with a few man-sized accommodations, but the bulk of the soldiers from Udurum and Shar Dni would bunk in the massive barracks meant for Giant troops in times of war. Those chambers had never been used because the citadel, like New Udurum, was only a quarter-century old. Steephold was built over the ruins of a much older fortress, one built by Giants a thousand years ago. It had fallen into ruin centuries past, but the caverns it had guarded still remained, a series of tunnels running deep beneath the mountains. In the old days, Serpents often crawled up from those depths, and Giants marched into the subterranean realms to hunt them. Now they were paved over and corked shut with great stones.
Fangodrel doubted there were still any Serpents living beneath the range, but many of their skeletons hung upon walls inside the citadel. These were the relics of ancient hunts, fleshless bodies longer than the Giants were tall, with a dozen clawed legs and a mouth full of ivory fangs. If not for the bones of these creatures kept as trophies, he never would have believed that such creatures existed. But then he was learning much these days that he might not have believed until now.
Tallim the Rockjaw served as Lord of Steephold, appointed by Vod himself when Fangodrel was an infant. Rockjaw greeted the Princes in his main hall, rising from his great chair and stalking toward them like some beefy monster. His laughter rumbled toward the high ceiling, rattling the bones of the trophy Wyrms along the walls. The furs of a dozen bears composed his great cloak, and the teeth of those same bears hung about his trunk-like neck. The hall was filled with all fifty of his Giants, standing at attention with hammers and axes in their gnarled fists.
“Young Princes!” bellowed Rockjaw. “You do us honor! How many seasons has it been? Ten? Fifteen?”
Fangodrel wished to avoid ceremony and go directly to his chamber, but Tadarus jumped at any chance to indulge in royal etiquette. He loved these vicious brutes and their savage manner. I will not play their games of mock respect. Let Rockjaw fawn and pretend to be civilized with Tadarus. They are two of a kind.
“Tallim!” yelled Tadarus, matching the Giant’s volume. “Good to see your beard is still thick and your hands still strong.”
The Giant bent to embrace Tadarus as best he could, but he did not lift him. Tadarus was, after all, a Prince, and that would not be appropriate. At least not until they are both drunk and sprawling about the hall an hour from now.
To Fangodrel, Rockjaw offered a stiff bow, and when Tadarus introduced Prince Andoses, the Giant repeated this motion. “My heart has been heavy since I heard of your father’s fate,” said Rockjaw. “There has never been a King like Vod of the Storms. He made a better world.”
Tadarus nodded, accepting the sycophantic words. Fangodrel said nothing. A moment of awkward silence filled the hall, but for the crackling of the fire bowls.
“We received no word of your coming, Prince,” said Rockjaw. “Was there no advance rider?”
Tadarus shook his head, [ok llim! removing his purple cloak. “There was no time,” he said. “Our errand is urgent. We go to Uurz and on to Mumbaza, to make a case for war.”
Rockjaw’s huge eyebrows rose, and his great fingers plucked at his beard with interest. Several Giants grunted their approval.
“Come!” said Rockjaw. “We will feast and we will drink, and I will listen to you speak of war.”
“And later,” said Tadarus, a stupid grin on his face, “perhaps we’ll wrestle.”
The Giant laughed and clapped Tadarus on the back, a gesture that would have knocked Fangodrel or Andoses to their knees.
“I am ill,” Fangodrel announced. “No drink for me this night. I’ll take to my quarters immediately. My servant will return for food and necessaries later this evening.”
“Yes, Prince,” said Rockjaw. He assigned a Giant to escort Fangodrel to his apartments, although Fangodrel could have made the walk by himself easily enough. Three times before, he had stayed here, the last time five years ago when his father – no his false father – had dragged him to Uurz for some diplomatic assembly.
Rathwol, sneezing and huffing under the weight of the bundles lifted off his steed, followed Fangodrel. As they paced a vaulted corridor, a trio of spotted hounds barked and ran up to sniff them and gnaw at their boots. The Giant growled a command and the dogs fell back, following along now like Rathwol himself. In truth, there was very little difference between Rathwol and the canines. Except that Rathwol could speak as well as follow simple commands.
Fangodrel demanded the King’s Chamber for his own, and the Giant had no choice but to give it him. “King Vod is dead,” Fangodrel reminded him. “I am his eldest son. Where else should I sleep?” The Giant bowed and took up his post at the end of the hall. Fangodrel entered the drafty quarters, Rathwol struggling in behind him. Shucking his bundles, the little man closed the chamber door, shooing off the trio of yapping dogs.
The apartment was dull, hardly fit for a King, but it would serve. A great bed sat untouched for years, probably rife with dust. Rathwol would attend to it. A single Serpent skull hung on the wall, alongside a tall standard bearing the silver hammer of Vod’s house. There were rugs about the floor to stave off the cold, crude pelts torn from mountain animals. Someone had at least enough sense to set a fire in the great bronze bowl at the chamber’s center. A few couches and tables, and a bathing tub, completed the furnishings. There was far too much space in this room, as in all the rooms of Steephold, but Fangodrel was simply glad to be out of the cold and away from his brother and cousin.
“The coffer,” he said.
Rathwol immediately opened one carefully tied bundle and removed the small box of jade and crystal. From a sturdy wooden case he took the Serpent-carved pipe, and a packet of tinder sticks. Fangodrel shed his outer cloak and sank into a cushioned chair by the fire bowl. He opened with his secret key the coffer’s lid and looked upon the twelve scarlet blossoms stuffed inside.
“Prepare my bed and heat some water,” he told Rathw [he
“Master, I am hungry,” said the rat-faced one.
Fangodrel glared at him. “Then do what I have told you, and you may join the feast a while. Bring back food for me as well.”
“Yes, Prince,” said Rathwol, hurrying to dust off the bed.
Fangodrel filled the bowl of his pipe with three delicate petals. He touched a lit tinder stick to it and inhaled the sweetness he had anticipated for days. His head fell back on the cushions, and the Red Dream enfolded him.
Flying, floating, swimming, he moved through the crimson fog. Somewhere far away, his hands moved again to lift the pipe to his lips, and his faraway lungs inhaled once more.
A spark of brilliant white in the red universe.
She was there before him, a gorgeous panther, then a gorgeous woman. Her beauty stunned him as it always did. For a moment he wished they were flesh in this place, so he might take her in the manner of a whore. Then he remembered who she was, and brushed away a pang of guilt.
“Ianthe.” He smiled.
“My darling boy,” she said, floating closer. “It has been many days and nights.”
“Duties at court,” he said. “Now I have privacy again.”
“Tonight I will give you your true name. That false name we must burn away.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
Flames swirled about them, driven by invisible winds.
“Your name will be that of your father, so that you may fulfill his legacy. You are Gammir, Son of Gammir.” She placed her phantom hands on his cheeks.
“I am Gammir,” he said. Waves of radiant bliss washed over him.
“Your throne awaits, Gammir.” She kissed him.
Sitting in the chair, in some other dimension, his true body writhed with delight.
“But first you must learn the Ways of the Blood,” she whispered.
“I am ready…”
“You will need something to kill,” she said. “Something warm-blooded. An animal or a slave.”
Fangodrel considered this. Rathwol would certainly not be missed. His death could easily be explained as an accident. Nobody in Tadarus’ or Andoses’ companies would even blink. But Rathwol was useful… and loyal.
“There are no slaves here,” he said. “There are hounds…”
“Yes.” His grandmother nodded. “Turn away from me now and take up a sharp dagger. Slit the dog’s throat
