“The sorcerer and his demons took them,” said the Rockjaw. “Tore them apart. And the Cursed Prince drank their blood as well.”
Andoses blinked, coming back to himself. “He rose into the storm, and his demons howled… They battered against the walls… tore the pillars loose. Bones and rock shattered in their grip. I stood before a great wall as it crumbled and thought I would die. I was grateful to die in such a clean way instead of under the claws of the shadows. But Rockjaw was there… He scooped me up, and the wall fell upon his back. He carried me clear of the walls as they tumbled about us… The demons clawed at us like raving dogs… but he ran into the storm… He saved me.”
Rockjaw hung his head. “I would have stayed to fight and die,” he said. “But this was a Prince, the Queen’s nephew, and I… I knew my duty. Nearly half our number died in that dark storm, crushed by the stones of Steephold, or torn to shreds by Fangodrel’s demons.”
Andoses reached up to take D’zan’s hand again. “Prince D’zan,” he said. “We know your plight. We support your claim to the throne of Yaskatha. Shar Dni will ride with you. Udurum will ride…” His voice trailed off.
D’zan squeezed the Prince’s hand. “I thank you. Let us talk of these things later.”
“Yes,” said Tyro. “We’ll take you back to Udurum. The Queen must know of all this. And we must bury her son.”
“What happened to Fangodrel?” asked Lyrilan.
“Gone,” said Andoses. “Into the darkness with his demons. Gods curse his name.”
“When the storm ceased, we survivors sought sanctuary in this cave,” said Rockjaw. “Later we retrieved as many bodies as we could find… including that of Tadarus. For days our scouts kept a lookout for your train.”
“A good thing you did,” said Tyro. “A mighty good thing.”
“What happened?” asked Andoses.
“Later, Prince,” said Tyro. “We’ll speak of it in the morning. We are weary, wounded, and hungry. Sleep now and we’ll soon join you.”
Andoses laid his head back. He mumbled something about Mumbaza before passing out.
“He’s been like this for days,” said Rockjaw. “His fever must break soon, or he will die.”
Tyro went to meet with his captain while D’zan and Lyrilan lay down in Lyrilan’s tent, which sat now inside the cavern. Outside the great cave-mouth, a snowstorm began, great white flakes flying across the darkness.
“What does all this mean?” D’zan said, trying to wrap his head around it.
Lyrilan sighed. “It means one Prince of Udurum is dead, killed by another. It means the Sharrian Prince may die as well.” He thought for a moment. “But it also means that if he lives, you will have the backing of Shar Dni.”
“What about Udurum?”
“That will depend on Queen Shaira,” said Lyrilan. “Although there is one Prince left in the City of Men and Giants. If Tadarus meant to support you, perhaps Vireon will as well.”
D’zan’s head swam. So much was happening, and so fast. Blood pounded in his ears. He caressed his aching ribs. If Shar Dni and Udurum supported his claim, he would have the war the Stone had promised him. This was no comforting thought. War would bring only more death and destruction. How did this Fangodrel fit into the situation? He was a sorcerer, that much stood clear. Why had he murdered his brother? Was it to prevent his alliance with D’zan? If so, he would likely return to finish what the shadow-thing and the S erpent had not.
D’zan pulled the Stone’s blade from its sheath, wrapped his hands about the warded hilt, and lay back against the hard floor of the cave. He knew what Andoses meant about the shadows – one of them had come for him already. How many more were there?
“D’zan?” said Lyrilan in the dark of the tent.
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For saving me from the Serpent. I won’t forget it.”
D’zan said nothing. He clasped the sword’s hilt tightly in his fists, the blade pointing between his feet, and fell to sleep on the rugs of Lyrilan’s tent. He’d grown accustomed to sleeping in that position, like a dead warrior laid to rest in his tomb.
He dreamed a rushing sea of fire.
The bones of dead men danced there, blackened and terrible.
14
He woke shivering in the cold rain. The world was made of mud and tall green blades of grass. He lay in a sea of that grass, staring into the heaving stormclouds. The wind tore at his naked flesh as he crouched like an animal, hugging his knees for warmth. His right fist clutched something, sodden purple fabric. By its silver trim he knew it – the cloak of his non-brother Tadarus. He pulled it about his pale shoulders, pulled the hood over his head. Now he could at least stand and face the hateful wind. The brightness of the gray day troubled him.
The rain had washed all the blood from his body, although under his fingernails lingered a brown residue, and there were congealed clots in his sopping black hair. He recalled the taste of the blood on his tongue, the sweet bitterness of it, the coppery tang. The power it brought him… the Dwellers in Shadow flocking to his command. Where were they now, his children of the night? His army of unseen terrors?
Rain swept across the Stormlands plains in all directions. At his back rose the green foothills and beyond those the black immensity of the Grim Mountains. The storm of blood and shadows, the storm he had commanded, had carried him southward. He saw the tumbling walls of Steephold in the diamond panes of his memory… his amorphous children pulling them down upon the heads of Men and Giants. The screaming, the feasting… the blood. The delicious flowing blood. Such a tempest his brother’s blood had fueled. Now he was spent. And alone.
“Ianthe,” he said into the swirling clouds. “Grandmother!”
Distant thunder was the only answer. Where was his power? Where were his ghostly servants? She had given him the key to greatness and he had squandered it in a single night of destruction. His stomach growled like a famished lion, but he did not hunger. He thirsted.
Blood… he must have more of it. The source of his power. And this time he must not waste it; he must learn to savor it. Like fine wine. Not swill and spew it forth like some drunkard wandering the back alleys of Udurum. This time he would drink wisely. But he would drink deeply.
His thirst was not only physical, but spiritual, emotional, mental. He longed for the hot sticky fluid of life. He drank some cold rain from his hands and grimaced at the bitter blandness of it. He spat, trying to rid his mouth of the earthy taste. There was no satisfying his thirst that way.
He walked thonter grirough the blowing storm. Far enough from the mountains he would find some village or trading post. He walked south, bare feet sinking in the mud. The day was leaden, but the sun lingered high behind those rushing slabs of cloud. Once it broke free and a golden ray fell across his face, piercing the shadows of his hood. He cried out and pulled the fabric tighter about his head, squinting. Then the golden orb hid once more behind a bank of thunderheads, and he was glad.
He walked all day, finding no signs of road, settlement, or traveler. A wild dog, lean and starving, ran howling from his gaze. Its base ichor held no appeal for him. Now that he had sampled the blood of Men, he would not drink that of a cur again. Not even his terrible thirst would force him to that.
As the gloom fell into purple dusk, and night rose from eastern plains to crawl westward, he saw the lights of a tiny village. It lay at the end of an unpaved road, surrounded by ploughed fields. Somewhere to the west that crude track must intersect the Northern Road, which ran from the Gates of Uurz all the way to Vod’s Pass. But this hamlet was far from the main way, nestled among a few scattered cedar trees. To its south a stream flowed heavily in the wash from the storm; likely some tributary feeding the waters of the Eastern Flow.
He walked toward the collection of thatched roofs and walls of baked mud. Goats and swine stared from their wooden-walled pens, moving away from him as he passed. Coils of sooty smoke rose from the chimneys. A central plaza stood empty but for a rudely sculpted statue of Vod the Giant-King.
At the nearest of the hovels he knocked on a wooden door. The smells of roasting lamb and vegetables
