their broad backs. They rode tall warhorses of sable, gray, or piebald coats. Behind the riders marched Udurum’s infantry, twenty thousand soldiers, spearmen, and archers. At their center rolled supply wagons stuffed with barrels of freshwater, corn, salted pork, dried fruits, and Khyrein foodstuffs for which they had no name–all gifts of the black city’s new King.
The head of the second Serpent, which moved alongside the first, was Tyro, Emperor of Uurz, also called the Sword King. He rode a trotting black charger that kept him beside the marching Giant-King. Tyro’s crown was a masterwork of gold and emeralds, his gilded breastplate bearing the sun-sigil of Uurz. On his banner a similar sun cast yellow rays across a field of green, and not even the pelting storms could dim the brightness of that standard. Tyro’s broadsword hung between his broad shoulders, and his cloak was a perfect replica of his royal banner.
Nineteen legions of Uurzian soldiers marched behind the Sword King. The foremost and rearmost legions were comprised of cavalrymen similar to the Men of Udurum in all but colors. Whereas Vireon’s train was black and purple, Tyro’s was green and gold. Tyro commanded more than twice the number of archers, horsemen, swordsmen, and lancers as the Giant-King. Nearly sixty thousand warriors had followed Tyro from the City of Sacred Waters; yet the Sword King had none of the Giantkind in his service. Each one of Vireon’s Giants, or Giantesses, was worth two companies of human soldiers, if not more. Therefore, Vireon’s forces were accounted greater and far deadlier than Tyro’s, despite the discrepancy in raw numbers.
Dahrima marched in silence, gazing often across the storm-wracked sea on her right, or into the tangled forest of the High Realms on her left. Now and then she wandered close to the edge of the sea cliff and felt the absurd urge to leap from it into the turbulent waters. Already she was drenched, as was every Man and Giant marching northward; the rain had found its way beneath her bronze cuirass and settled into the fibers of her cloak and tunic. It would have settled into her skin and softened it as well if she were not an Uduri with skin hard as stone.
She felt pity for the Men of the legions when she looked upon their miserable faces. They did not have the hearty constitution of Giants and could not ignore the damp, the chill, and the discomfort of such weather. The blue-skinned Udvorg were used to bitter ice and terrible cold; for them these southern storms were hardly noticeable. Each evening at the setting of camp, and all through the sodden nights that followed, Men gathered about their tent-fires, shivering and huddling together for warmth like hairless wolf-pups. Meanwhile, the Udvorg and Uduru gathered around barrels of cold Khyrein ale, laughing at the thunder and the sea winds that swept the coastline.
As for the Uduri, the Giantesses gathered about Dahrima as if she were their captain, although no such rank existed among them. They were pledged to serve Vireon and the City of Men and Giants. They had given their males the blessing of absolution years ago, urging them to go north to the Icelands and mate with the blue-skins’ fertile women in order to save the dwindling Uduru race. The Uduri had remained in Uduria and taken a vow of service to the King, although a handful of them had wandered into the wilderness and disappeared instead.
They were barren women, yet potent warriors. The Ninety-Nine Uduri found satisfaction not in the roles of mothers and wives, but as elite guardians of Vireon’s house. When Vireon had led his forces south to make war on Ianthe the Claw, forty Uduri had remained to watch the walls of Udurum. Twenty-nine had recently met honorable deaths, either while protecting the King and his family before the southward march, or while battling the Swamp God west of Khyrei. Ninety Uduru had died in that battle, along with four hundred Udvorg and their King Angrid. Vireon now ruled over all Giants, both pale- and blue-skinned. The leviathan of the marshland had also claimed the lives of many brave Men. Dahrima had gained a new respect for the warriors of Uurz and Udurum after seeing their valor in the grip of such a colossal horror.
On the evening of the third day’s march the signal came back through the line. The two armies would halt here for the night, perched between raging sea and highland forest. The Uduri gathered around Dahrima, as they had done on the two previous nights. She led them toward the cliff’s edge where the mud was less deep and the ground was mainly crags of mottled stone. She leaned her great axe and longspear against an outcropping of granite and sat down with her back against the rock. Her spearsisters did likewise. The moon was lost behind stormclouds and the rain poured as steadily as ever. She heard the crashing of waves against the strand far below the precipice. She studied the tangle of black-barked trees standing a half-league inland, wondering what mysteries lay in their green shadows.
The Men passed tents, bedrolls, and provisions forward along the lines and their camp slowly took shape. The first cookfires were kindled beneath canvas tarps. Giants did not bother with such formalities. When they did erect tents, they simply picked the nearest spot of level ground and made it their home for the night. Some of the Udvorg wandered toward the forest to hunt nocturnal game, while others cracked open ale barrels or wrestled for the amusement of their fellows.
Dahrima watched the group of Uduru mingling with the blue-skins. She recognized Boroldun the Bear-Fang, Magron Irontooth, and Kol the Stumbler. Dressed in the crude furs and fanged necklaces of the Icelands, they were practically Udvorg now. Only their pale skins and dark eyes separated them from the blue-skins. Curiously, she had noticed a lightness creeping into the skins of the Udvorg for weeks now. The longer they stayed out of their frozen realm the paler their blue hides were becoming. She imagined that their crimson eyes were dulling as well. Perhaps if they stayed out of the ice and snow long enough, the Udvorg would lose their pigmentation and become indistinguishable from their Uduru cousins. Did that mean the hundreds of Uduru who remained in the Icelands were slowly turning blue of skin and red of eye? These colors could be merely signs that Giants adapted well to any environment.
“You speak little these days,” said Chygara the Windcaller. She sat down against the same stone Dahrima had chosen. The other Uduri sat or lay at rest about them, some already sleeping, others watching the angry sea thunder at the base of the bluff. Merelda the Flamesinger walked off to meet with an Uduru that Dahrima recognized as Ugroff Elkslayer. He had been Merelda’s mate years ago, before she sent him north to spawn children with blue-skinned Uduri. Most of the spearmaidens had never taken husbands, only a series of lovers. Yet Merelda had pledged her love to Ugroff when they were young. Perhaps Ugroff had only joined this southern crusade for the chance to see his first wife again. Dahrima wondered if his second wife longed for him in the kingdom of snows.
“I have little to say,” Dahrima told Chygara.
Chygara’s long braids were corn-yellow like Dahrima’s, and she wore bands of silver about them. A thin scar upon the Windcaller’s left cheek marred her fine face. She leaned her shoulder against the pole of her spear, which she had planted in the dirt between her knees.
“We no longer march at the King’s side,” said Chygara.
Dahrima shrugged. “My spearsisters are free to march where they will.”
Chygara smiled. One of her upper incisors was missing, the result of some ancient brawl. “Before we reached the black city you would not leave Vireon’s presence,” she said. “Now you keep yourself apart from him. Your sisters wonder why this should be.”
“My sisters should mind their own fates,” said Dahrima. Here it was then. She had wondered how long it would be until one of them brought up their repositioning in the ranks.
Chygara stared at her. Other faces glanced her way as well: Atha Spearhawk, Gorinna the Grin, Vantha the Tigress, Shaigra the Shieldsplitter. Why must they pry into her private thoughts? She was not their leader, not by any law. They followed her of their own free will, as she followed the Giant-King. Their vows were to serve Vireon, not Dahrima. She owed them no answers. Let them go forward and march at Vireon’s heels like a pack of hounds if they wished to do so.
Alisk the Raven offered Dahrima a tankard of dark ale, her broad hand cupped over its top to keep out the rain. Dahrima took it, drank half its contents, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
“Five nights now,” said Alisk, “the blue witch shares Vireon’s tent.” She chewed at a piece of dried beef.
“What of it?” asked Dahrima. “Why tell me what my own eyes can see?”
Chygara and Alisk exchanged a glance. Their eyes flashed in the rain. The smells of horse manure, Mansweat, and saltwater floated on the wind. Beneath it all Dahrima sensed the musky reek of the Udvorg. They stank less now after three days of rain had washed their cloaks and tunics of matted fur, but still she could not get her nostrils free of their scent. There were so many of them.
“Varda of the Keen Eyes has taken your place,” said Chygara. “This is the cause of your sorrow.”
Dahrima shook her head, slinging rain from her braids. She drained the rest of the tankard. “Foolish girls,” she muttered. “You are too long without coupling so you invent stories and gossip.”
“If this is not true,” said Alisk, “then why do we march among these smelly blue-skins instead of at the King’s side?”
“March where you will!” Dahrima spat. She stood up, grabbed her spear and shoved the handle of her great axe through the loop on her belt. Lightning danced above the distant forest. “Speak no more of this to me, else I crack open your thick heads.”
She trudged into the rain, leaving her sisters behind. Men and Giants watched as she passed through their clustered camps, heading toward the open woodland. By the time she reached the edge of the encampment the scent of warming stews and the smoke of cookfires had replaced the stench of the blue-skins. Dahrima’s stomach growled, but she had no appetite.
The dark trees grew taller as she paced toward them. The sounds of the sea faded behind her. The forest had looked more impressive from a distance; there were no mighty Uygas growing here. The mightiest of the skinny trees stood twice as tall as Dahrima, and the floor was an endless tangle of vine and root, leaf and brushwood. She enjoyed the splintering of undergrowth beneath her boots, the wholesome smell of green growing things. Her spear pushed hanging branches and broad leaves out of her path as she trudged through the gloom. When her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she found a thick carpet of moss near a small cascade of whitewater. She sat down on the wet moss and rested her back against a tree bole.
Vireon had changed greatly since he had slain the Swamp God. Since he had found his true stature. Dahrima always knew that he possessed the soul of a Giant, even though he had stood barely taller than the Men of Udurum. Now Vireon’s true inheritance had manifested; his father’s sorcery ran in his veins. Now he was a true Giant in both spirit and body. Yet it was more than his physical nature that had changed.
It began with the death of his wife and daughter. Ianthe the Claw had taken them both. The sorceress had masqueraded as little Maelthyn for seven years. The child itself was a living lie, the product of Ianthe’s sorcery quickened in Alua’s womb. Vireon’s cherished daughter was never real, only a cruel joke spun by the Claw. Dahrima had seen the Giant-King weep when the truth fell upon him like a maiming blade. She too had endured the deep pain of that terrible discovery. Dahrima had loved Maelthyn, watched over her from the moment of her birth. Many of her spearsisters had perished trying to save the child and its mother. Yet the Claw, once revealed, had eluded Vireon’s justice.
Vireon tracked Ianthe to the Mountain of Ghosts. Dahrima followed, and more of her sisters died there. With the stolen power of Alua’s white flame, the sorceress had crossed the sky and returned to Khyrei. So Vireon summoned his legions, gathered the Lord of the Icelands to his cause, and marched south with the Sword King of Uurz. In the stinking swamps west of Khyrei they faced a behemoth that killed hundreds of Giants and thousands of Men. Vireon’s unleashed power had finally crushed the monster. Dahrima had been there to pull the senseless Vireon from the mire and dress his wounds.
Yet it was Varda of the Keen Eyes who had given Vireon the crown of Angrid, making him King of All Giants. Several nights later Dahrima found them lying together inside her own tent. That was the moment she realized how much her King had truly changed. Now that Vireon stood as tall as any Giant, he was a true King in the eyes of the blue-skins. The scheming blue-skinned witch had to have him for her own. Had Vireon already forgotten Alua, his beloved Queen? Had he forgotten Dahrima too, who followed him without fail through blood and death and terror?
Perhaps the blue witch had cast a spell upon him. When Varda sat the iron crown upon his head, she must have stolen his heart. A false magic, a curse to bend the new Lord of Giants to her will. Now she shared Vireon’s tent, and Dahrima avoided the Giant-King.
It must be a spell, she decided. How else could he bear the frigid touch of the blue-skin harlot? Had Varda influenced the actions of King Angrid in exactly the same way? That must be the secret of her power. Dahrima hated her, as she had begun to hate the sour stench of the Udvorg males. Why did the blue-skin women not march to war with their men? They must be too busy raising the new children fostered on them by the Uduru. Were those children blue or pale-skinned? How many more blue-skin warriors had stayed behind in the Icelands? Less than two hundred Uduru had been willing to walk the path of war with Vireon. Were they so happy in their icy hovels, gathered about the cold flames with their squealing babes and blue-skin wives?
The gurgling of the whitewater lulled Dahrima to sleep, and she awoke to another gray dawn. Gathering axe and spear, she stalked back to join the spearmaidens. The double army was breaking camp and preparing for another day’s march. The rain fell as steady as ever, and the Golden Sea was a dull expanse that matched the color of the roiling sky.
“Dahrima the Axe!” A Man’s voice called to her from the edge of the Uduri camp. She turned to see a herald in the black-and-purple livery of Udurum. “His Majesty Vireon wishes to speak with you in his pavilion.” Dahrima’s sisters gave her queer looks that she tried her best to ignore. Let them think what they will. I am the only one with sense enough to see what the blue witch is doing.
She followed the herald through the ranks of yawning Udvorg. The Giants pulled themselves from the mud and drank mouthfuls of rainwater caught in their bronze war helms. The stink of them filled her nostrils as she walked. A few called out to her, complimenting her golden hair or challenging her to a wrestling match. She had made it clear that she had no interest in lying with any of them, but still they persisted. Before the march to the Sharrian ruins was complete, she would have to break one of their jaws to make her point. The first one who touched her without permission would regret it.
Her own people knew better than to tease Uduri in such a way. When an Uduri wished to lie with an Uduru, she let him know. Best not to bother her about it beforehand. Dahrima had no wish to lie with any of them either, not even Hrolgar the Iron-Foot, who had been her lover many times before the migration. That was ancient history, and Hrolgar had an Udvorg wife and two children waiting for him in the Icelands.
Vireon’s pavilion stood before her now, the standard of Udurum billowing atop its center pole. Instead of the usual two Uduri placed before the entrance, a pair of Udvorg spearmen stood there. Another way the blue-skins had replaced Dahrima and her sisters. She wondered why Vireon would summon her now after ignoring her for three days.
The herald directed her toward the big tent but went no further. Dahrima expected the Udvorg guards to stop her, but they only stared at her with their blood-colored eyes. She pulled back the flap and strode inside. A blue flame danced in an iron brazier. Vireon’s greatsword and crown lay upon the bed of furs, yet the Giant-King himself was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Varda of the Keen Eyes stood waiting for her.
“Where is my lord?” Dahrima asked.
“Your King,” Varda corrected her. “Breaking his fast with Emperor Tyro.”
Dahrima paused just inside the tent. She studied the witch’s narrow eyes, her long black mane of hair, wild and uncombed as usual. Most Udvorg hair was the color of snow, but the witch’s was dark as midnight. A bronze ring hung from Varda’s nose, and twelve more just like it pierced her ears. The scars on her cheeks were angular and purposefully made. Dahrima found them exceptionally ugly. Scars should be earned in battle, not crafted by one’s own hand. Usually the witch wore a black wolf-skin cloak, but inside the tent she was dressed in a corslet of boiled leather, an Uurzian skirt of plaited bronze, and a band of silver across her forehead. Her blue feet were bare upon the damp carpets.
“I was told that Vireon summoned me,” Dahrima said. She wished to leave. The company of the blue witch was not something she could long endure.
“He did,” said Varda. She picked up her long black staff and a blue flame ignited at its tip. “You are to remain here until he returns. It will give us a chance to talk.”
Dahrima bristled beneath her breastplate of dark bronze. “I must go…”
“Will you defy the Giant-King’s orders?” asked Varda. “You will stay, Axe.”
Dahrima nodded her head and lowered her eyes. Looking at the witch’s cold beauty gave her a curious pain that she could not identify.
“Vireon tells me the Uduri have been his private guard for years,” said Varda.
Dahrima nodded.
“Yet on this coastal march your sisters travel with the Uduru instead of marching alongside their King.”
“My sisters march where they will,” said Dahrima. “I do not command them.”
Varda smiled. Her crimson eyes widened a bit. “Yet they follow you,” she said. “They flock to you like great, golden birds.”
Dahrima’s fist tightened about the haft of her spear. Was the witch trying to make her angry? Did Vireon truly summon her, or was this some trick meant to humiliate and chasten her?
“We march with the King’s forces,” said Dahrima. “We have fought and died for him. We will fight and die again. We are his true servants. This we have sworn.”
“Yes, I have heard tell of this oath. The Ninety-Nine they call you. Yet how many are left?”
“Twenty-nine marchers,” said Dahrima, “and forty guarding the walls of Udurum.”
“So few…” The words of the shamaness were full of mock sadness.
“What does His Majesty wish of me?” Dahrima asked.
“He wishes for you and your twenty-eight sisters to go home,” said Varda. “Enough of the Uduri have died in his service. Vireon does not want to see more death among the spearmaidens. Take your sisters and return to Udurum. Keep its walls strong and unbroken. Leave today.”
Dahrima could not prevent a growl from escaping her throat. “I do not believe you.”
Varda’s eyes blazed red while the flame atop her staff flared a deeper blue. “You will hear it from his own lips when he returns. You should be grateful. We are to face untold dangers from this invading horde. Perhaps you think the Uduri are expendable because they are incapable of childbirth. I can assure you Vireon does not share this view. He wishes to protect the last of you.”
Dahrima spat upon the carpet. “We are warriors! A single Uduri is worth three Uduru. We march where we will, and we have sworn to march with Vireon. We will fight.”
“Will you defy the orders of your King?”
“If we must.”
Varda stepped closer. Dahrima’s knuckles itched. She longed to pull her axe and cleave the witch’s skull. “Listen to me,” said Varda. “Vireon is done with you. Take your sisters and go now, or lose the honor that is all you have left.”
Dahrima gritted her teeth. Her breath came heavy and loudly. For a moment, she could not speak.
“I know what you are doing,” she told the witch. “You seek to rule Vireon’s mind as you ruled that of Angrid. I will not allow it.”
Varda laughed in her face. “You are mad and hopeless, Axe. Vireon has made his choice. Go now, or risk my anger.” She turned her back to Dahrima and walked toward the bed of furs. The crown of iron and sapphire glittered there, waiting for its King to return and set it upon his head. It was Varda’s tool, the keystone of her spell.
“First you steal our mates,” breathed Dahrima, “and now you try to steal our King.”
The witch whirled about and waved her blue flame. A blast of wind and ice caught Dahrima in the chest, encasing her in a thin layer of frost that burned like fire. Dahrima grimaced and slammed the haft of her spear against her breastplate, knocking the frost loose.
“Witch!” she cried, moving closer to Varda. “Poisonous harlot!”
Varda’s staff moved again, knocking the spear from Dahrima’s grip.
Another blast of cobalt flame sent Dahrima clattering to the ground. A thick and heavy sheath of ice engulfed her chest and upper legs. Varda stood above her now, staff raised as if for a killing blow.
“Beg my forgiveness,” said the witch. “Or die.”
Dahrima swept her leg across Varda’s knees. She shattered the ice about her middle with spear and fist as the witch fell upon the carpet. Dahrima rolled into a standing crouch and pulled the great axe from her belt.
Varda screeched like a bird of prey, pulling herself upward with the black staff. Dahrima kicked it across the tent. The blue flame extinguished itself. Varda leaped upon the furs and pulled Vireon’s greatsword from its scabbard. The blade gleamed silver-blue as the two Giantesses faced one another. Rain pelted hard against the canvas ceiling.
“I do not need the cold flame to take your life,” said Varda. “I will cut out your heart and feed it to the wolves.”
“You would cut out the heart of Vireon,” said Dahrima. “But I will not let you.”
Varda lunged forward. The greatsword clanged against the axe’s double blade. Purple sparks flew across the tent.
Someone pulled back the tent flap and Dahrima saw the faces of the Udvorg guards peering at her. One of them shouted something. Varda sprang forward again, blue flames streaming from her open mouth.
The sword would have taken off Dahrima’s head if she hadn’t ducked below its arc. She raised the axe to counter a downward slash and kicked at the witch’s flat belly. Varda flew backwards across the tent and the canvas tore from its moorings. The shamaness lay in the mud with the demolished pavilion wrapped about her body. Dahrima could have rushed in and finished her at that moment, but she stood fuming instead. The witch used Vireon’s blade to cut herself free of the canvas, then stood to face Dahrima.
A ring of grinning Udvorg surrounded them now. The blue-skins clapped their hands, stomped in the mud, and shouted to their fellows. This was a fine sport for them, watching two Uduri–the blue-skin and the pale-skin–battle in the rain. Where was Vireon? Dahrima could not see the Sword King’s pavilion; a wall of grunting, drooling Giants closed her off from everything except her foe and the driving rain. Thunder shook the High Realm.
Varda rushed her with the big sword raised high. Dahrima side-stepped the blow and brought her axe down instinctively. She felt the shock of a meaty impact before she realized what she had done. The world seemed to slow in that moment, as if time itself were frozen beneath the witch’s ice. The greatsword splattered into the mud, followed by Varda’s limp body. Her head, sliced cleanly from her spouting shoulders, rolled across the ground to rest at the toe of Dahrima’s boot. The bloody eyes stared up at her. A whisper of blue flame died inside the open mouth.
Varda’s blood was the deep purple of Udurum cloaks. It mingled with the brown mud, turning it black. A swathe of violet spray stained Dahrima’s legs, but already the hard rain was washing them clean. The Udvorg looked on in shocked silence. The sound of the storm filled Dahrima’s ears until a familiar voice cried out from beyond the ring of gawkers.
Vireon came shoving his way through the blue-skins, his black tunic and hair drenched by the rain. His crownless head lowered to examine Varda’s corpse, then rose to meet Dahrima’s gaze. He looked upon her with a wordless sorrow.
“Dahrima?” He said her name once, but she barely heard it beneath the pounding rain.
She could not bear to see what emotion would flood Vireon’s face next, so she turned and pushed her way through the mumbling Udvorg, knocking many of them into the mud. She ran while thunder and lightning tore open the sky above the cliffs. Horses and Men rushed to get out of her way. She passed the green-gold pavilion of the Sword King without looking back, running north along the shore.
The words of Varda rang in her head as she fled: Vireon is done with you.
She came to a high crag and leaped from it into the driving wind. She seemed to fall forever, sinking toward the gray ocean. In her right hand the great axe was already washed clean of the witch’s purple blood. A reflected flash of lightning danced across its blades as she fell.
Finally the frigid water accepted her; she plunged into its dark depths.
She contemplated death by drowning. She might let herself sink to the bottom of the sea and stay there forever, a proper penance for her crime of rage. She had betrayed her King. She had seen it in his eyes as Vireon stared at her over the corpse of his lover.
She sank deeper into the peaceful bliss of the waters below the storm. It was so quiet down here. Yet now she heard herself thinking, and her thoughts were loud as thunder.
Vireon is done with you.
No. Varda will not haunt me in this way.
She earned her death with those words. Let the Udvorg moan the loss of their shamaness. Vireon will be free of her spells now. Free to rule both his kingdoms as he thinks best.
With a single stroke of her axe, Dahrima had freed him.
With her crime and her shame, she had restored his liberty. Her feet met the sandy ocean bottom. The last bit of breath escaped her lungs as she pushed herself upward. Her head and shoulders broke the surface, and she sucked in rainwater along with precious air. She swam toward the rocky shoal. Far above and beyond the lip of the precipice, the morning smokes of the camp rose into the sky and disappeared.
Dahrima walked out of the sea and ran northward along the beach, axe in hand.
I have disgraced myself. Yet I have sworn the oath.
I will serve Vireon.
Let my sisters return to Udurum if they will.
I will not.
I cannot.
Neither could she march with the Udvorg any longer. They would hate her now, and they would call for her head to pay for the witch’s. A life for a life, that was the way of justice for both Uduru and Udvorg. Vireon might even give it to them.
Perhaps the blue-skins would indeed have her head someday. But not today.
A great invasion was coming. Vireon still needed her. The first battle would be fought at the ruins of Shar Dni. She sprinted north along the strand, leaving behind the twin armies that crept along the cliffs.
He needs me.
She ran against the sea winds, and the rain pelting her face mingled with salty tears.