So Vireon told the tale of discovering the Udvorg. Because of his uniting this fractured people, the Uduru no longer faced extinction. Yet because of that same heroic act, this war had lost an army of Giants.
This changes everything, thought Tyro. We do need Mumbaza. We need… we need…
Andoses guzzled the dregs from his cup. “You mean every last Giant refuses to fight?” he asked. “I thought the Uduru relished any chance for war.”
Fangodrim nodded. “Most do,” he said. “But not now. Our duty is to future generations. However, there is a group of my people who refuse to make the trek northward. They would likely join your battle.”
“Superb!” said Andoses. “How many will march?”
“Ninety-nine,” said Fangodrim.
Andoses’ jaw dropped. “There are at least twelve hundred Uduru in this city! And only ninety-nine will go to war?”
The Queen stared at Andoses. “Do you not understand, nephew? Fangodrim’s people are dying. Reuniting with the Udvorg is the only chance they have. Why accept the death of their race and march off to war when the Gods have offered them life instead?”
“Ninety-nine Uduru is still a powerful force,” said Tyro. He must not appear ungrateful or disrespectful. That might destroy the entire alliance. Andoses was a blood relative of the Queen, but the Uduru held no relation to him.
“ Uduri, actually,” said Fangodrim.
Tyro’s brow narrowed, and Lyrilan chuckled.
“Uduri?” asked Tyro. “What does that mean?”
“Female Giants,” said Lyrilan. “The ninety-nine are Giantesses.”
Andoses looked from face to face, and back to Fangodrim’s grim visage. “You’re giving us your women?”
“No!” said Fangodrim, displeased with Andoses’ manner. “Our women will not come with us. They can bear no children, and they understand this. They have chosen to stay and ordered us to go. They are giving us… to the fertile Udvorg women.”
“Andoses, have you read the Uduru Sagas?” said Lyrilan. “The Uduri are every bit as fierce and terrible as Uduru. After all, these ninety-nine survived the death of Old Udurum, the Coming of the Serpent-Father.”
“So we will have three armies of men,” said Andoses, tugging at his braided beard, “and ninety-nine Uduri.”
Tyro nodded. “Where the south has two armies, each led by a sorcerer. Have we any sorcerers?”
Lyrilan laughed. No one else did.
Vireon whispered something in Alua’s ear. Shyly, she raised a hand over the table. A white flame sprang from her open palm, dancing and twisting with life.
The feasters leaned back in their chairs.
“Alua…” said Vireon. “She is a sorceress.”
Andoses smiled. “Will you join our cause, Great Lady? Will you go with us to-”
“She goes with me, Cousin,” said Vireon. “She goes wherever I go.”
Andoses grew calm. “And where dnd›me you go, cousin?”
Vireon held back his words and turned his eyes to meet those of Alua. She closed her palm, and the flame was gone without a trace of smoke.
“You heard my vow,” Vireon told the table. “I go to seek vengeance for my brother. I seek the head of the Kinslayer.”
“Then you are going to Khyrei,” said the Queen, her voice suddenly weak. “For that must be where Fangodrel has fled.” She exchanged a mysterious look with Vireon. “I know that you are a born hunter, Vireon. I have accepted this. Go… and do what you must.”
Andoses crossed his arms. Tyro expected him to speak, but the Sharrian said nothing.
“What of Mumbaza?” Tyro was forced to ask. “Queen Shaira, you speak wisdom. We need to win the support of Mumbaza. Now more than ever.”
Now Andoses did speak. “Such was the goal of our mission, Tadarus and I,” he said. “We were to see Dairon in Uurz, then on to Mumbaza to win the Boy-King’s favor.”
“So that mission must resume,” said the Queen.
Tyro smiled grimly. “Winter has come. Vod’s Pass will soon be impassable.”
“Then you must go quickly,” said the Queen. “Rockjaw has cleared the northern half of the pass.”
“If there are no more early storms,” said Vireon, “our passage should be smooth.”
So the plans of war were drawn: Shaira’s messengers would go immediately to Uurz and Shar Dni. The five Princes, with a cohort of four hundred, would go to Murala and sail south to secure Mumbaza’s alliance. D’zan, Tyro, and Lyrilan would then lead half the cohort directly into Yaskatha to foster rebellion and take the throne.
When the winter broke, Shaira and her Uduri would lead the Udurum host across the pass to join Dairon’s legions in Uurz. Ammon’s Sharrian host would meet them at Allundra, where The Great Earth-Wall met the Golden Sea. Vireon and Andoses would guide the forces of Mumbaza to rally at Allundra, completing the Alliance of Four Armies before midsummer. Then their hosts would cross the border to Khyrei and victory.
“I do not wish to go to Mumbaza,” Vireon protested, “but directly to Khyrei to find the Kinslayer.”
“You are the Lord of Udurum now, son,” said his mother. “You will be King soon. You must go to Mumbaza and extend the hand of our kingdom. It is your duty. Then you will on your way to Khyrei.”
Vireon agreed to the Queen’s plan. Tyro breathed a sigh of relief. This endeavor needed the son of Vod more t han any other Prince. Here was a hero whose deeds could put fire in the hearts of a million soldiers. Tyro and Andoses were the brains of this campaign, but Vireon would be its handsome face and its strong right arm.
Weary from a long night of planning and studying maps in the Queen’s council chamber, Tyro reflected on the bitter satisfaction of getting what he had wanhatQueented all along.
There would be war.
He should feel triumphant, exhilarated, eager for the taste of battle. Yet he felt only exhausted, and he dreaded another march over Vod’s Pass. The path to war was long and difficult. Patience was the armor he must wear.
Yes, there would be war. A season of death, blood, and glory.
A season that, like any other, manifested ever-so-slowly to cover the world.
All his life he had been waiting for it.
Even now it sank shallow roots into the ground, colored the dawn sky with bloody gloom, whispered its coming on the wind.
Let it come, this savage season.
I am ready.
19
The moon was a pale and scarred face haunting the night. The waters of the Golden Sea sparkled with a million reflected stars. The only sound was the rushing wind and the beating of the black horse’s leathery wings. Gammir, formerly Fangodrel, sat comfortably on its back in his mail of gleaming shadow, basking in his mastery of the night-time world. A black cloud that was not a cloud at all flowed across the sea behind him, a mass of shadow-things exhumed from mountains, valleys, tombs, and graveyards. The rich blood of a King lined his throat and stomach, suffused the substance of his pale flesh, mingled with that of seven Princesses and a young Sharrian Duke.
Spots of dried brown ichor speckled his lean chin and cheeks. He should have taken that last one as well… There was no good reason to let him live. No good reason, only the damning visage of his own dead brother. The words that only he could hear.
Curse him! Curse his rotting bones… He’d best not cross this sea with the rest of the shades.
King Ammon had received Gammir with open arms, calling for a feast to honor his presence. He had even
