Far away, he heard her words.
Heedless of the howling wind and rain, a horde of shadows crawled toward Steephold.
The storm broke suddenly and without warning, spoiling an otherwise pleasant day in the yards. Tadarus and the Men rushed for cover as the downpour began. Thunder rolled like an earthquake across the citadel. The Giants laughed, fearing no storm, and walked leisurely toward the tall archways. They took great amusement from the sight of Men scurrying like rats, running from a bit of rain. Tadarus considered for a moment staying out in the tempest. He loved a good storm as much as any Uduru. But here was chance to come inside and prepare for the evening’s activities. In his spacious chamber he bathed, then dressed himself in a sable tunic and purple cloak as the storm raged against the castle walls.
He thought of the Yaskathan Prince on his way to plead for alliance. How terrible it must be to lose a throne and a father at the same time. At least Tadarus had kept his kingdom. Offering help to the Yaskathan heir, though sheit of the Yserving his own interests, was the right thing to do in any case. If someone stole the throne of Udurum, he would do anything to regain it. So he would give whatever honest help he could to this desperate Princeling. Besides, if the boy were intelligent at all, he would understand how he fit into the existing war plans. There was no need to disguise the reason for Udurum’s support.
He pondered the skeleton of an Old Wyrm mounted along the eastern wall, held together with clever wires. It was at least four horse-lengths, with a dozen clawed legs digging into the stone wall. The triangular skull bore fangs large enough to impale a man. Living, it might have swallowed men whole between those snapping jaws. If it didn’t singe them to ash first with flaming breath. Near to the Wyrm’s bones hung an Uduru sword, a Giant’s blade of antique steel. He studied its length, the polished metal, the murky gems set in pommel and hilt. The weapon stood a head taller than Tadarus, but he lifted it off the wall easily, brandishing it in his right fist.
There was time before dinner, so he practiced wielding the Uduru sword. He carved figure eights, ellipses, and spherical patterns in the air, thrust it like a spear. This was the blade that killed this Wyrm. Somehow he knew it. How long ago was this beast slain? The blade was centuries older than the keep. These relics must have been stored in the vaults of the castle that stood here before the building of Steephold. He marveled at the perfect balance of the big blade. It felt good in his hands. Often the swords forged by Men seemed little more than sticks to him. Perhaps he would keep this Giant-blade. It would serve him well on the field of battle. His men would stand in awe of its size. When the melee began they would not lose sight of him with this great steel thing in his grasp.
Thunder rolled as rain pelted the thick glass of arched windows.
Yes, he decided. This blade comes with me to Mumbaza. Then to Shar Dni. Then to sweltering Khyrei, where the song of battle would break loose and shake the sky. He studied the shallow runes along the spine of the metal… Perhaps there was some lingering enchantment in the sword as well.
A commotion rose outside his door, and he heard the booming voice of the sentinel at the head of the corridor. Someone had escaped his grasp and was running toward Tadarus’ chamber. Whoever it was, he wept and grunted with panic. Now came a pounding against the door, followed by the plodding of the sentinel’s huge feet.
Tadarus opened the door with the Giant-blade in hand. A bloody figure stumbled upon him, grasping at his chest, smearing it with red. A small man dressed in servant’s livery, stained to black by the gore splattered across arms and chest. He recognized the bleating, weeping figure: Rathwol, his elder brother’s servant. He reeked of dog flesh, filth, and fear.
“Majesty!” screamed Rathwol, clutching at Tadarus’ belt. “Majesty! The darkness! The blood! Majesty!”
Tadarus pushed him back into the corridor, lowering the great blade. The giant sentinel seethed with embarrassed anger.
“He slipped through my legs like a…” the Giant growled.
“A rat?” said Tadarus, staring down at the mess Rathwol had made of his fine raiment. st.
“Majesty!” howled Rathwol, mouth drooling, eyes flooding. He trembled violently. “Save me, save me! Oh, I’ll serve you faithfully – not him, never him anymore!”
“Bring Captain Jyfard to my quarters,” Tadarus told the sentinel. The Giant tramped down the corridor.
“The shadows!” squealed Rathwol, grasping now at the Prince’s boots.
Tadarus pushed him firmly against the corridor wall and slapped his face. “Calm yourself, man. What’s the matter? Whose blood is this? Yours?” He kicked away Rathwol’s filthy hands as gently as he could.
Thunder rumbled, and the stones of the keep trembled as if mimicking Rathwol’s terror.
“Oh, so much blood…” Rathwol cried. “All spilled and burned… Now the shadows drink it. Save me!”
Tadarus shook him. “Where is your master? Where is Prince Fangodrel?”
The name cast a weird calm over Rathwol. He looked into Tadarus’ face, silent for the space of three heartbeats. The storm beat against the windows.
“Gone…” whispered Rathwol, eyes staring at nothing. “Gone into the shadows… into the blood!” Now he keened and wailed like a woman. “Keep him from me, Master! Keep him away! I’ll serve you, not him! Only save me!”
A great wind gusted along the corridor, like a hurricane suddenly unbottled. It swept Tadarus off his feet. A flying, howling blackness tore Rathwol away in a blind instant. Now his cries of terror rang in some other corridor, echoing from the darkness. All the torches in their sconces were blown out by the terrible wind. Tadarus crouched in the darkness, the Giant-blade ready in his hand. The only light came from the partially open door of his chamber, where the fire bowl still blazed.
Something moved, crackled, shifted in the dark at the end of the corridor, in the direction the sentinel had gone. Tadarus stared into the gloom. Could it be Uduru making that rumbling sound, or was it only thunder? Had some window been smashed, letting winds howl into the keep? From the infinite darkness at his back came a long, thin scream of agony. Rathwol. Darkness claimed the citadel in both directions; winds shrieked like ghosts through the distant hallways. Tadarus wanted to run inside his chamber and bolt the door, hide himself from this plague of darkness.
The thing at the end of the corridor pulsed, and something came flying through the air. It hit the floor several spans before Tadarus and rolled like a small boulder, a trail of black blood in its wake. It stopped at his feet. He looked down and caught his breath. Two bulging, fist-sized eyeballs glared at him, dead and sightless. It was the head of the Giant sentinel, severed at the neck by some jagged instrument… or a vast set of claws.
Now anger overcame Tadarus’ fear. He yelled along the corridor. “Come forth! Face me! What are you?” He thought of the Wyrm skeleton on the wall of his room. Surely there could not be-
“I called you brother…”
The voice drifted from the pulsing mass of shadows. That darkness moved closer now, drinking up the dull glow from the chamber fire.
“Fangodrel?” he called. Was this some jest? Had his brother gone mad? In the back of his mind a voice whispered, This was always meant to happen. Fangodrel was never right. What did you expect of him but murder and disaster? Blood and doom? Now, at last, the wait was over.
“… but you are no brother to me.”
The voice was Fangodrel’s, but obscured in echoes and amplified by thunder. Tadarus could see nothing in the darkness but the writhing darkness itself.
“Show yourself!” he yelled. “Let us spill familial blood if we must. Come!” He raised the Giant-blade high above his head.
“Steel? This is your answer for every problem, Tadarus. There are things in this world stronger than metal.”
Tadarus could take no more baiting. He rushed headlong into the darkness, swinging his great blade, slicing only emptiness. Something grabbed him up in formless claws, biting into his thick skin with unseen fangs. He swung the blade about him, back and forth like a reaper’s scythe. Nothingness… he hovered in the grip of nothingness and now he could not see at all.
Suddenly Fangodrel was there, lit by the red glow of his own flaring eyes. Naked, emaciated, his skin wrapped in skeins of running crimson. The blood danced across his chest, ran along his arms and legs, defying gravity with its slick flow. Or was it shadows that danced across that pale skin? Some mixture of scarlet and ebony, living, sliding, throbbing…
“My name is Gammir,” said Fangodrel, lips dripping with blood, teeth stained black by it. “Gammir, Son of Gammir. Prince of Khyrei.”
