Rockjaw’s sentinels; the pass must never go unguarded. Their refuge was packed with provisions and emergency supplies, so there was no danger of starvation. The men may not have liked their Princes’ decision, but they would abide it. Besides, traveling through the snow-choked pass probably would have killed them.
As cold and miserable as it was along the pass, exposed to the elements and the perilous mountains, D’zan was glad to be moving north again. He walked down a precarious path, boots searching for clumps of snow and mud. He watched for those hidden traps of ice that might prove his last step in this life. The fierce wind tore at his cloak as he dragged his reluctant horse along by its reins. Far ahead and below, the Uduru gathered themselves into a dip in the pass before tackling the next wrinkle of the white landscape. Ahead walked Tyro, leading his own mount, and Andoses came between them. At D’zan’s back came Lyrilan, quoting lines of verse to distract himself from the bitter cold. Behind Lyrilan came the long double line of soldiers leading their own steeds. In the midst of the warrior columns rolled the supply wagons, pulled now by straining men, since the terrain was too slick and deadly for horses. They worked in shifts, aware that the first of those wagons carried the shrouded bones of Tadarus, Prince of Udurum.
“The Prince must be taken home,” Rockjaw had said. Tyro had tried to dissuade him. They could return for Tadarus’ remains in the spring. But the Giant would not hear of it. “It took many days to find his body among the broken stones of Steephold. We will carry it to the Queen, or we will not go at all.” So there dead Tadarus rode, wrapped in a Giant’s cape and pulled by grunting, freezing men toward a tomb in the city he might one day have ruled.
Finally, after twelve days of stumbling, sliding, freezing exhaustion, the snowdrifts gave way to a frosted range of low hills. A road ran level, winding between those white lumps crowned with leafless trees. The company filed out onto the road while the Uduru rested atop the nearest knoll. When D’zan took to the saddle again, he found that his ribs were no longer sore. His legs and arms were andn came aching, his feet and toes permanently chilled, but at least his ribs had healed. Thank the Gods, we made it through the pass. He sat on his horse, staring north into the Giantlands.
They had not beaten the first snow of winter after all, but down here the snows were light, perhaps a fingerspan thick. The range of hills was shallow, giving way to the broad plain a few leagues north. Groves of trees dotted the plain, and a stream only partially frozen ran down from the uplands. The trees of the plain grew thicker as the eyes traveled northward, becoming at last a mighty wall of impenetrable forest. The trees there must be incredibly tall, though at this distance D’zan was unsure. They seemed tall as the spires of cities, stretching great branches in all directions. Everywhere a white dusting of snow coated the world. Still, some green persisted in the black depths of that soaring woodland, evergreens and pine gleaming in the shadows of monolithic trunks.
“They’re called Uyga,” said Lyrilan, bringing his horse up beside D’zan.
“What?”
“Those great trees that tower over all the others. Uyga trees. They dwarf even the Uduru.”
D’zan’s perspective fell into focus, and he realized exactly how big the Giant-trees truly were.
“It’s said a man can build an entire house out of a single Uyga root,” said Lyrilan.
The rest of the soldiers and the grateful wagon-pullers filed out onto the level road. Soon they would be moving again, some riding alone, some sharing mounts. At the head of the column, the bannermen of Tyro and Andoses unfurled the standards of Uurz and Shar Dni. One of Rockjaw’s lieutenants joined them, flying the hammer flag of New Udurum.
“How far until the city?” asked D’zan.
Lyrilan pulled back his hood and scratched his curly head. “Best ask a Giant,” he said. “It’s hard to tell these thing from maps.”
“Have you not visited Udurum before?” asked D’zan.
“I have,” said Lyrilan. “It was summer, and I rode in a coach. I remember sleeping during this part of the journey.”
D’zan laughed.
“I was much younger then,” Lyrilan reminded him.
They rode the rest of the day and pavilioned at the very edge of the forest. The concentric camp lines took formation to the east of the wide road that ran directly into the gargantuan wall of trees. The night was chill, but far warmer than Vod’s Pass. The wind was less here, and the light snow melted about their fires. D’zan stood outside his tent and pondered the depths of those great woods. What creatures lurked in their dark underbrush? Or lived in the vast expanses of their branches? He heard tales of colossal elk, of moose large as houses, and even wolves tall enough to bite a man in half. How much of these tales were true he had no idea.
At length he went inside his tent to undress. Each Prince would have his own pavilion tonight, so D’zan would enjoy relative comforel true he rt. First he would heat a pot of water and soak his feet. Then drink some mulled wine and fall asleep under a pile of furs. His goal was so near now… already he felt a lightening of spirits.
Prince Tyro came stamping into the tent. “Well, D’zan, welcome to the Giantlands. Don’t take off those boots. It’s time for your lessons to resume.”
D’zan sighed. “I thought we’d rest first and in the morning-”
Tyro grunted. “When the sun rises we’ll be marching toward Udurum. We’ve wasted too many good days in that pass. Pick up your blade and follow me. Quickly now, I’m tired too.”
D’zan pulled on his cloak, took up the Stone’s blade, and joined Tyro in the frosted shortgrass. As campfires blinked to life about them, men unloaded wagons, fed horses, and settled down for the night. D’zan ran through the warm-up exercises under Tyro’s critical eye. Next came the sparring with bronze rods. D’zan performed exceptionally badly and earned several new bruises. Before the session was over, the smell of cooking meat filled the night air and the deep laughter of Uduru floated among the smoke. His arms were numb when Tyro finally dismissed him.
“Get some sleep,” Tyro said. “Tomorrow, if no storm slows us, you will meet the Queen of Udurum.”
D’zan went back to his tent, forgot about the hot water, drank a cup of chilled wine instead, and crawled beneath the covers of his cot. Some time during the middle of the night he woke in a panic, realizing he did not have the Stone’s blade in his hand. He grabbed it up from the rugs and placed it upon his chest, pommel pointing toward his chin, fists wrapped firmly about the hilt. Sleep returned, swift as an eagle.
The colossal forest was an amazing sight, but the City of Men and Giants dwarfed it for sheer spectacle. It rose from a vast clearing in the center of the woodland, encircled by outlying farms, and its great black wall stood taller than the tremendous Uyga trees. The gates stood open as the four Princes approached, the lowering sun at their backs. They had ridden all day through the forest and were arriving as Tyro had anticipated – in the orange glow of early evening. Behind the Princes a pair of horses pulled the wagon housing Tadarus’ body, and behind that came a company of twenty-two Uduru. The long train of cavalrymen followed at their heels, winding outward from the shadows of the trees.
The flames of great braziers burned at intervals atop the wall, and men tiny as ants walked the high ramparts. Here and there an Uduru strolled between battlements, but the Men far outnumbered the Giants.
An advance rider had galloped through the forest that morning, carrying word of the company’s approach. Now a contingent of Uduru, led by a graybeard in sable and silver, came to greet them at the Great Gate. The Giants stood like iron statues, dressed in full armor and the purple cloaks of sentinels. Beyond, in the city proper, a crowd of humans braved the cold to catch a glimpse of the arriving Princes. Other than a few wall-guards and the contingent of royal escorts, no other Giants could be seen.
The ebony spires of Vod’s Palace stood at the city’s heart, each wearing a crown of pristine snow. Here was a castle that set all other castles to shame; it made the greatmadorses pul edifice D’zan’s father had kept in Yaskatha look like a pile of sticks and tinder. Here was a palace – and a whole city – built for giants. To find humans here at all was an astounding thing. It had not always been this way. Yet when Vod rebuilt the original city, he planned it to accommodate the sizes of both races. D’zan’s mind boggled at the blend of great and small architectures comprising the streets, plazas, houses, shops, and taverns. Through the arching gate, he saw all these structures and more. The gray-bearded Giant raised his arm and bellowed a greeting.
“Hail, Princes of Uurz! Hail, Prince of Shar Dni and Queen’s Cousin!”
Tyro spoke for all of them. “Hail, Fangodrim the Gray, First Among Giants!” As they reined their horses at the very lip of the gates, Tyro spoke again to the Giant. “Know that Prince D’zan, Heir of Yaskatha, rides with us.”
Fangodrim the Gray turned his grizzled face to D’zan. His courteous bow was slight, but proper. “Hail, Prince of Yaskatha. The Queen of Udurum heeds your coming and welcomes you.”
