Seven Kings

7

Fear ran unleashed through the broad streets of Udurum. The invisible chain that normally held it far from the necks of the populace had been broken. The fear itself wore many faces: the towering forms of Uduri in plates of blackened bronze, the fourteen legions of Men who marched beneath the banner of the Fist and Hammer, the great black wall that encircled the city, and the massive gates that were locked and impervious from either side. In a single morning the city was sealed, and a forest of gleaming spears stood on every corner.

In the Merchant Quarter all commerce was halted by order of the City General, Ryvun Ctholl, a strong-jawed veteran whose green eyes spoke of Sharrian blood. Drunken caravan drivers, mercenary guards, and the most vehement of the merchants were arrested and hauled away to dank cells beneath Vireon’s palace. All traffic in and out of the city halted, swelling the inns and boarding houses with travelers bound for Uurz, Tadarum, or Murala. Wagons and cartloads of produce from surrounding villages piled up outside the gates, where a dozen Uduri stood with grim faces and spears of polished steel. Incoming merchant trains were halted on the road. For leagues along the Western Way there sprang up makeshift merchant camps and hastily erected tents as the sun sank closer to the horizon.

Squads of legionnaires on strong southern-bred horses carried word along the road: Udurum is closed to friends and strangers until further notice.

Ryvun’s legions quelled three riots on the first day alone. Foreign visitors did not like being told where to stay, what do do, or when they might expect to leave. The less diplomatic of these outlanders grew determined after a few hours to fight their way out. A small melee had ensued, and Ryvun’s Palatines handled it well. Twelve foreigners dead, thirty-two more in custody, and not a single merchant willing to admit to employing any of them. Not that any seller of southern goods could truly control the ruffians he hired to guard his train. Such hirelings were men of the road, little better than thieves and scoundrels, sometimes worse. They were sellswords, not soldiers. When the Uduri showed themselves in the crowded street, the fight went out of the mercenaries, and when the first of their mighty axes cleaved a man in two, those who saw it were eager to throw down their swords. More guests for the King’s dungeons.

Vireon’s grip fell strongest upon those rumored or proved to be wizards, soothsayers, seers, somnambulists, or magicians. Anyone whose name was associated with sorcery in any way had been gathered up by the Palatines or the Uduri. It fell worst upon those who resisted. The Uduri brought down two whole houses with their axes and hammers, picking the inhabitants out of the wreckage and carrying them senseless to cells deep in the earth. One self-avowed wizard fought back with a few meager spells of his own, throwing naked flames from his hands. The Uduri laughed at his antics, then sliced off both his hands. They tossed him bandaged and howling behind a set of iron bars.

The sound of the city had become a constant roar. The streets resounded with chattering peasants, outraged citizens, shouting fruit-sellers, rollicking children, and strumming bards. The Uduri stood above the chaos like pillars of dark stone. Their golden braids spilled from helms of iron wrought into the shapes of black Serpents. Each Giantess remained a resolute center of calm in the swirling sea of gossip, confusion, fear, and indignation. By the eighth hour of the city’s lockdown, no one dared risk the drawing of those great steel swords or the casting of spears tall as flagpoles. Ryvun’s legionnaires patrolled the streets promoting calm, dissuading any further violence. As the sun disappeared beyond the western wall, the City General turned his coal-black charger toward the palace gates.

In the violet blush of evening, a white flame blossomed from the palace’s high tower. Ryvun hailed the gate guards as the miniature sun sprang to brilliant life. In the streets surrounding the palace grounds the anxious crowd drew its breath sharply and marveled at the wondrous light. The tower was not burning, anyone could see that. Yet it flamed like a star newly born. It was the King’s Tower, and all who looked upon it knew the source of that flame.

Alua the Queen, Mistress of the White Flame, worked her sorcery.

Ryvun gave the reins of his horse to the stablemaster as he watched the white flame grow. It ran down the smooth black walls of the tower like water, then spread leaping across the domes and turrets of every palace wing and spire. From every vantage point in the city people must be looking toward the white glow of the palace, amazed at the lack of smoke and the pure glow of this fire that blazed yet did not burn. The City General removed his silver helm and placed it in the crook of his arm, while the white flames spread like an intricate spiderweb, invading the courtyards and gardens that surrounded the palace proper.

Cats howled, horses bucked, and dogs ran to hide themselves as the web of white flame spread through the trees and hedges. It gave no heat, this flame, nor did it consume. It danced along paths made for human feet, leaving not a single scorched leaf or singed blade of grass. It brought light, and something else. Something that could not be named. It was fascination.

The net of flames reached the inside of the palace wall and climbed up its smooth surface. Now white fires danced atop the encircling wall, between and among the feet of patrolling legionnaires. In the bustling taverns nervous Men discussed over their cups what the Queen’s white flame must mean. Women huddled their children into cellars and attics, certain of a coming apocalypse. Merchants bristled and complained among themselves, fingering their jewels at neck and wrist. Even the King’s legionnaires muttered questions here and there, though none was bold enough to demand an answer from Ryvun himself.

Only the Uduri remained silent. The gravity of their charge, blended with the weight of their sorrow, made them silent, brooding icons of power. This was Vireon’s city, and today he had reminded everyone of that fact. He would not let the deaths of six Uduri or the infiltration of his palace go unanswered. In the search for truth and justice, Ryvun Ctholl was the King’s right hand. Since Vireon had taken the throne from his mother seven years ago, Ryvun had served him with pride, just as he had served Vireon’s father for a decade previous. He carried Vireon’s trust, which was a stronger weapon than sword or spear could ever be.

As for the blacksmith Trevius, the unfortunate who had discovered the massacre at the Three Stallions, Ryvun himself had dragged the man before the King earlier in the day. Trevius had not put up a fight when the Palatines invaded the sleeping room behind his smithy and clasped irons about his wrists. He was still half-drunk from the night before and in no mood to argue. He walked between the warriors like a timid child, looking about with anxious twitching eyes.

Vireon sat on his throne that day in uncomfortable silence. His orders were given in close whispers, to Ryvun, to Dahrima the Axe, and to a handful of chancellors. Most of the time he spent staring at a tapestry that showed his father Vod battling the Father of Serpents. His thoughts were unknowable. The King took no wine and refused a fine lunch of roasted pork. It was just after midday when Ryvun presented the blacksmith on his knees before the throne.

“Tell me what you saw,” Vireon commanded.

Trevius did not pretend ignorance. He knew why he had been called here. Vireon made him tell his story five times before rising from the throne. He came down to stand before the trembling blacksmith. “You saw no man outside the tavern? No man living inside it?”

“No, My Lord,” stammered the blacksmith. “As I said… I am a man of few friends. I hoped to find Finney the Cobbler at the Three Stallions. We sometimes drink together. Thank the Sky God he was not there or he would have…” Trevius’s voice trailed off. His eyes rolled up at Vireon, who towered over him like an Uduri over a turnip stand.

Vireon crouched then to look Trevius in the eyes. His hands reached out to grasp the blacksmith’s shoulders. The man’s face was pockmarked, etched by a half-hundred little scars made by flying embers and pieces of cinder. His arms were likewise covered in miniscule wounds, and one great scar ran across his left forearm. This was a working man, not a weaver of deadly sorcery. The King knew this as much as Ryvun did.

“Tell me something I can use, Trevius,” Vireon asked. “Anything. All those men and women torn to pieces… their hearts stolen. And now it happens to Uduri in my own house.”

Shock and horror fell across Trevius’ craggy face. His chains rattled as he wiped the sweat from his sweaty beard. “Oh, My King…” Tears welled in his eyes. “Some evil thing has fallen upon us. I would give my life to help you if I could. But I am only good for hammering and smoothing metal. It is all I have ever known.”

Vireon tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders. “Think!” he said. “Any detail you might recall could be a clue as to who conjured this curse.”

The blacksmith wept in his King’s grasp, opening his mouth and closing it dumbly again, like a fish gasping for air. Vireon endured this for a moment, then stood and turned away.

“A lady…” murmured the blacksmith. His choked voice was barely audible.

Vireon turned back to him. “Yes?”

“I heard… just before I opened the door and saw… the blood. I heard something like…”

“What did you hear? Tell me!”

The blacksmith’s swollen eyes turned to Vireon. “It was the sound of a lady’s voice… and she was laughing. I thought it came from inside the tavern… but there was only death inside.” Trevius stared into space, amazed at his own recollection. “Surely it must have fallen from some open window nearby… but I was sure it came from within the tavern.”

Vireon sighed. His big hand squeezed the man’s shoulder. “I believe you,” he said.

“What could it mean, Majesty?” asked Trevius. “All the ladies inside were… were…”

“Perhaps not,” said Vireon. He ordered the blacksmith’s chains removed, and the man returned to his smithy with a few new gold coins in his pocket.

Vireon had gone back to his throne. There he sat brooding for the rest of the day, while Ryvun and his legions secured the city with the support of the Ninety-Three Uduri.

Now, as Ryvun entered the palace once again, the white flame glimmering on his silvered corselet, he accepted a cup of wine from a servant. “How is the King?” he asked.

The servant shook his gray head. “Not good, Sir Ryvun. He’s sat right there in the Great Chair all day, staring at his own thoughts. The only respite from his brooding was when the little one came to sit upon his knee. She sleeps in his arms now.”

The servant also told him the Queen was in the high tower, though the City General already knew that. The spread of the white flame across the grounds had told him as much.

Vireon cradled the Princess Maelthyn in his lap. Her tiny head lay in the crook of his beefy arm. It was as if he held a sleeping babe, not a child of seven years. He stared at the great windows along the front wall where white flames dripped like a syrupy rain. About the throne brooded seven Uduri spearmaidens, as was customary, and at each of the room’s twenty pillars stood one of Ryvun’s Palatines, mailed in silvered bronze like himself. The crimson plumes atop their helmets seemed ludicrous in the oppressive mood of the hall.

There were two extra Uduri in the throne room now: Dahrima the Axe sat pensively on the dais steps before the King, and old Gallida the Eye lingered nearby, leaning on her ancient staff of black Uyga wood. Her long braids were gray, ringed with bands of green bronze. She was the eldest of all the surviving Uduri, and her age made her resemble a human woman in her seventies. Yet Gallida was several centuries old.

Ryvun approached the throne with a low bow and presented himself for report. Vireon watched the dancing flames and scarcely noticed the City General. Only when Ryvun addressed him directly did his reverie break. He turned his eyes toward Ryvun, the man who was his voice and his fist in the streets of the city. Something about Ryvun reminded him of Tadarus. Was it the cast of his face, or the bearing of his shoulders? Perhaps it was the single-mindedness with which Ryvun took his duties-more seriously even than his life. Next to Vireon, Alua, and the loyal Uduri, here was the being who held the most power in Udurum.

In the days of Vireon’s ancestors, humans were not even permitted north of the mountains, let alone into the city or in command of its legions. Yet Ryvun Ctholl had earned his status. Men must be ruled by Men, or they will grow to resent their ruler. Vireon was little more than half-Man. Vod had been half-Man, half-Giant, so what did that make his sons? What did it make Maelthyn? Such thoughts swirled in Vireon’s head like murky vapors as he watched the white flames dance. He was tired.

“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” said Ryvun. “A word?”

The warm comfort of Maelthyn in Vireon’s lap drew his attention before he responded to the City General. Alua was locked in the high tower consulting the Spirits, spinning her white flame in order to snare some truth. Would she find the same truth he expected? Would she see clearly the Curse of Fangodrel, and, if so, could she do anything to end it?

“I am listening,” said Vireon, turning his eyes away from Maelthyn’s face to Ryvun’s own. “Speak.”

“All that you commanded has been done,” said Ryvun. “The cold blocks are full of prisoners, with special accommodation for those accused of sorcery. Interrogations will commence at any moment. The streets are restless, but all insurrections have been quelled. Yet when the dawn comes, the people will demand answers. And freedom.”

Vireon looked about the hall at the blurred faces of his advisors, the chancellors, the servants waiting for his next order, then back to his daughter’s sweet face. His greatsword leaned naked against the throne, close to his right arm.

I let them in. He heard Maelthyn say it again in the echo chamber of his mind. What had she meant by those words? She was only a frightened little girl. He did not tell Alua what Maelthyn had whispered to him when they found her among the dead Uduri.

They came for me. He could not let his daughter believe such a thing. He had urged her to silence. Alua had bathed and dressed her while attendants cleared the bedchamber of blood and bodies. The royal family spent the morning in the courtyard, surrounded by a hundred Palatines and twenty-six Uduri guards, who bore their grief in silence.

Whatever devils had crawled into Udurum had eaten the hearts and lives of six Giantesses in addition to a tavernful of humans. Perhaps the missing hearts were the keys to the mystery. But what could this consumption of living hearts portend? The question had plagued him all day. He had not the wisdom to answer it. He hoped Alua would find some supernatural guidance.

“The people will have to wait,” said Vireon. “We will see what the night brings. These unseen devils may come calling again.”

Ryvun bristled beneath his armor. “If we inform the populace of the reason for our drastic measures, it might provide them with more patience.”

Dahrima the Axe stood now, golden braids clanking against her ebony corselet. The long-hafted weapon that inspired her nickname stood balanced on the marble floor at her feet. Her right hand lingered on its upraised pommel. At any moment she might lift that weapon to the defense of the crown. In the past two days Vireon had grown accustomed to her constant presence, and the Uduri had naturally accepted her as their captain.

“The King has invoked Uduri Law,” said Dahrima. “He need give no justification for this, Legionnaire.”

Ryvun raised his eyes to meet those of the Giantess. “I am not a legionnaire, Dahrima. I am the City General. Address me properly or do not speak in my presence.”

Vireon saw Dahrima’s fists tighten. She bore little love for the Men who helped secure the city. To her the Uduri were all the military might Udurum needed. When the Uduru were here, Vireon might have agreed that an armed force of Men was redundant. Now, though, it was primarily a City of Men, with the Uduri living in perpetual denial of the fact. If Vireon told them to drive all humans from the city tomorrow, they would do it without question. Their unflagging loyalty had been a source of great comfort to him over the past seven years. Yet now, seeing how mortal even these colossal warrior-women were, nothing seemed as certain as it had been a few days earlier.

“I hear wisdom in your words, Ryvun,” said Vireon. “Yet I will not fill the streets with word of these blood-hungry spirits. People would panic, they would seek escape. Violence would be the only result. First we must know more about this elusive enemy.”

“How fares the Queen in her… studies?” asked Ryvun.

Vireon stared again at the white flame dripping past the windows, blazing in the courtyards, dancing along the outer walls.

“We will know soon,” he said. He turned back to Maelthyn in his arms.

They will never take you, he promised silently. I will die first.

“I see,” said Ryvun. “So there is little to do but wait.”

“So you see we are waiting,” said Dahrima. She sat once more in her place at the foot of the dais. She turned her face from Ryvun and stared at the floor.

Gallida the Eye stepped toward the throne. Bone talismans and metal charms tinkled in her silver hair. She walked with the help of her staff, pressing its bronzed butt against the marble to support a weak leg. One of her eyes was larger than the other, and the Uduri said she could see beyond the living world with it. Gallida had the Sight, and Dahrima had brought her to the throne room at Vireon’s command. When Vod had come to claim his crown decades ago, Gallida was the first to confirm the truth of his Uduru bloodline. She had seen the truth of his existence, for that was her gift.

So far this day the Eye had nothing to tell Vireon. Yet now she shuffled forward and peered directly at the sleeping Princess.

“Such a beautiful girl…” said Gallida. Vireon studied the wrinkled map of the Giantess’s face. Once, long ago, she had been beautiful. Her eyes were not always so skewed, her flesh not so withered, her shoulders not so bent. He felt the great power of her stare, and he could tell that she still carried much strength in her great wiry arms. The seeress reached a gnarled finger out to caress Maelthyn’s cheek. Quickly she withdrew the digit, as if she had touched a hot flame. She sucked in a breath quickly between yellowed teeth.

Vireon saw the shadow that fell upon her face as she stared at Maelthyn. A wholly different look than before-awe… confusion… fear?

“What is it, Old One?” asked Vireon.

Gallida backed away, but her milky eyes remained locked on Maelthyn. Her black-nailed finger still pointed at the girl. “Here lies your child,” she told Vireon. “Yet it is not your child.”

Vireon drew a deep breath. Gallida was known for speaking in riddles. Riddles that led eventually to Truth. Yet she was old and tired. Could her legendary Sight be trusted?

“Explain yourself,” Vireon ordered. He wiped a loose strand of hair away from his daughter’s closed eyes. “This is surely Maelthyn, Princess of Udurum.”

“Yes,” said Gallida, her eyes (big and small) never leaving the child. “And no.”

Vireon caught the gazes of Dahrima and Ryvun, one displaying a keen interest, the other full of doubt.

“Something has… emerged…” said Gallida. “Some dark seed has taken root and grown here.”

“Speak plainly!” Vireon demanded. Maelthyn shifted restlessly in his arms. He regretted his raised voice. He did not want to wake her. It had been a troubling day for them all, especially the little one.

Gallida tore her gaze away from the child and looked at the father. She leaned in close to the man-sized throne and breathed a sour wind into Vireon’s face. Her voice was a ragged, terrified whisper: “Something hides itself within your daughter, Vireon Vodson.”

Vireon gave no response. The Giantess pulled away. She whispered once more, “Something wicked… and hungry.”

A simmering rage clouded Vireon’s vision. He fought the urge to order Gallida the Eye thrown out of the palace. He gritted his teeth and looked upon Maelthyn’s sweet face instead. Gallida wandered out of the throne room, silent as a brooding raven.

Vireon turned to Dahrima, who looked at him with concern. “What did she mean?” he asked.

Dahrima shook her head. “She is old, Majesty. She does not see clearly anymore. Her gift is lost.” Vireon knew she was lying. The Uduri were terrible liars. Their eyes gave it away every time. She could not meet his gaze. Dahrima believed what Gallida had seen. But she would not let it affect her duties in any way.

“Shall I have her arrested, Lord?” asked Ryvun.

Dahrima glared at the City General. Her eyes spoke a challenge that her mouth dare not.

Vireon shook his head. “Let her be.”

He recalled the blacksmith’s confession. A lady’s laugh. Thoughts clanged together in his thick skull like the ringing of iron shields. Something hides within your daughter.

Your children will be born into shadow.

Vireon’s eyes welled. Hot tears ran, then cooled and dried upon his cheeks. Ryvun and Dahrima said nothing as they watched their King weep over the sleeping form of his daughter. What could they say to comfort him? What could any man-or Giant-say? That he was cursed?

This he already knew.

Alua’s scream shattered the silence. It fell from the high tower as clearly as the peal of an iron bell. The white flames danced higher and flamed brighter, a diamond-flickering lattice across the entire palace and its grounds. Travelers must have seen that mountain of brilliance flickering far out along the Western Way, where they endured a night of mud and nervous bellies.

Maelthyn was the first to respond. Her blue eyes flew open and she leaped from her father’s lap, running down the steps of the dais.

“Mother!” she cried. Vireon came down after her. He bent to catch her as she raced toward the sound of Alua’s pain, but she was too fast for him. She had all of his inhuman speed and none of his bulk. All he could do was run after her. He took up his greatsword and did so. Palatines and Uduri came rushing after him. He raced along the central corridor to the wide stairs winding up into the King’s Tower. Maelthyn ran ahead of him, her black hair bobbing up and down.

It reminded him briefly of the day, eight years past, when he had chased Alua through the northern snows. She had worn the form of the white fox, and he was her desperate hunter. The fox had avoided him for days, eventually revealing her true self. He never caught her, but later she rescued him from a prison of the blue-skinned Udvorg. So their love had been kindled in the frosty northern clime.

Now Maelthyn raced quicker than a fox up the stairs. Vireon followed, taking two steps at a time. He half expected his daughter to suddenly become a leaping cat or flying bird, so great was her speed. Obviously she had inherited something of her parents’ power.

Or had she?

Something hides within your daughter.

The doors of the royal bedchamber stood open, releasing a flood of white light. The two Uduri who guarded the doorway stood staring at the fierce glow, captivated by the spectacle of Alua’s floating body. She hung suspended halfway between floor and ceiling, centered in a nimbus of rushing, blazing light. She was the nexus at the core of the web of white flame. The pure light of her sorcery radiated from eyes, mouth, fingers, and toes. The Queen of Udurum should be immune to all enemies here, at the heart of her seething magic. Yet she had screamed in agony.

Maelthyn and Vireon raced between the dumbfounded Uduri and stood beneath Alua’s hovering figure. The trance had claimed her completely. She did not or could not acknowledge them. Could she see at all with those pale flames blasting from her eyes? The white magic washed over Vireon, prickling his skin, making his mane of hair dance to invisible winds. Maelthyn raised her little hands toward Alua. She cried out something, a word Vireon could not hear. The thunder of the white flames rushed to fill his ears, and the merciless light blinded him.

Alua turned her blazing face downward, and she screamed again. Now a fresh wave of white flame erupted, driving Vireon back toward the door. The guards rushing into the chamber fell back, along with the Uduri. Looking past his upraised forearm, Vireon saw the vague outlines of mother and daughter at the center of a swirling inferno. Maelthyn was rising, even as Alua descended to join her. Then his eyes were forced to close, or else be blinded forever.

He had seen this display of power once before, on the day Shar Dni fell to a Khyrein invasion. The day he’d killed his murderous brother and Alua had destroyed Ianthe the Claw. The Sorceress of Khyrei had tried to flee, but Alua’s white flame caught her, immolated her, devoured her. There was nothing at all left of the wicked Empress when the light had faded. Alua’s magic had burned her out of existence.

Now the blaze faded again, and Vireon dared to open his eyes. They stood on the floor now, mother and daughter, locked in an embrace. The white flames ran along their bodies, spilling like rainwater from their skins, sluicing across the floor, out the open windows, flashing across the city.

Slowly the flames faded to nothing. The glow outside the palace was once again that of moon and stars.

Alua embraced Maelthyn with a loving smile. Vireon raced forward to join them, but stopped when both their faces turned to stare at him. They smiled as one.

“The evil is gone, My King,” Alua told him, stroking Maelthyn’s hair. “I have cleansed it from the land.”

Vireon blinked. Maelthyn looked up at him and smiled. Her mother’s smile. They were so much alike, it still amazed him. He dropped the greatsword and wrapped them both in his arms.

“Don’t fret, Father,” said Maelthyn, taking his great hand between her two small ones. “Everything is as it should be.” Her blue eyes bored into his. Her pupils were now of such a dark blue that they seemed nearly black.

Vireon nodded and laughed. He took her in his arms and lifted her up. Alua kissed his cheek. Her pale skin still gleamed with the glow of fading magic.

“You can let the fools in your dungeons go free now,” said Alua. “They are all innocent.”

“Tell me what happened,” Vireon said.

“Later,” said Alua, caressing his cheek. “I am weary. I must rest…”

“Of course.”

Maelthyn would not leave her mother’s side. She slid into the great bed with Alua. “Come,” Alua beckoned him. Some instinct or restless itch dissuaded him.

“No,” he said. “I will not sleep this night. Take your rest now. I will remain here, watching over you.”

Vireon dismissed all but the two Uduri door guards, and soon mother and daughter lay asleep beneath the purple blankets. He sat near to the bed on a cushioned divan, watching the two of them. They breathed in a simultaneous rhythm. Each day Maelthyn grew more and more like her mother. Had Alua truly destroyed the heart-eating devils so easily? He could not be sure until he spoke with her more at length. Until that time he could only sit here, greatsword across his knees, and ensure that his wife and daughter slept undisturbed. He took a little mulled wine from a discreet servant, but did not remove his gaze from the royal bed.

Sir Ryvun approached him after a little while, bowing to ask, “Should I release the prisoners and open the gates, Majesty?”

Vireon watched little Maelthyn’s chest rise and fall. The love he bore for her was so mighty, it could ultimately destroy him. This is what it meant to be a father. To open yourself to the risk of tragedy in order to receive the blessings of love.

“No,” he told Ryvun. “Let it stand.”

The City General marched off to his supper while Vireon sipped at his cup and watched his family sleep. Dahrima the Axe lingered outside the chamber door, conversing softly with her two sisters. Wrapped in the sound of their whispers, nestled in the flickering warmth of torches, Vireon felt his eyes grow heavy. He laid his head back against the divan.

In his dream he spoke with his dead father, as he had done on many occasions. Vod was an idol of stone, but his mouth and eyes moved as if they were living flesh. Vireon was a youth again, just old enough to learn the way of the sword. Father and son sat in a dark cavern somewhere far beneath the earth. Flames burned somewhere beyond the enclosing shadows, casting the dream in shades of orange and black.

I never wanted to be King, said Vod. His voice was grinding stone.

You were a Great King, said Vireon.

So say Men and Giants. But there are others. Those who walked this world before any of our kingdoms existed. A flow of blood and ages you cannot fathom. We are tiny things tossed on the ocean of time.

Why did you leave us? Vireon asked.

I loved you, said the stone Vod.

Why did you leave? he asked again.

I was mad, said Vod. She drove me mad. You know this.

Mother? Mother drove you mad?

The stone Vod frowned at him.

No, Son. It was the other one. The sorceress. The White Panther.

Ianthe.

He started awake with a jerk that nearly toppled him from the couch. His sword fell clanging to the floor. The name in his mind had shocked him awake.

Maelthyn, too, was awake. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at him. She blinked. “Did you have a nightmare?” she asked. Her voice was innocent, playful.

Vireon looked at his daughter. Alua lay still sleeping behind her. He rubbed his face with both hands.

Maelthyn stared at him with infinite patience.

The crackling of flames in a brazier filled the silence.

“What is your name?” he whispered.

Maelthyn smiled. “You already know.”

She leaped for him, as she had leaped into his arms many times. But this time she landed in his lap with her little fingers wrapped tight about his throat. She bared her teeth like a rabid dog. Her eyes were glistening black jewels.

The torches died in an instant, the burning braziers extinguishing themselves. A flood of darkness fell into the room through the open casements. Suddenly the tiny hands about his throat were great grasping claws pressing into his stone-hard flesh.

Shadows flowed across the floor where the white flame had earlier danced. They converged on Maelthyn as she crouched in Vireon’s lap. She opened her tiny mouth impossibly wide. A black maw full of crooked fangs hung before his face. She roared at him, assaulting his ears. Alua slept an arm’s length away.

It was not his daughter that squatted atop him. It was a black wolf, flapping leathery wings against its shoulders. Larger than a full-grown man now, it strangled him, seeking to drive the points of its talons through his bronze skin. In the corners of his eyes, similar beasts prowled about the room. Some walked on all fours, others upright like wolfish Men. Some sprouted extra arms from their sides, multiple claws for rending and tearing. A black Serpent flowed in through the window and wound itself about a pillar. Its head was a leering wolf skull with crimson eyes, staring at him with a bottomless appetite.

The wolf-beast atop him whispered in his ear.

Blood is power, Father. I want your blood.

The Heart is Emperor of the Blood.

Give me your heart…

The cold talons dug at his chest now, piercing his skin like no arrow or blade had ever done. This thing-Maelthyn? — wanted to open him up. To feast upon the very center of his being. He understood now. These shadow-things took power from the hearts they devoured. They took life from the slaughter.

Black shapes slithered and loped beyond the door of the chamber, where the battle cries of Uduri rang out against the night. Soon other voices joined. The clash of steel and the tramping of boots. The ghosts were filling the palace, searching for blood and hearts.

They serve me, Father. They feed it all to me. All that blood. All that power.

I’ve waited so long for this.

Seven long years…

Vireon cried out, sinking his fingers into the dark substance of the wolf-beast on his chest. With a grunt, he hurled it across the room. Something hit the far wall. It was again the frail body of Maelthyn, with bloody little fingers. She wept, then laughed horribly. Once again Maelthyn pounced, this time crossing the entire length of the bed. Vireon bent to grasp the hilt of his fallen sword. She landed on his back, tearing and rending his stubborn flesh. She was a frightened little girl inside a ravenous wolf-shadow, a blood-hungry monstrosity.

The howls and screams of dying men filled his ears now. The hungry spirits were feasting. Alua slept through it all.

He wrenched himself backward, slamming the beast on his back against the wall. He heard a little girl’s moan mingled with a beast’s yelp. It sickened him. He leaped away and faced the swirling mass of shadow that had been Maelthyn. She stared up at him with a lupine face, fangs distorting her jaw, distended and horrible. Her eyes were the same: black jewels, though now they gleamed with malevolence. Her arms had grown longer than her body, the claws curling and twitching, dripping with her father’s blood. A red tongue slid out from between her fangs to lick at the crimson droplets.

All at once it came to him: this was not his daughter. Whatever it was, it was not Maelthyn. There was no Maelthyn. Only this mockery of life, this dark seed waiting to bloom.

Something is hiding within your daughter. Something wicked.

Ianthe.

He said the name aloud as he stared over his glinting blue blade at the wolf-ghost.

She laughed. It was not the laughter of a child, but the malicious glee of a grown woman.

Shadows swirled behind Vireon, swarmed about his legs, over his shoulders, into his mouth. Ravenous maws gaped close to his flesh, while heavy chains seemed to wrap his limbs. He could no longer move. The sword in his fist was useless. The shadows held him steady, baring his chest for Maelthyn-Ianthe! — as she drew near.

She reached a single talon out to draw a red line across his chest, just above the heart.

Such power in the heart of a Giantborn, she said.

Power you never even knew.

The talon’s tip punctured his skin with a popping sound and sank deep.

He would have screamed, but wriggling fingers of shadow choked him.

A flash of silver split the gloom. Dahrima’s axe cleaved the dense shadow. Now the massing darkness split, dividing itself between Vireon and the Giantess. It coalesced about Dahrima’s limbs and torso, digging fangs and talons into her flesh. The hungry ghosts sought both their hearts now. The axe blade sliced through the shadows restraining Vireon, but it could not harm them. Might as well fight water with a knife.

Dahrima would die for him, as would any of the Uduri. They would all die this night if he let this thing devour him.

Maelthyn clung to his chest and shoulder, her feet now claws wrapped about his thighs. She tore at his flesh, scoring and slashing his skin in the effort to reach inside his ribcage.

Vireon leaped across the chamber with the strength of an angry tiger, and all the shadows but Maelthyn lost their grip for a fleeting moment. The jump landed him atop the broad bed where Alua slumbered. Maelthyn’s wolf jaws snapped at his face, slathering him in shadow filth.

The mass of shadows rushed forward to reclaim him as he raised the greatsword high. He plunged it into the snarling she-beast with all his might. The blade sank deep into the mattress, pinning the false Maelthyn beneath him. She wailed a cry of pain that combined a child’s torment with a demon’s lust. It broke his heart.

He wept as she writhed on the blade, the entire shadowy substance of her wolf-body flowing away from the metal like greasy pitch. The shadows enclosing his body faded into nothing, nightmares vaporized by a waking dreamer.

Maelthyn, only a little girl again, scurried across the bed to her mother. Alua woke immediately at her touch. Vireon pulled his blade free of the mattress, scattering a cloud of goose feathers across the sheets. The cobalt steel was soiled with black blood. Or whatever passed for blood among the ghost-wolves.

Alua stared at Vireon in utter horror as Maelthyn’s tiny arms wrapped about her neck. They both looked at him now as if he were the monster. He stood over them, greatsword poised, panting and bleeding and ready to kill. In the eyes of Alua he saw only terror. She grasped Maelthyn closer to her. The child was bleeding red from a deep puncture wound at the center of her belly. The same wound gaped from her narrow back.

“Father wants to kill me!” she screeched.

Alua rolled from the bed with her daughter held close. Maelthyn buried her head in Alua’s bosom, sobbing like an infant.

“Vireon! Get away! Stay away from us!” Alua shouted. Her eyes were fixed upon Vireon’s bloody sword.

Behind him Dahrima lay panting and bleeding on the marble. The shadow-beasts had fled or gone into hiding beneath the palace stones. Now he knew who summoned them, and why. This creature was not his daughter.

“Give her to me,” he said, reaching a bloody hand to his wife.

“No!” Alua bellowed, dashing away from him. “You’re mad! Like your father!”

“Look!” he yelled at her. “See what this thing has brought upon us! This is not our daughter! It’s not!”

Alua looked across the chamber at the dazed Dahrima. The Giantess rose slowly to her feet, searching for her fallen axe. If there were any signs of the shadow-beasts left, Alua surely did not see them.

“She is Ianthe,” Vireon said. “She made you sleep. She has fooled us both since the day you burned away her body. This is not our child…”

Alua called for the guards, but none came. She moved toward the tall open window. Stars glittered in the black canopy of night. “Stay back,” she said. “You’re mad, Vireon. Maelthyn is your daughter-our daughter-you know this to be true! You love her as you love me! Lay down your sword. Don’t do this thing.”

Vireon shook his head. Sweat and blood flew from his locks.

“No, she has you in her spell. Give her to me. She is Ianthe.”

“Ianthe is dead!”

Alua unleashed a wall of white flame. It rushed across Vireon, this time with terrible heat. He screamed and dropped the blade.

Through the brightness he saw the faces of mother and daughter looking at him. Maelthyn kept her arms firmly wrapped about her mother’s neck. Alua said nothing as the white flames blew through her hair.

It was the false Maelthyn who spoke for both of them. “I don’t need your blood after all, Father,” she said. “I already have it.”

The white flame swirled about the mother-daughter pair and Vireon squinted into the glare. “No!” he screamed. “Let her go!”

A sphere of white flame surrounded them both. Vireon knew what this meant.

The flaming sphere flashed out the tower window.

Vireon leaped empty-handed after it.

His arms penetrated the flames up to the elbows. His fingertips brushed Alua’s heel as she rose higher into the night.

He fell then from the highest window in his colossal palace. Time ceased its flow. He watched the white flame race like a comet into the northern sky as he plummeted.

The courtyard trees rushed up to meet him like a forest of green spears. His view of the comet was lost behind the palace’s outer wall when he fell past its rim. The tangled foliage accepted him as a pond accepts a heavy stone. Branches cracked and splintered.

He crashed to earth, steaming like a doomed meteor.