blood… the innocent lives… the destruction, the mayhem? What of the terror and disgrace that war brings? These things always outweigh the glory. Always.”
Tyro could say nothing. His father had fought in a war; he had not. There were few among the legions who could best Tyro in the dueling pits, but that was not the same as leading men into battle. Thousands of men tramping forth to slaughter thousands more. Still… how could evil be defeated if not through battle and blood? Should they simply wait for the legions of Khyrei and Yaskatha to come marching north, bringing flame and death upon the Stormlands?
“Olthacus the Stone,” said Tyro, “was your friend.”
Dairon nodded, and the long braids of his beard shook. “As was Trimesqua…”
“You taught me that a wrong must be avenged,” said Tyro. “That justice can sometimes only be found at the end of a sword. The world is cruel and dangerous, so we cultivate strength to preserve the innocent. Must we not do that now?”
“You are young, Tyro,” said Dairon. “You understand the subtleties of combat, the S cowidrules of the blade. But you know little of diplomacy, statecraft, strategy. These are the things that matter most. It is not enough to be strong. You must be wise in your strength.”
Tyro drank his father’s untouched wine. Thunder rolled in the north. The storm moved closer, threatening the blue sky with looming shadows.
“Listen to me,” said the Emperor. “Never, never, begin a war without a strategic advantage. Preparation is everything. Alliances must be made, declarations issued. No nation can stand alone. Udurum and Shar Dni are our brother-cities. We will not fight without them.”
“Then send me to Shar Dni to make alliance with King Ammon,” said Tyro. “He has no love for the Khyreins – they raid his ships on the Golden Sea. He must be hungry for justice.”
“Perhaps,” said Dairon. “But Shar Dni does not have a quarter the military might of Uurz. They have warships, yes, but on the land their numbers are small. Ammon has already been appealing to Uurz for assistance against these pirates.”
“There you have it,” said Tyro. “An alliance is inevitable.”
Dairon turned his squinted eyes to Tyro. This was the look his father always gave him when he was about to make an obvious point that Tyro had somehow missed.
“Tyro, why do you think I am sending D’zan to Queen Shaira? Why grant him a company of legionnaires for the journey?”
Tyro thought a moment, casting his gaze across the city. In the noble quarters servants were running through gardens as the first cold drops of rain fell. In the streets beyond, tiny figures rushed for shelter.
“Because you pity him… because Trimesqua and Olthacus were your friends.”
“No, son. I do pity poor D’zan. But this is not the reason. An Emperor does not rule only with his heart, but with his mind.”
Tyro stroked the light stubble on his chin. “You send him because you believe he will gain Shaira’s sympathy.”
Dairon smiled. “Now you begin to use that head of yours.”
“If Udurum stands with us, and Shar Dni, will we be prepared for war?”
Dairon leaned back in his cushions. Black clouds had swallowed the sun, and a curtain of cold rain fell beyond the veranda roof. A slight spray of mist cooled Tyro’s skin. The city now lay in the shadow of the booming clouds. Lightning kissed the distant fields, turning black to emerald for a brief moment.
“War is a test for which no nation can ever be fully prepared,” said the Emperor. “But I have seen the Uduru on the march. I have seen the spectacle of a thousand Giants striding across the desert, heard the thunder of their feet and the clashing of their steel. They nearly brought down the walls of Uurz before you were born. As it was, they conquered the city in three days. Only Vod’s intervention saved my life and thousands more who would have been crushed into dust.”
“I’ve read the stories, Father,” said Tyro. “I know the tale of your rise to power.”
“It was Vod who made me Emperor,” said Dairon. “He had the city in the palm of his great hand, Tyro. He could have kept it, smashed it, or ruled it forever. But he gave it to me. Someday I will give it to you.”
“But Vod is gone.”
“So they say. But men have said such things before.”
“Men say the Giants are a dying race.”
“That may be… but they are long-lived. No longer do they breed, it’s true.”
Thunder roared above the palace, and Dairon rose stiffly, walking back into his chambers. Servants rushed to prepare a fresh seat for him, and Tyro followed him. He smelled the water of a scented bath, saw the steam of hot water.
Dairon placed a hand on his son’s broad shoulder.
“I know you wish to prove your manhood on the field of battle. But trust an old warrior who loves you. The Uduru are essential. We cannot face the combined might of Khyrei and Yaskatha without them. There is also the question of Mumbaza… but we’ll discuss this later.”
Tyro nodded his understanding, and Dairon embraced him, slapping his back. He turned away and servants came to remove his royal vestments.
“Let me lead the cohort, Father,” Tyro said. “Let me accompany D’zan to the Giant-City.”
The Emperor raised his gray-flecked eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because we could not protect him under this roof. We owe him.”
Dairon sighed. His bare sunken chest was bronzed by the suns of many desert treks. Tyro glanced at the familiar scars along his father’s ribs and stomach – reminders of old wounds, mementos of battles won with no small cost. Once Dairon had been a huge well-muscled man. In his old age those wounds still troubled him, but Tyro never heard him complain.
“Go then,” Dairon said. “Speak with Captain Jyfard. Keep D’zan safe… and your brother.”
“Lyrilan?” asked Tyro. “Why does Lyrilan go to Udurum?”
“Why else?” answered Dairon. “He’s writing a book.”
Tyro laughed. Dairon joined him.
Before servants led him off to the bathing chamber, Dairon’s face grew serious once again.
“Watch over them, Tyro.”
Tyro bowed before his father.
When he looked up, the opulent chamber was empty but for servants darting about the pillars and preparing the Emperor’s dinner raiment.
Tyro walked back So w Em to the veranda, letting the cool air and rain-mist wash his face. It was too long since he’d last seen the City of Men and Giants. Six years at least. He remembered the Uduru in their armor of black and violet. Their greatswords and axes. Their hammers of stone and steel, their laughter like the very thunder that shook the earth. He had seen a hundred of them at most during that trip. He tried to imagine a thousand of them marching into battle.
He smiled, watching the storm.
If there must be war, let it come, he thought. I will lead these Giants into the south, and all the glory of myth will flow in our sweat and our blood. We will crush the Usurper of Yaskatha and the Bitch of Khyrei. Lyrilan will set it all down on the pages of history .
He closed his eyes and listened to the sweet song of thunder.
7
Sharadza found the cave just before sunrise. The night was still cold and full of glittering stars. She wore a cloak of sable fur and clothes made for riding, though she went on foot. A warm fire flickered in the depths of the dark cleft. Halfway up the side of an overgrown hill the cave sat trimmed in vines and hanging blossoms. Her breath
