Seven Kings

15

When the Giants returned to Uurz, they brought with them an end to the long drought. Sages and drunkards alike praised the name of Vireon Vodson. As his father’s sorcery had shattered the Desert of Many Thunders and birthed the Stormlands, so did Vireon’s power bring the thunderstorms rushing back to the City of Sacred Waters.

Vireon had no conscious designs on the weather, yet Men and Giants had long told him that Vod’s sorcery was his birthright. Certainly his sister had displayed a command of such magic, and now Vireon considered the possibility that he too might possess hidden reserves of power. His great strength, speed, and durability were already legend, so if Men chose to call him sorcerer then he no longer cared to deny it. Yet none accused him of this to his face.

The Giants came in a great marching horde, flattening the fields of brown grass as they filed out of the Grim Mountains through Vod’s Passage. The cold air flew before them as if to announce their coming. The Men of Lakehold first saw Vireon’s advance, and they shuddered behind the walls of their tiny fortress. Behind the King of Udurum on his great black charger came a personal guard of forty Uduri spearmaidens, followed by two legions of Men on horseback and seven more legions on foot.

After the Men of Udurum came the sight which struck fear into the hearts of the most grizzled warriors: a legion of blue-skinned Ice Giants numbering three thousand strong, fronted by the hulking form of King Angrid the Long-Arm. At the Ice King’s side walked a single Uduri, a blue-skinned shamaness bearing a staff topped with living blue fire. This was Varda the Keen Eyes, a guardian of the blue flame which did not singe wood or give warmth. All of them, Giants and Men alike, marched or rode beneath the Hammer and Fist banner of New Udurum.

The mountain waterfall that fed the Uduru River had diminished to a trickle, as had the young river itself. The army of Men and Giants had followed the river’s sluggish course from the mouth of the pass to Lakehold, leaving a swathe of trampled grass along its western bank. When Vireon approached the village and its modest fortress, he looked upon the low waters of the dying lake. A cold wind rushed before him and rattled the stones of the keep.

By the time the Giant-Kings spoke with the Lord of Lakehold and assured him of their armies’ peaceful passing, a gentle rain had begun to fall. The fortress gates opened and a mass of citizens, formerly terrified of being crushed to death or eaten by Giants, rushed into the village streets in a state of madcap jubilation. They danced in the rain, cheering and laughing; they filled buckets and hats and bowls with it. Some took off their clothes and bathed naked in the rainfall. The ranks of Udvorg, camping within full view of the village, chuckled at the antics of the tiny rain-loving folk. Still, no villager would approach the blue-skinned warriors, even when the sound of jovial laughter mingled with the low thunder above the lake. The Men of Udurum set up tent and pavilion outside the village, preparing for a warm yet sodden night. The blue-skins set up no tents; they were heedless of the elements. While Men huddled about their tent fires and struggled to keep their polished metal dry, the Udvorg slept beneath a blanket of roiling sky.

The forces of the north rested for a single night outside Lakehold. From his own tent a sleepless Vireon watched the lake waters rise all night long. He had heard many tales of the long drought and its pain. If his coming improved the lives of the Stormlanders, so be it. He was his father’s son.

The northerners resumed their southward march under a gray dawn, leaving behind them a raging storm. A night rider had been dispatched from the fortress to carry word of Vireon’s coming to the newly ordained Emperor of Uurz. The hoofprints of his galloping steed were still embedded between the endless stalks of tall grass. Soon they were obliterated by the slogging feet and hooves of Men, Udvorg, and Uduru.

The blue-skins did not grumble much, but it was plain to see they missed their frozen lands. They had left behind all heavy furs, save for loincloths, kilts, and woolly tunics. Most retained their mammoth-hide boots, although some had chosen to walk barefoot through these foreign lands. The icicles had long ago melted from their white beards and hair. At night they built no normal fires, but gathered about several blue bonfires set by the staff of Varda. They basked in the waves of cold emanating from these azure blazes as surely as Men relaxed in the warmth of their cookfires. The Icelands Giants were hardy and adaptable; Vireon learned this quickly. The lack of cold air was uncomfortable for them, but not debilitating. In fact, they seemed to miss the frigid air less and less the farther south they marched. They were born from the ancient stones of the earth, which weathered heat and cold with equal strength.

Among the blue-skins was a cohort of bronze-skinned Uduru, about half the total number of those who had gone north eight years ago to start families with blue-skin wives. After so many seasons living among their cousins, these black-haired Giants were fully accepted among the Udvorg tribes. Vireon’s uncle, Fangodrim the Gray, stood among the council of chieftains left in charge of the Ice Clans by Angrid, just as Vireon had left Ryvun Ctholl in command of Udurum’s affairs. Ryvun retained a guard of over fifty Uduri to watch his back and help keep order in the City of Men and Giants. Ryvun would serve faithfully, and the loyal Uduri would ensure that he kept the city secure. Who would dare attack Udurum, even with its monarch abroad? The city’s only known enemy lay south in distant Khyrei.

Storms rolled ahead of the northern armies, as if to announce the coming of Vireon and Angrid. When Vireon rode within sight of the walls of Uurz, the sky was its own leaden empire casting thunderbolts and sheets of cool rain upon the thirsty earth. He had passed dead farms, one after another, victims of the drought and heat. Peasants came out of their withered fields to bow and worship the Giants as they passed, and the Udvorg found this another hilarious sight. Men, to them, were little more than creatures of legend. They expected violence and savagery, but found instead only spectacle and gratitude.

Behind the city’s massive granite walls the populace rejoiced, yet they grew restless at the approach of the Giant host. Over thirty years ago a lesser host of Giants came and conquered Uurz in a matter of days. Yet the Emperor Tyro rode from the main gate in a white chariot followed by a legion of mounted cavalry. Citizens and guardsmen lined the outer ramparts, trying to catch a glimpse of this meeting of Kings.

Tyro received Vireon on the brown plain before the high gate, while the welcome rain fell upon soldiers and monarchs alike. Tyro bowed and took Vireon’s forearm against his own in the traditional Uurzian handshake. Then he bowed before the Udvorg King, gifting him doubly with a cask of aged wine and a strongbox brimming with frosty diamonds. These formalities concluded, Vireon rode into the green-gold city to spend a night at the palace with Dahrima and Angrid at either side. The host of Men and Giants pitched their encampment in the fields outside the gates of Uurz, leaving only the northern and western roads clear of their tents and pickets.

Dahrima had been Vireon’s first choice to rule Udurum while he was away, but she had refused. In fact, ever since the deaths of his wife and daughter she would not leave his side. He soon grew tired of trying to rid himself of her constant company. Every King must have a personal guard, he reckoned, so why not this faithful Uduri? He had grown accustomed to her handsome face and the glittering gold of her braided hair. She spoke little, and when she did there was wisdom in her words. So she walked on his left as he rode next to Tyro’s chariot, and the people of Uurz gathered along the muddy avenues, the rainslick tops of walls and roofs, and the burnished platforms of temples. They cheered the rain and the Giant-Kings as one.

Vireon knew not if they loved him merely for the storms, or simply because he was the son of the legendary Vod. He shifted the weight of the greatsword across his back as he rode, a steely reminder of his purpose. He kept a solemn face as the procession entered palace grounds, and thunder rolled above the city’s golden spires.

Tyro’s best artisans had built a great chair for the King of the Icelands. Angrid and Vireon sat with the Sword King about a table piled heavy with whole roasted pigs, fowl, and oxen. The best of his wines had been hauled from the cellars. Since this was a war council, Tyro had banished the bulk of his court from the Feasting Hall. Twenty legionnaires bearing golden shields stood between the columns, and Generals Mendices, Aeldryn, and Rolfus sat at table with the monarchs. Dahrima stood, leaning against a fat marble pillar behind Vireon’s sculpted chair. Servants offered her wine, but she would take only water.

“Your coming is the greatest honor of my life thus far,” Tyro told his guests. He wore his lion’s head corselet of gold with a necklace of blood-bright rubies to rival the green jewel of his crown. “Uurz welcomes you as brothers, allies, and liberators. Together we shall bring an end to this long-standing Khyrein oppression of land and sea. Never has the world seen such a force gathered as ours. Let us raise our cups and toast the Alliance of Five Nations.”

Vireon and Angrid followed Tyro’s gesture.

“Both D’zan and Undutu have joined our cause?” asked Vireon.

Tyro’s handsome face beamed. “How could they refuse? What we are doing will change the entire known world for the better. We are about to make history.”

“What plans have you drawn?” asked Vireon.

Tyro related the pincer movement his generals had decided upon: the fleets of Yaskatha and Mumbaza would swing around the southern edge of the continent, striking at Khyrei from south and east, while the three armies of the north approached from the west by braving the Eastern Marshes.

“Already I have sent forth work crews,” Tyro said, “to carve a great stairway in the face of the Earth-Wall, so that both Giants and Men may climb easily into the forests of the High Realms. This shall be done along the great cliff a hundred and fifty leagues inland, so avoiding word of its construction reaching Allundra. The seaport still endures occasional trade with the Khyreins, mostly out of necessity.”

A low peal of thunder resounded above the palace walls as the rain continued. Vireon sipped at the wine but had little appetite for meat or bread. Angrid, however, tore into the meat with gusto. The Udvorg were accustomed to eating their meat raw, since their blue flame did not blacken or scorch. Yet the Long-Arm seemed to relish the taste of cooked flesh, if the grease on his mighty beard were any indication.

“The Southern Kings have long refrained from such enterprise as this,” said Vireon. “How did you finally win their allegiance?”

Tyro frowned. “D’zan’s affection for my poor brother made him amenable to certain agreements. His kingdom lies closest to Khyrei, so he could not hold out forever in the face of its menace. Undutu pledged his own navy as soon as he heard that D’zan had committed the Yaskathan fleet. I believe the King on the Cliffs feared to miss such a historic conflict. This is Undutu’s chance to win renown and rid himself of the title of Boy-King once and for all. At the age of nineteen he is more than ready to spill the blood of enemies… and his mother no longer controls his fate. Of course, a few treasure casks delivered to his door helped to sway his mind.”

“I know none of these strange names,” said Angrid, chomping the bones of his meal into powdery grit between his molars. “Yet show to me the face of our enemy, and I will crush it beneath my heel.”

Tyro grinned at the blue-skinned Ice King. “Lord of the Icelands, your presence brings honor to both our races. Yet your people have known only the northern climes for all of history. Why do you now decide to join our noble crusade?”

“Blood,” answered Angrid. His scarlet eyes turned to Vireon across the table. “The Son of Vod is blood of my blood, as are all of the Uduru. Vireon it was who brought the pale-skins to our lands, where they give our women strong and healthy babes. Vireon it was who united our long-divided peoples. Vireon’s enemies are my enemies. We Giants are carved from the stone of a single mountain. We are Uduraal.”

“I know this word,” said Tyro. “You are family. The oldest bonds are the strongest bonds.” He raised his cup again and made another toast, this time to the holiness of family bonds. His face grew grave, and he spoke to Vireon in a voice laden with sorrow. “I mourn for the loss of your wife and child. Long have I suspected the continued existence of the Claw. Now that it is a proven fact, there can be no other course but to root her out and destroy her once and for all. Along with her fiendish son… or grandson… or whatever this Gammir might be.”

“We will bring justice to a land that knows only blood and terror,” said Vireon. “My father cast the Palace of Khyrei into ruins when he was young. His mistake was in allowing the Claw to rebuild it and maintain her power. He should have razed the entire city and made the world safer for his descendants. Vod did many great things, but the one feat he left undone his son will do for him. The fact that all nations stand united on this course only proves its worth.”

“Indeed,” said Tyro. “I’ve prepared twenty legions of strong Uurzian soldiers. Sixty thousand well-trained warriors. Add to that the legions of Men and Giants you bring southward, and we stand a hundred thousand strong. And the might of Giants cannot be measured as that of Men, so our true strength is far greater than our numbers. In the might of Giantkind lies the true greatness of our force, and with the world’s two greatest navies at our side, we cannot fail.”

“Have you any word of my sister?” Vireon asked. He had received no message or news of Sharadza in months. There would be sorcery in Khyrei, and she would be an asset if he could bring her to the field. Or perhaps she decided to sail with D’zan.

Tyro sighed and called for a servant to refill Vireon’s cup. “Has no one told you?” Vireon stared at him. “It seems Sharadza has left D’zan. He has taken a second wife, who now carries his child. They say Sharadza fled into the night, perhaps on some errand of sorcery. Yet no one really knows the truth of it. I would like nothing better than to see your sister among our company. Perhaps she will join the crusade as it moves south.”

Vireon grimaced. The news did not sit well with him.

“When the slaying is done,” he said, “I will speak with D’zan.”

The armies of three kingdoms moved south and west across the rainswept plain. A train of ten thousand civilians followed the triple host: armorers, bowyers, fletchers, blacksmiths, weaponers, cooks, wagoneers, squires, minstrels, harlots, and shepherds driving flocks of goats, sheep, and cattle. Some foraging would be done in the High Realms, but even then the supply train was needed to ensure enough food for the host. And wherever soldiers made their way, women of opportunity were never far behind. Poets and musicians strove to set the unfolding history into verse, while earning small fortunes in the process.

The Men of Uurz had not marched to war in fifty years, when an earlier generation of warriors had joined King Trimesqua’s host in the War of the Southern Isles. As the green-gold legions departed with the northern host, the city broke into furious celebration. The rebirth of their dying land lent it a special fervor. The voices of those who still spoke out against the war were ignored or silenced in the teeming streets. The return of storms to the Stormlands was a sign from the Sky God that the new Emperor’s cause was righteous. Vireon cared little for such sentiment, but if it served his ends, let the Uurzians enjoy their own fancies. Let them believe it was Tyro who commanded the triple host; without his northern allies he would never dare this great march.

Every village along the way offered food and comfort to the armies, and at night the great camp seemed a small city all its own. The Giants dined on roasted steer and drank barrels full of Uurzian ale. Like their King, the blue-skins were fast acquiring a taste for cooked meat. By day the host moved in three long files stretching parallel across the Stormlands: Udurum legions, Giants, and Uurzian legions.

The three Kings traveled together at the head of the vanguard, where Dahrima insisted on pacing alongside Vireon’s steed. She seemed as tireless as Vireon himself, and if he had five thousand like her at his back he might leave the main host and run all day and all night to reach the black city sooner. However, this war must be fought by both races, so he must travel at the speed of Men. The great legs of the Giants ate up the leagues and, unlike Men, they did not complain of sore feet and fatigue after a long day of marching. They were the Stoneborn, and they knew little pain in this life. On the third day’s march Vireon sighted the peninsula of the highlands, that section of the Great Earth-Wall known as the Promontory. The Giants would have rushed forward and climbed the great cliff right there if Vireon had given the word. Instead, Tyro turned the entire host directly east, where his work crews had gone weeks earlier. The triple host marched now with the Stormlands on their left and the rugged Earth-Wall to their right, its heights lost among the leaden stormclouds. After five more days of gentle rain and kind winds, the host came upon the site of the Great Stair.

Tyro praised his architects and builders as he surveyed this new Wonder of the World. Where the Earth-Wall turned its course from southeast to northeast, the engineers of Uurz had done exactly as they were bidden. A massive set of stairs was freshly carved into the bare brown rock, leading all the way up through the clouds to the wild forests of the high plateau. Each stair was carved low enough for Men and horses, yet wide and broad enough for Giants. The Great Stair ran more than a league from start to finish, ascending west to east along the cliffside. A gigantic network of wooden scaffolding was still in place as the last of the Stair’s detail work was completed. The sculptors would have to cease their ornamental work to let the triple host pass upward, and by Tyro’s order they were glad to rest. It would take weeks’ or months’ more work before the rough-hewn staircase was complete with columns, fringework, insignia, and other aesthetic considerations. Vireon was concerned only with its functionality.

It was the stairway to glory, and the northern Kings would be the first to climb it.

Seeing this evidence of what a determined force of Men could achieve, the Giants were greatly impressed.

“This Earth-Wall is like a mountain turned on its side,” Angrid told Tyro. “Yet the Men of Uurz have mastered it. There is more strength in your race than our legends tell.” The Ice King stroked his cloud-pale beard and admired the sculpted face of the continent-spanning cliff.

Tyro stared at his great construction and swelled with pride. “The Great Stair is but one of our many accomplishments. Did you happen to notice the city we built a few leagues back?” Angrid laughed at the jest; Men and Giants both took heart from the booming sound.

“Let us camp below the Wall tonight,” said Vireon. “We will climb the narrow way in daylight.”

“My exact thought,” said Tyro. “Tomorrow these tall ones will see the High Realm for the first time. I wonder how it will compare with the forests of Uduria?”

“I have seen both,” said Vireon. “There is no comparison.”

Tyro grinned and called for the setting up of his nightly pavilion.

“I do not like our position here,” Dahrima muttered to Vireon. “We are prone to ambush from the land above.” She gripped her great axe as if she expected an army of foes to fall from the murky sky.

Vireon slid down from his saddle. He looked up at the clouds hovering at the lip of the wall. “Up there are nothing but wild animals, ancient trees, and a pile of forgotten ruins. And there are working men at the top of this stair who would raise the alarm if any foe did appear in the night. Rest easy, Uduri.”

Again the great camp sank its roots into Stormlands soil. The rain fell sporadically all night. The Men of Uurz did not mind marching in mud, so glad were they to see and taste the blessed rains. Cookfires sprang up like a constellation of stars along the base of the cliff.

Dahrima slept on the bare ground, curled up with her axe before the entrance to Vireon’s tent. He thought of inviting her inside, but she might interpret his invitation wrongly. If he were tall as a Giant, perhaps he would lie with her beneath the warm furs. It might ease the pain of losing Alua. Yet he was mostly glad that her size kept them from sharing a bed; he had no wish to dishonor his wife’s memory. There was no replacing Alua, but how long must he wait until he might take another Queen? If he must wait until his heart no longer ached, he might wait forever. He forced lingering thoughts of Maelthyn from his mind and fell into a troubled sleep. He awoke before dawn to drink mulled wine and walk about the sodden camp as it stirred to life.

In the overcast morning, as ten thousand night-fires were snuffed out, soldiers accoutered themselves with sword, spear, shield, and hauberk, while the squires of cavalrymen strapped their masters into corselets of lacquered bronze. The Giants awoke ready to march, tossing mace, axe, or spear over their shoulders and yawning into the ashen sky. They milled about, throwing stones at wild birds, and traded stories, while the ranks of Men slowly prepared themselves for the ascent.

The three Kings went first up the Great Stair, Vireon and Tyro on horseback, Angrid afoot with Dahrima close behind him. They stopped only once, at the midpoint of the great steps, to look back upon the Stormlands and the great host spread across the plain. Only then did Vireon realize the true scale of the triple host. It set his blood to racing in his veins, and he thanked the Four Gods for gifting him with such an assembly of warriors.

All of this for you, Alua.

And for little Maelthyn, if she ever truly existed.

At the top of the Earth-Wall Vireon gazed southward at a second wall of towering, green-leafed trees. The ancient forest spanned the great cliff from horizon to horizon, hemming the southern world as far as the eye could see. It stretched all the way to Yaskatha and the remote shore of the Cryptic Sea. A kingdom of green shadows thrived beneath a cerulean sky laced with strings of pearly cloud. Looking back, the plains of the Stormlands lay hidden beneath an endless panorama of thunderheads.

There would be no storm magic up here where the legacy of Vod’s magic did not reach. Yet the upper land was green and fertile, as it had been for thousands of years. The forests of the High Realms grew wild, tangled, untamed, and nearly impenetrable. There were no great Uygas here to dwarf the Udvorg and make them feel small, for this was not the Giantlands. The most ancient of the High Realms trees rose barely three times taller than the Giants, as Giants stood three times taller than the average Man.

“My foresters have gone ahead to mark our trail,” said Tyro from the back of his mailed stallion. “We must rely on the Udvorg to flatten and widen our trail as we go. Based on our travel speed from Uurz to the Earth-Wall, we should see a week of rough passage before we reach the lowland marshes. There our hardships will begin.”

Vireon agreed. Twice now he had stood atop the great cliff and looked upon the seething cloud-roof of the Stormlands. Distant thunders rose dimly to his ears. Somewhere behind him, and farther west toward the Promontory, lay the ruins of Omu the Jade City. There the young Alua had ruled a kingdom of Men ages ago. The spirits of her people still haunted the deep groves of this place. Ancient superstitions, fierce predators, and dense foliage accounted for the lack of settlements here. Yet hunters from every realm came to the High Realms to stalk the game of this forest. Many were the bands of intrepid Uurzians or Yaskathans who never returned to tell their tales of the haunted wood. Knowing the secret of the shunned place, Vireon was no longer suspicious of its nature. The high forest reminded him of Alua: beautiful and full of mysteries. He wiped his welling eyes and called for the swelling lines atop the cliff to reposition themselves. A vanguard of Giants must go first now into the green shadows.

Lord Mendices and a retinue of fifty Uurzians rode ahead with a company of a hundred axe-bearing Udvorg. They followed the trail signs left by Tyro’s foresters, while the Giants cut down trees and stamped the undergrowth flat for the triple host’s passage.

The smell of earth and moss lay thick upon the air, mingling with the aromas of Giant sweat and the pleasant tang of splintered wood. Birdsongs rattled among the endless canopy of leaf and branch, overpowered now and then by the sound of a falling tree or an Udvorg’s rumbling laughter. Foxes, squirrels, hares, and tiny monkeys came running through the underbrush in terror, fleeing the northern titans. Vireon spied a black leopard leaping from branch to branch. The hunter inside him wanted to leap from his horse and give chase. But his true prey lay in the black heart of Khyrei, and he would not lose sight of it.

So the host passed through the length of the high forest, the Giants cutting, chopping, and stamping a crude highway into existence. Mendices suggested burning large swathes of undergrowth, but Vireon rejected the idea. Tyro agreed with Vireon. A smoke trail might be seen for hundreds of leagues, and the mariners of Allundra might easily carry word of the triple host’s passing to Khyrei. Perhaps they already knew. Perhaps Gammir and Ianthe had already fortified their swampland border with enough legions to oppose the great northern host. Yet there was no way to be sure, and stealth must be maintained for as long as possible.

The host marched for seven days and spent seven nights camped amid the wilderness. Each evening the trailblazers cleared land for tents and horses and camp followers. Some Men and Giants went on brief hunts while the sun lingered low in the sky. The Men returned with the fat carcasses of pheasants and bright-feathered peacocks. One of Tyro’s best archers brought down a horned stag with a pelt white as snow. This was acclaimed as an omen of coming victory by all the Men of Uurz; such pale beasts were unheard of in the Stormlands. Word of this good omen soon spread to the Giants, who also believed it.

The Giant huntsmen fared poorly in this Men’s wood, for the tramping of their great feet set wild creatures running before them and gave warning to the armies of birds filling the branches. Still, a few of them managed to snare wolves or bears, which the Men would not deign to eat. To the hungry Udvorg it was fresh meat and nothing to pass up. They stitched new cloaks from the hides of these upland creatures. After a single Udvorg ate monkey flesh and became violently ill, they quickly learned to leave the skittish tree dwellers alone. The furry ones were too much like Men in appearance and facial expression, or so Angrid decreed. They must carry the souls of dead men in their tiny bodies, and so were poison to Giants, who had not eaten manflesh in several millennia.

The host crossed three raging rivers and spent a night on the shore of a hidden lake where Men pulled fish large as hounds from the water. There was feasting and drinking aplenty, and the barrels of ale and wine were nearly all gone when the host’s vanguard reached the sinking land. There the great forest plateau sloped gradually downward. Clusters of trees grew thinner with each passing league, until the vast swamp lay spread before them like a sea of steaming mud.

“The Eastern Marshes,” announced Tyro from the back of his warhorse. “Beyond lies the red jungle of Khyrei. Here our course must turn straight into the east. Passage will be slow and difficult. The vipers and venomous toads gather thick as flies here, and tales of the swamp’s great lizards cannot be ignored.”

“Aye, Lord,” said Mendices. His golden helm lay in the crook of his arm. “Poets say the marshes are haunted by the restless ghosts of a race that died ages ago. A people that were not quite Men…”

Vireon stared across the wetlands from the back of his own steed. An endless expanse of black mud, dead trees, strangling vines, and green meres of unknown depth. There was no solid path through the place, and a Man might easily drown in seconds if he dared to pass this way alone. He wondered at the host’s best course of action.

Angrid called forth Varda the Keen Eyes. The blue Giantess came forward in the company of two Udvorg brothers. The tip of her staff blazed like an azure torch. She wore a cloak of black wolf’s fur. Three bronze rings bright as gold hung from each of her ears, and a single ring depended from her shapely nose. The scars along her comely face were purposeful, indicative of her rank among those who wielded the cold flame. While most Udvorg hair was the color of snow, Varda’s was as black as Vireon’s own mane. A telltale sign of the common origins shared by all Giants.

Angrid spoke with the shamaness, and Varda turned again and again to survey the midday gloom of the swamp. Winged worms flitted among the rotting glades like bats, and Men traded guesses as to their nature. Vireon heard the first instances of grumbling among the hosts of Uurz and Udurum. No man wished to tramp through this chaos of filth and venom. Yet every warrior would take that awful journey. Men knew that glory and victory lay at the end of this long march. They believed in the might of their Kings and the righteousness of their crusade. And they had the Udvorg on their side.

Men and Giants transferred bale, keg, and crate to their backs, for no wagon or cart would travel through the mire. A great portion of the camp followers formed a makeshift settlement on the near side of the swamplands to await the triple host’s return. Yet the soldiers and their Kings must forge ahead with diminished resources. Vireon decided that Giants must again go first, not only to test the depth of the swamp, but also to confront any great beasts that might arise from it.

Varda walked to the head of the vanguard, her shaggy boots sinking ankle-deep in the muck. She raised the blazing staff above her head and sang in an ancient tongue. Vireon saw the three thousand Udvorg kneeling as one, as if the shamaness conducted some holy ceremony. Among their number, only the proud Ice King stood unbowed as Varda worked her spell.

The heat of the sun fell away from the swamp, and the brightness of the blue flame increased. A sphere of indigo fire floated from the staff like a bubble rising in water, hovering for a moment above the marshland. Varda continued her chant as the globe grew brighter than the sun itself, bathing the world in shades of sapphire and azure. The cobalt sphere radiated a terrible cold as the true sun radiates heat. Men shivered while Giants sighed with pleasure. Vireon himself could feel the intensity of the cold, a sensation he was not normally privy to.

Now Varda lowered her staff and the sphere of blue flame sank into the ground of the marsh. A sudden crackling filled the air as the muddy domain began to change. The mud froze as if caught in the grip of winter, and the scum-laden pools of water turned to solid ice. Men pulled their cloaks tight about their shoulders and marveled at the white fog of their breaths, while the Udvorg rose up, shedding cloaks and mail shirts to better enjoy the chill. They laughed and stalked into the frozen wasteland. One of them struck a tree with the butt of his spear; the icy wood cracked and splintered into a thousand gleaming fragments.

“By the Four Gods,” said Tyro to his Giant peers. “It appears this crossing may be less grueling than expected.”

The icy expanse reached nearly a league in all directions. Yet the air had grown warm again. Already the slick surface of the frozen mire was beginning to melt in the sun’s warm glow. They must travel quickly across this hardened land.

Varda the Keen Eyes bowed to the three Kings and resumed her frosty silence.

Word traveled backward along the lines and soon the march resumed.

In the day’s third hour, the first of the great lizards arose from the muck. Varda stood at the head of the columns, singing her flamesong for the second time in order to extend the icy path. From the yet-unfrozen ground rose a scaled behemoth, dripping mud and water from its spiny back and blunt snout. Even on all fours it stood half the height of an Udvorg. Its loose flesh was olive-green and mottled gray, draped in the scum of its habitat. Since it had only four legs it was not therefore a true Serpent, nor did it breathe fire as did those creatures of legend. Yet its toothy mouth split the circumference of its head. The yellow fangs within were as long as Uurzian swords, and far thicker. Despite its great size it lunged swift as the wind across the frozen marsh.

Before word of the monster had reached the center ranks, an Udvorg died in its jaws, spine chomped in half, severed head rolling like a pebble. The Giants near enough to witness the attack leaped forward with spear and axe, eager to test their mettle against such a beast. Here was game worthy of Giantkind. Here was a thing out of legend, whose speckled flesh might feed the entire Udvorg legion.

Vireon held his horse back and called for Dahrima to stay with him, as twenty Udvorg encircled the behemoth. Tyro watched the battle with a fascination bordering on gleefulness. Vireon drew his greatsword but remained calm on his steed. If there were more lizards such as this, the going here would be slow. Still, he admired the vicious nature of the Udvorg as they harried the monster with pole and blade. They danced about its snapping head and thrust spears into its hide. Others braved its claws to deliver crushing blows with axe and mace.

By the time the great lizard was dead, lying on its back with a dozen Udvorg spears sprouting from its pale underbelly, Varda had finished her new spell. Once again the swamp lay frozen before the host. The ice near the slain beast was smeared with its black blood. One of the Udvorg claimed the lizard’s head; he would hollow out the skull and wear it as a helmet. The rest of the beast’s killers sliced off hocks of its dense flesh to fill their packs. Some dug their stony teeth into the raw red meat instantly, praising its wild flavor. They buried their fallen comrade quickly in the solid mire, marking the grave with a horned helm. Soon the triple host was again underway.

The iced landscape drove vipers and toads into their lairs or killed them outright. The carcasses of black-and-crimson reptiles and bloated amphibians littered the frozen mud. By the time the last members of the host crossed the frozen landscape, it was trampled into oozing mud and broken clumps of melting ice. Vireon and Tyro led their legions of Men forward with Varda, Angrid, and a small company of Udvorg on either side, while the bulk of the Giants came last across the marsh, traversing the half-frozen mire with far less difficulty than the feet of Men or the hooves of horses. Vireon’s captains kept the legions marching at top speed.

Night overtook the hurried host, and weariness claimed Varda shortly after sundown. The triple host would have to spend a night in the swamp, which would be long thawed by morning. Clouds of stinging insects rose up from their temporary hibernation and harassed the flesh of Men and horses, though their bites could not penetrate the skins of Vireon and the Giants. Soldiers chose carefully the ground on which they erected tents; some chose to sleep on logs or narrow spars of dry earth. The majority would awake to find their blankets sunk into the soft earth, but companions would help dig them free. Despite the cold, the Kings allowed no fires to be lit, for the smoke and light might give away their presence to the Border Legions stationed directly ahead, untold leagues farther on, where the ground rose up to support the crimson jungle.

Varda shared the tent of the Ice King, while Vireon and Tyro kept their own pavilions. This time Vireon insisted Dahrima sleep inside. She curled up on the muddy rugs his attendants had spread to create a makeshift floor. The three armies passed an uncomfortable night lying on half-frozen ground and gnawing strips of dried meat rations. There was no singing or merriment this night, for the minstrels, harlots, and poets had been left behind at the edge of the marshes, and neither Man nor Giant held the mood for festivity.

Cries in the night woke Vireon more than once. Men slept uneasily in this place, haunted by the alleged ghosts that lurked here, or perhaps by their own superstitious minds. In the darkest part of the night, another great lizard wandered into the camp. It devoured two Uurzians and four horses before the Giants rose up to slay it. There was little sleeping among the ranks after that battle. Each of the three Kings doubled the watch under his command, but no more attacks came that night.

In the morning the camp rose early, eager to leave the horrid landscape behind. Vireon blinked away the remnants of nightmares. He had dreamed that Alua and Maelthyn were lost in the treacherous marshland. All night long as he slept he chased them and called out their names, and so awoke frustrated and unrested. This only angered him, and he pushed the troops to assemble themselves at a record pace. They must leave this place behind before its abstract terrors became real enough to do lasting harm. The loss of a few Men and Giants to the swamp was regrettable, but acceptable. All warriors knew the risk of a campaign. Yet the bulk of the triple host must remain intact when the three Kings reached the far side of the marshes.

They traveled fifteen leagues the next day, each one frozen by Varda’s magic, and the Giants slew two more hungry lizards. The Udvorg now professed great satisfaction with the raw flesh of these creatures. They had learned how to tip the beasts over to expose their vulnerable undersides. They offered cuts of bloody lizard flesh to their human allies, but the Men had not yet grown desperate enough to dine on such grisly fare. The Udvorg found great humor in the sensitivity of Men’s bellies. Angrid agreed with Vireon that, while the mammoth lizards dwelled in the swamp, the beasts must hunt for prey in the red jungle. There was no suitable game for creatures of such great size in the marshes. None but the host passing through it now.

In the fading light of early evening, Vireon first glimpsed the red jungle rising from the mists. Mighty trees, many of them tall as northern Uygas, gleamed scarlet and ruby, changing to shades of burgundy and carmine as the shadows of night crept eastward. The darkness beneath their tangled limbs was thicker than the swamp mud. If there were eyes staring upon them from the jungle depths, Vireon could not tell.

Only a few final leagues of marshland lay between the vanguard and the blood-colored jungle when Varda the Keen Eyes spotted the first of the watchtowers. The edge of the jungle marked Khyrei’s true border. Officially Ianthe’s empire included the swamps, but no Emperor of the black city was foolish enough to try and fortify the sunken land. Instead, a network of towers stood along the line of demarcation between swamp and jungle.

The towers were built of black basalt, like the city that gave them birth, and their summits were barbed with upturned spikes thick as ships’ masts. They rose from the jungle’s edge, spaced about five leagues apart, forming a north-to-south boundary. The line of fortified spires was known to extend into the southern reaches of the swampland, all the way to the Cryptic Sea. There was nothing to do but confront the Border Legions here, where they might still salvage an element of surprise.

“How many Men do you think are garrisoned inside one of those towers?” Tyro asked Vireon.

“At least a hundred,” Vireon guessed.

“Pardon me, Lords,” said Mendices, who rode near to Tyro. “My sources say a thousand men can live comfortably within these lean citadels, double that if pressed. Their size cannot easily be appreciated from this distance.”

“And if these towers stretch all the way to the southern shore as you say, how many must there be? How many legions control this border?”

“Rumors of war have been flying for years now,” said Tyro. “I suspect the Khyreins have boosted their defenses along this line. We must send scouts ahead to give us numbers and suggest formations.”

“Good,” said Vireon. “Send Men. Giants are too noisy.”

“Agreed,” said the Sword King. Tyro set Mendices the task of assembling a covert force of Uurzians to explore the jungle’s edge and survey its black towers. The band of scouts ran into the darkness with only the sounds of sucking mud to mark their passage.

With the last two leagues of swamp ahead of them, the host stopped to rest by the light of a full moon. The Kings saw flames dancing in the upper windows of the nearest watchtower. Standing on the shoulders of a Giant, Vireon saw three such towers, including one directly ahead of the triple host. The second and third towers rose to the north and south of their path. He saw fires dancing amid the jungle trees too, sign of additional troops encamped outside the strongholds. The Kings allowed no encampment this close to their enemy. Not until they discovered exactly what lay before them. They might have no choice but to rush forward and wage a nocturnal battle. If they did choose to stay in the marshes until dawn, it would be another night without fire or warm food. A restless mood fell across the waiting host.

The time for the spilling of Men’s blood was almost upon them.

Not long after the company of scouts departed, the wailing of horses drew Vireon’s attention. Men rushed from the lines, bellowing warnings of black tentacles or colossal vipers risen from the muck. Six riderless horses fell or were pulled into deep pools of marshwater. Vireon went prowling about the edge of the camp with Dahrima at his back. Men and Giants watched as the black waters of a great mere rippled.

“There!” a soldier shouted, pointing with the head of his spear. A dark tendril shot up from the muck and extended itself toward him. Soldiers poked at it with spears. They leaped back into the midst of their fellows, trying to avoid the grasp of the slippery thing. Vireon bounded forward as the appendage wrapped itself around a spearman’s torso and lifted him from the ground.

“My Lord!” The helpless warrior screamed, arms pinned to his sides, eyes pleading at Vireon. “Help me!”

Vireon’s greatsword flashed in the moonlight. The warrior fell into the mud, half the severed tentacle still wrapped about his waist, twitching and oozing a noxious ichor. The dripping stump withdrew into the waters. Soldiers pulled their brother free and sliced the tendril into quivering bits, which they kicked back into the fetid water.

Another shout rang out in another part of the camp, and Men screamed in alarm. Vireon looked above their heads where another tentacle, greater in size than the first, rose from the muck to linger eyeless and pointed. It struck like a viper, pulling warriors into the air, then directly into the dark waters of the lakelet. They would soon drown if they were not immediately devoured by whatever beast lurked below the swamp’s surface.

Vireon raced through the ranks of startled men, and now cries of surprise and horror came from all sides. Oily black tentacles burst from the newly thawed muck to strike at Man, Giant, and horse alike. Sprays of blood filled the air as the tendrils crushed flesh and bone to ghastly pulp.

Men ran to avoid the arc of Vireon’s blade as he slashed at the darting coils. It seemed the earth itself sprouted clammy members to steal the lives that dared its cursed ground.

“They’re everywhere!” someone yelled.

“Gods preserve us!” rang from another place in the panicked ranks.

“Ghurvald! It’s taken Ghurvald!” cried a stricken Uurzian. Chaos replaced the orderly nature of the lines, and their formations fell to pieces.

The black tendrils rose up everywhere, dripping with silt and tangled roots. The northerners sliced and hacked at them, but there was no end to their number. The marshy ground trembled beneath Vireon’s feet as he shouted orders and severed another serpentine limb.

A great moan rose like thunder from the marsh, and the world turned upside down.

A colossal thing of mud and tremulous flesh rose up beneath the triple host, trailing slime and mire from its shambolic bulk. It stood tall and broad as a craggy hill, stinking of ancient filth, a forest of tendrils striking out to entrap its victims. Men, horses, and even Giants toppled sideways and fell from its quivering back as the impossible mass boiled up from below, scattering lives and loamy boulders by the score. Its tentacles grabbed most of those who fell from the rising heap, squeezing and ripping and dousing the host below with hot blood.

It had no definite form, this mad creature from beneath the swamp. Its blistered, warty flesh was rife with fanged mouths, a hundred gnashing, mewling, vomiting maws. Tentacles deposited the choicest bits of Men and horses into these champing orifices, and sometimes whole Men died between the rows of jagged fangs. A chorus of wailing voices fell from its unknown summit, the tremulous cries of tortured animals or Men.

Giants strode forth to battle the Swamp God and they, too, were caught in its steely grip. Axes and spears sank into pustulant flesh with little effect. Vireon lay in the mud for a second where the beast’s uprising had tossed him, and he realized the entirety of the scene.

This nameless obscenity was the true guardian of the Khyrein border. It was no coincidence that it slumbered so close to the line of watchtowers. The creature writhed and shivered across the marsh, the height of its shapeless body dwarfing even the tallest Giant, its numberless tentacles faster and deadlier than vipers. It loomed large enough to blot out stars and moon.

Somewhere along the western edge of the triple host, someone screamed a fresh warning between the blasts of an Uurzian war horn.

“Khyreins! Border Legions!”

Another note from the horn tore through the night. Vireon struggled to his feet and tore at the dragging tentacles about his waist and limbs. One of the fanged maws loomed above him, gnashing rows of uneven teeth and spewing filth. It yawned wider than the mouths of the great lizards, mindlessly eager.

“The Khyreins! They come!”

Men and Giants wailed and fought and died while the horn bellowed its warning.

Vireon understood now, but it was too late.

There was never any chance of surprising them here.

They were waiting for us.

Waiting to unleash this abomination.

A blue flame flickered somewhere in the howling darkness.