Seven Kings

25

His dreams were bloody infernos, hordes of howling foes, a rain of blades hissing at his skin, the skulls of dead men crunching beneath his boots. Winged shadows fell from the sky to pluck eyes from living faces. Flames consumed the earth on every side, and his enemies rushed from the fires, eager to spill his guts and trample them into the bone-littered earth. His blade was an extension of his right arm, as it always was in the murderous chaos of battle. He hacked a path through the flames, splitting open faces and bellies and chests. He killed until he was sick of killing, and the battle continued. The great, stony face of the God-King hovered in the black sky, flaming comets dripping from its eyes. Its vast mouth was open, pouring forth an endless stream of armored Men and blazing Giants.

After a restless eternity of battling phantoms, he rose from the morass of nightmares into the quiet gloom of his tent. His eyes fluttered open. The muted sounds of camp life drifted through the canvas walls, and the terrible heat of Khyrei lay heavy upon his chest. The blankets on which he lay were soaked through with sweat, as were the bandages about his arms, legs, and torso. The silhouette of an Uurzian spearman stood outside the tent, sunlight casting a golden aura about his shield and corselet. Tyro called to the guard, but his voice was no more than a hollow croaking.

Water. He must have it now or die. Black ashes filled his chest, as if his interior organs had burned to cinders. He no longer saw the flames of his nightmares, but still he felt their merciless heat licking at his flesh.

Someone stirred in the gloom and a new figure moved into view. The sharp-nosed face of Mendices leaned over him with a chalice of sparkling fluid. His hand slipped beneath Tyro’s head and he raised it so the Sword King could drink from the cup.

Water, cool and perfect. He drained the cup.

“More… more…” he moaned.

Twice more Mendices filled the cup and twice more Tyro drained it.

He fell into a deeper sleep then, dreamless and dark.

How long was it until he awoke again, the sun still hanging high above his tent? He might have lain here for days or weeks, so oblivious was he to the passing of time. Mendices once again walked out of the tent’s shadows and gave him water.

“Hungry…” Tyro mumbled.

Mendices grinned, his pockmarked face suddenly feline in aspect. “Good,” he said. “Hunger is a good sign, My Lord.” He sliced apart a ripe pomegranate and placed a few tangy seeds into Tyro’s mouth. Tyro sucked the sweet flesh from the seeds, then crunched them between his molars. A sudden wash of strength fell across his limbs as he devoured the pomegranate. Then quickly it fell away again, leaving him exhausted on the crude couch.

“How long?” he asked.

“Less than a day,” said Mendices. “You fell ill last night. Now is just past midday.”

“Where is Vireon?”

“With his Giants,” said Mendices. The look on his face was one of deep worry. “Tonight the Kings meet once again for a war council.”

Tyro inhaled the hot air. “I must go,” he said, and strained to bring himself into a sitting position. His head swam crazily, and he fell back to the cushions. His arms and legs seemed made of lead. He lay helpless before the only man of Uurz he trusted completely.

“Rest easy, Majesty,” said Mendices. “Sixty men have died from this red fever already. Gods of Earth and Sky willing, you will not join them. Let the fever run its course.”

“I have slept too much,” said Tyro. “I am done with nightmares.”

Mendices moved a chair near to Tyro’s couch and sat himself upon it. He wore a corselet of boiled leather over a green tunic. His swamp-stained boots had been replaced with easy sandals. A longblade hung at his side, the same one he always carried. Its pommel was carved in the likeness of a hawk’s head with tiny garnets for eyes. They glinted at Tyro as he lay powerless and listened to Mendices’ words.

“Iardu has given you some concoction of herbs and sorcery,” said the Warlord. “It has done you well. The first stage of the fever passed quickly. Your head is cleared, your skin cooling. It will be a while still before your full strength returns. You must be patient…”

Patient? The greatest conquering horde the world has ever known is bearing down on Uurz and its allies, and Mendices wants patience?

“I will represent the throne of Uurz tonight in your stead,” said the Warlord. “So speak, Majesty, as best you can. Tell me your mind so I may convey it to the Kings.”

Tyro blinked and managed to raise a hand to wipe his damp brow. “You speak eloquently, but I know your mind,” he said. “When you have something to say, you take on the aspect of the keenest listener. Out with it.”

Mendices grimaced. His dark eyes glanced toward the tent’s entrance. The blurred shapes of Men and horses passed by. Somewhere in the distance the gravelly voices of Giants were raised in song. “You know me too well, Majesty.” He stood and paced between the couch and the far tent wall. Tyro’s gilded breastplate hung upon a wooden stand, alongside a new shield bearing the Uurzian sun and a freshly polished spear and broadsword. He coughed and waited for the Warlord to speak his mind.

“You saw what happened to Vireon,” said Mendices. “How he defeated the Swamp God.”

Tyro nodded weakly.

Mendices turned toward him, lowered his face to stare directly into his King’s eyes. “You saw him standing tall as a mountain, tossing towers into kindling with a single step. Never will I forget the sight of it…”

“Aye,” Tyro mumbled. It was a miraculous tale he hoped to tell his grandchildren someday. The legends of Vireon the Slayer were built on a solid foundation of truth. He was every bit the legend his father had been.

“With Angrid’s death, Vireon adds the might of the Icelands to that of Udurum. In this southern clime he rules two thousand Udvorg. How many more thousands must lurk still in the Frozen North? Vireon now wears the crown of a true Giant-King. He wields the mightiest force in the world. And this force is not human.

“I have seen him walking about the camps at the height of his Giants, as if he is now one of them. And I have come to realize that he is indeed more Giant than Man. Why, taking Angrid’s throne has made him Emperor of the North. He might declare himself so at any time!”

Mendices grew silent. He poured a fresh cup of water for Tyro, and a goblet of amber wine for himself. He helped Tyro swallow a few sips before he continued.

“I fear him, Majesty. Vireon’s might is beyond our ken. Now this sorcerer shows us a vision of Zyung and his approaching hordes. I know you feel the weight of this vision, as I know it to be true in the depths of my heart. The Shaper would not lie about such things. Our situation is dire, My Lord. We came south to conquer Khyrei and it has been done for us. Stolen from us, one might say. What more will we lose if we stay here?”

The words rolled like hot stones about the confines of Tyro’s skull. His head hammered, but he would not yield to the pain. He would vanquish it, as he vanquished all foes.

“What would you have us do?” he asked.

“Return to Uurz,” said Mendices, his voice a whisper. “Bring our legions together and fortify our walls for the long siege that is sure to come. Let Vireon and his Giants lead the defense against these invaders. Let Yaskatha and Mumbaza, and this New Khyrei, take the brunt of Zyung’s assault. The war that falls soon upon us will be deadly beyond mortal reckoning. Let our enemies humble Vireon and his newfound power, while he weakens the ranks of the invaders. By the time Zyung reaches Uurz, he will have faced an army of Giants and several armies of Men. We will have the advantage of unspoiled legions and the strength of our unfailing walls.”

Tyro lay silent for a while, staring at the yellow canvas above. Already the heat consuming his body seemed to have lessened. Yet strength eluded him.

“I have been foolish,” he said. “I sought glory in the conquering of Khyrei and the deaths of the sorcerers who ruled it. I was angry that this glory had been stolen from me by Iardu and Sharadza… and this risen Slave King. Yet it was all a ploy to bring me here that I might see the truth of what is to come. Iardu is but the agent of that truth.

“Now I understand where the true glory lies. The greatest war in history sails toward us on the wild sea winds. Only by facing what comes can a warrior know the truest taste of glory. Only by abandoning ourselves to death can we truly know what it means to live.

“You ask me to run, Mendices. You would have me flee this coast and leave my allies to face the terrors that I will not. These are not the words of a Warlord. They are the yammerings of a coward.”

Mendices lowered his eyes. Whether anger or shame or some mixture of the two stole across his face, Tyro could not tell. He sat in silence for a long while.

“Forgive me, Lord,” he said at length.

Tyro forced his hand over the lip of the couch and placed it on the golden bracer encircling the Warlord’s forearm.

“Let us speak no more of it,” said the Sword King. “We will consult with the Kings, we will support them, and we will fight with them. There is no greater honor. And if we die in the coming storm? Well, if we die we become something far more than Men.”

“What is that, Majesty?”

“Legends.”

Mendices nodded and rubbed his tired eyes. “Do you still hunger?”

“I crave meat,” said Tyro.

“Very well.” Mendices left the tent and returned with a hock of roasted pork, part of the provisions given to the Uurzians by the Slave King. Mendices fed it to him in small bites. Tyro reveled in its delicious flavor. How long had it been since he tasted such solid fare? Mendices urged him on with every bite.

When the meal was done, Tyro drank a cup of wine. He managed to hold his head up and bring the glass to his own lips. Mencides was pleased.

Now came the difficult part. Tyro gathered his breath for an ultimate effort. The muscles of his belly contracted beneath the white bandages, and he pulled himself into a sitting position. He breathed in ragged gasps, sweat dripping from his wet locks. He sat now with elbows upon his knees, and looked at Mendices, who stood before him.

“Iardu’s potion has done its work,” said the Warlord. Tyro’s head resounded with the clanging of unseen shields. The heat seemed to rise once more inside his skull, as if his brain were immersed in boiling saltwater. He ignored it.

Mendices brought him a ewer of cool water and a sponge. With painstaking slowness, Tyro himself washed the sweat and grime from his body. He lay back down while Mendices removed his bandages, washed his wounds, and replaced them with fresh strips of linen.

The face of Talondra drifted into Tyro’s mind as he sat up a second time on the cot. It had been long weeks since he felt her hot kisses. Too long since he took her lithe body in his hands and enjoyed the sweet embrace of her womanhood. He missed her so. By now her belly must be growing round; not huge yet, but noticeable. He smiled when he thought of her hiding the lump beneath costly gowns. She would disguise the loss of her slim figure until the child came. Such was her vanity, and the vanity of all highborn women. Still, she took great pride in bearing his son. The Priests of the Sky God had ordained that Tyro’s first-born would indeed be a boy. He had never known them to be wrong about such matters.

For a moment all thoughts of glory and war left him. Perhaps Mendices was right. Perhaps his place was in Uurz with his wife and son. Yet he could not leave his friends and allies to fight a war for him. There was no honor in it. Better the honor that death provides than the shame of retreat. If he died, at least his son would live to take the throne of the green-gold city.

“Mendices,” he called. “Find parchment and quill. I wish to write a letter to my wife.” Mendices nodded and left the tent. Tyro forced himself to stay sitting upright. No matter how weary he felt, he would be at tonight’s war council. He would not let Mendices make any great decisions without him. The other Kings would see it as weakness if he missed a second gathering. The path to glory was long and hard, and he had barely set his foot upon it.

Mendices returned and arranged quill, ink, and parchment on a makeshift desk. Tyro spoke the words aloud while the Warlord inscribed them on the paper.

“Dearest Talondra,” he began. “May the Four Gods guide this letter so that it finds you whole and healthy. I miss you dearly. We have come to Khyrei, where the seeds of revolt have sprouted before us. Emperor and Empress are vanquished, though not by my hand. The city’s slave population has risen up and toppled the regime. In this noble feat they were aided by the hand of Iardu the Shaper. Although the humbling of the black city was our goal, we know now that we have been called here to face a far greater threat…”

He went on to tell her of Zyung the God-King and his approaching hordes. He spared her the details of aerial ships and flying lizard-beasts. It was enough to tell her that a force of millions would soon descend on the world from across the Golden Sea. He explained his decision to stay and fight together with the Kings of the known realms. He even shared his hope that they would survive the coming of Zyung and see a new age of peace and prosperity born from these historic alliances.

“I know not how many months or years will pass until I hold you in my arms again. Or when I will see the face of my son. Until that day I carry both of you in my heart. It is my fondest wish that you name our first-born after my father. Let him be called Dairon the Second. If I am to perish in the coming war, raise him to understand why I stayed here and fought with my brother Kings. Let him know the deeds and honor of his father and grandfather. Raise him to be a fearless warrior and a wise ruler. I know that you will serve him well, as you serve all of Uurz.” He finished the letter with the customary call for the blessings of Earth, Sea, Sun, and Sky.

“Find a strong rider, uninjured and quick-minded,” he told Mendices. “Bid him carry this scroll to Uurz and deliver it to the hand of the Queen herself.”

“It shall be done,” said Mendices. He rolled the parchment, stuffed it into a capped leather tube, and left the tent to find a suitable messenger.

Dairon the Second.

A fitting name for the boy who would one day rule the Stormlands. And if Tyro never got the chance to read Lyrilan’s book, let young Dairon read it and learn the history of his namesake.

Tyro forced himself to stand with no little pain. On his third try he succeeded in walking seven steps to the entrance of the tent. He stood there looking past the shoulder of the sentinel, scanning the sea of sun-kissed bronze and steel, the simple tents of legionnaires, the clusters of soldiers tending to mail and blade with oil and hammer. The towering forms of Udvorg stumbled across the crowded encampment; beyond their shaggy white heads the black walls of Khyrei stood strong as ever.

Near to that wall, in the place where the first Council of Kings was held, a parade of attendants was already setting the board for this evening’s summit. Out beyond the double armada, the sun sank at its own steady pace toward the sparkling mirror of the sea.

Tyro turned back to the cool interior of the tent.

“Guard!” he called. The man turned and stepped respectfully inside. “Come and help me with this armor.”

The warrior was only too glad to assist his King. When Mendices returned, he was shocked to see the Sword King arrayed in all his finery: golden breastplate, sunray cloak, jeweled sandals, and the golden helm with its intricate wings. Tyro buckled the wide belt that held his broadsword in its scabbard.

“Majesty!” Mendices huffed. “You should be resting still.”

Tyro swayed on his feet. His scalp was damp with fresh sweat. Like an ancient tree caught in a windstorm, he stubbornly refused to fall.

He was the Emperor of Uurz. He was the Sword King.

“I am done with resting,” he said. “We have a war to plan.”

Mendices lowered his bald head, expressing his disapproval in silence.

Let this Zyung come. The world stands ready to meet him.

Tyro plodded from his tent into the humid purple twilight.