slain one Uduru this night, but half the number of Steephold’s inhabitants had died five days previous.
D’zan overheard Tyro and Rockjaw talking as the first torches of evening were lit. There would be no camping or eating until all the dead were buried. Men worked hurriedly among the cold shadows, and the moon lost itself behind the clouds.
“Oh, it was no Wyrm that destroyed Steephold,” said Rockjaw. “That devil must have crawled up out of the caverns after the fortress fell. My guess is the collapsing floors dislodged the cap we put on the old warrens. Who knows how long this thing slumbered down there in the dark until the citadel’s fall woke him to rage and hunger?”
D’zan squeezed his hands until his knuckles went white. He knew the Wyrm had awakened for one reason only… because he had come into the mountains. How could this not be the work of Elhathym and hishatst sorcery? How many had died for D’zan thus far, starting with the guard crushed by a shadow outside his tent, ending in today’s massacre? How many more would die before he regained his father’s throne or perished himself? He must get used to death. It was part of the world to which he now belonged. But he did not know if he truly could. He must try. He had no choice.
“Then… if not the Serpent,” asked Tyro, “what was it that destroyed the castle?”
Rockjaw ran a hand through his unkempt beard, and his big eyes were troubled. He looked at Tyro, his craggy face gilded by flickering torch light.
“Best to let the Prince himself answer that,” said the Giant.
The cohort followed the twenty-two Giants up the side of a mountain, picking their way along an ancient track wide enough for three horses to walk abreast. The few wounded who could not ride lay in the bed of a supply wagon. More men had died than mounts, but it took a while to gather the scattered horses. Lyrilan’s horse was among those retrieved; D’zan’s mare had been burned to death. Tyro gave him a fallen soldier’s stallion to ride. Lyrilan insisted on riding his own horse, despite Tyro’s objections. The Uduru marched with claws, whole legs, and fangs carried on their shoulders. Rockjaw carried the body of their single casualty, the Giant who had burned to death, wrapped in a shroud made from a furred cloak. For their own reasons, the Uduru would not bury him near the ruins with the Men of Uurz.
The line of Giants, Men, and horses wound its way up and around the mountain. A layer of snow coated the precarious heights. D’zan glanced over the trail’s edge when the moon sailed free of the clouds, shedding golden light across the world. He saw the ruined fortress far below, and the legless, skinned corpse of the Serpent. The stink of burned flesh still lingered in his nostrils, and he realized it had seeped into his clothes. He nearly retched, but fear of slipping over the side of the path and falling to his death pulled his stomach back down from his throat. He did not look down again.
On the western side of the mountain the Giants filed into an immense cavern where firelight danced and warm air flowed. The smell of roasting fowl replaced all others as D’zan rode into the crude sanctuary at the head of the Uurzian column. The cavern was vast enough to hold the entire cohort, not to mention its horses, wagons, and the Giants. One Uduru had stayed behind here, a Giant with his arm in a sling, tending a few injured Uduru who slept between the pointed pillars of stalagmites. There were Men here, too. At least sixty of them, a mix of black- clad soldiers from Udurum and others wearing the blue-white cloaks and turbaned helms of Shar Dni. They gathered about fires drinking wine or ale, chewing their simple dinners, or staring at nothing, lost in their own solemn thoughts.
Tyro ordered his captain to supervise the unloading of wounded men and the care of the horses. His lieutenants set about stocking and tenting the unclaimed sections of the cavern, while the men of Udurum and Shar Dni watched quietly. Many wore the bandages and slings of battle – they too had suffered. The quiet ones seemed the most damaged.
D’zan and Lyrilan dismounted, following Tyro and Rockjaw toward the back of the cavern. They passed among the silent Men and slumbering Giants, warmed by the glow of their fires. At least in here the cold was kept at bay, akepn here thnd the winds did not intrude. Weariness tugged at D’zan’s eyelids, and his fingers tingled. His side ached worse now. It was always worse after a day of riding. Falling from his horse had not helped his bruises.
Rockjaw led them through a ring of Sharrian guards. D’zan noted their splendid curved swords, the cobalt blue of their mail shirts. These were the elite of the eastern city’s royal legions. Why were they here guarding a Prince of New Udurum? Why were any Sharrians here?
The guards spread to let them pass. At their center on a bed of soft blankets, his head propped on a rolled cloak, lay a lean young man with a braided beard and a mass of curly black hair. His arms, legs, and torso were covered in bandages, some of them stained pink by leaking blood. Sweat beaded on his face, and he lay in the midst of a terrible fever. His nose was long and sharp, and a jeweled turban lay nearby, along with a scimitar with a hilt of gold, sheathed in a royal scabbard. He awoke from shallow sleep as Rockjaw kneeled at his side.
“Prince Andoses,” whispered the Giant. “The Princes Tyro and Lyrilan have arrived, and his majesty Prince D’zan of Yaskatha.”
D’zan looked about the cavern. Here was a Sharrian Prince. Where were the sons of New Udurum? It made no sense. But the wounded Prince turned his dark-rimmed eyes to D’zan and smiled. His expression said, I have been expecting you.
“Welcome, D’zan,” said Andoses. His voice was weak, but steady. “I only wish I could stand up to embrace you. As it is, my open hand will have to do.” He raised his hand shakily, and D’zan took it in his own.
“What happened to you?” asked D’zan. It was the only thing he could think to say.
“Treachery,” said Andoses. “Darkness and treachery. But I will live.”
His face turned to Tyro and Lyrilan. “Princes of Uurz…” he managed. “It is good to see your handsome faces again.”
“And you, Andoses,” said Tyro, crouching to lean over him.
“I took a knock myself,” said Lyrilan, motioning to his bandaged forehead. “We Princes are a tough breed, eh? You’ll be on your feet in no time.”
Tyro gave his brother a sharp glance, then turned back to Andoses. “Tell us now, Prince,” he said. “What happened to Steephold? And why are you here, so far from the Valley of the Bull?”
Andoses struggled to raise himself a little, Tyro creating a makeshift pillow to prop up his shoulders. A soldier brought a stone cup filled with water, and they waited for Andoses to gulp it down.
“We rode south for Uurz,” Andoses began, “a company from Udurum joining my own on behalf of Shar Dni. We were to see Dairon on an urgent matter. There is war brewing in the east. At Steephold we received word of your approach, so there we waited. The Princes… the Princes were with me…”
“Which Princes?” asked Tyro. “Tadarus and Vireon?”
Andoses shook his hes s›“ad. “Tadarus and… Fangodrel.” Andoses coughed, choking on the second name. After a moment, he continued. “A great storm came upon us… a storm of shadows… Terrible things came through the walls… darkness with claws. It was him… the eldest Prince…”
Tyro calmed Andoses with an arm about his shoulders, cradling his head. “Easy. Tell it slowly.”
Andoses took a deep breath. His eyes were bloodshot and watery.
“First we heard the horses being slaughtered in the stables… then thunder rolled over the walls and the shadows tore at us… great, unseen beasts… hideously strong…” Andoses wept as he relived the night of death. “Men died all around me… I saw their guts strung across the ceiling… Then the darkness… The torches faded… Men cried and screamed. I ran… I went to find Tadarus… I thought we could escape. Instead I found the other one…”
“Fangodrel?” asked Lyrilan.
“The sorcerer!” said Andoses. “He walked inside the shadow… drinking it in… There was blood across his body… blood running from his mouth. He… showed me the corpse of Tadarus, his own brother… drained and broken. He tossed it aside… a broken doll of sticks and twine…”
Andoses fell silent, staring into the shadows between hanging stalactites.
Tyro looked at Rockjaw, and the Giant’s big head nodded slowly. Even the massive warrior could not speak of these things. D’zan thought the Giant might weep too, but he did not. Perhaps Giants did not shed tears.
“Are you saying that Fangodrel murdered Tadarus?” asked Tyro.
Andoses nodded. “Murdered him… and drank his blood… like wine, Tyro.”
“What about the Uduru?” said Tyro. “There were fifty stationed here before.”
