boyhood. He hefted the Stone’s blade every evening to spar against Tyro’s Uduran broadsword. As far as Lyrilan knew, D’zan had yet to beat Tyro in one of these sparring matches, and he bore a few cuts and bruises for his troubles. But he no longer feared the weight of the blade, or the swing of sharp metal in his hands, or his opponent. Tyro was making him a warrior, finishing what poor Olthacus had begun years ago.
At night Lyrilan sat in D’zan’s tent, writing in his book, while the Yaskathan Prince oiled and cleaned the great blade. Lyrilan wrote all of this in the manuscript – how the sword had replaced the Prince’s lost uncle… and perhaps his father. Sometimes, too, D’zan pondered the griffin-head dagger that he kept in his boot; it had been a gift from King Trimesqua. But the Stone’s blade held far more importance for him. It represented everything he stood to gain or ld tscled wose, the entirety of Yaskatha. The jeweled broadsword with its ward against evil was all the Prince still owned of his kingdom. It was the iron key that would unlock the doors of Yaskatha for him.
The last of the provisions were loaded onto the galleons. The horses and men were already set, and Lyrilan had taken a break from writing to watch the impending launch. He left the bound manuscript and his quills on the desk of the cabin assigned to D’zan and himself. Vireon shared the Captain’s cabin with Alua, at the insistence of Lonneus, who seemed in awe of the Udurum Prince. In fact, all the people of Murala and the Stormlands, and especially the Uurzians, looked upon tall Vireon with amazement. This was the Son of Vod. Vod, who had made the desert a fertile kingdom, united Men and Giants, and reshaped the world. They never spoke of Vod’s madness, of how he wandered off to lose himself in the sea. If they did, it was only in whispers, and they ended with the prophecy that one day Vod would return, having conquered the sea the way he once conquered the Serpent-Father. Others saw Vod’s return as they looked into Vireon’s blue eyes.
As the last of the crates and barrels were hoisted onto the lower deck and carried into the hold, D’zan joined Lyrilan in the forecastle and looked out across the waves. D’zan wore the black and silver livery of Udurum with the addition of the Yaskathan emblem stitched on its chest: a golden tree whose trunk was a raised sword. The Queen of Udurum had given him this uniform, a gift showing her dedication to his cause. The attached cloak was purple with a black lining. The wind whipped it about D’zan’s boots as he walked.
“What? No quill and parchment, Prince?” he asked.
Lyrilan smiled. “Even scholars must rest sometimes. I wouldn’t want to miss such a splendid launch. We’re sailing into history today.”
D’zan eyed the glittering sea, his arms crossed. “I suppose we are,” he said. “A memorable day. But we’ve a long way to go. Twelve days to Mumbaza at least… if the weather holds.”
“You made this same journey in reverse,” said Lyrilan, “only months ago.”
D’zan nodded. “It took longer since the Stone and I changed ships so many times. I was… terrified by all of them. It’s a wonder I didn’t fall overboard.”
Lyrilan breathed deeply of the salt wind. “How do you feel today?”
“Ready,” said D’zan. “Ready to reclaim what is mine. Like I’ve spent years here, not months.”
“You are no longer afraid.”
“I did not say that,” said D’zan, grinning. “Fear is a constant companion in this world. Did not one of your beloved poets say that?”
“Kopicus said, ‘Through the blessings of Fear and Pain we know we are alive. Let us honor them alongside Love and Laughter, which give our lives meaning.’ ”
D’zan studied the mass of rigging at the ship’s middle. “My father would have loved this ship.”
“My father does,” said Lyrilan. “Although. 3'›Dhe’s only ridden it once, he boasts of it to every visiting dignitary. It is the heart of his sea power, as it were.”
“We should be safe enough from reavers in such a massive galleon.”
“I pity the poor pirate who tries to assail us,” said Lyrilan. “He’ll find an entire cohort of seasoned warriors from three different nations. No, we’ve nothing to fear from Men along these coasts.”
D’zan caught his meaning. “Yes,” he agreed. “Nothing from Men.”
Vireon, bare-chested in his white tiger-cloak and wearing a greatsword at his waist, strode up the plank beside Alua. Her face was that of a child beneath her honey-colored hair, and her black eyes were wide with wonder. She had obviously never seen a city before Udurum. To gaze upon a vast sea vessel was enough to strike her temporarily dumb. She held Vireon’s hand as he guided her onto the lower deck, walking between barrels of fresh water and the shuffling porters who carried goods toward the ship’s hold. She wore a snowy gown trimmed with crimson, a cloak of sable hanging from her shoulders.
“What do you make of her?” asked D’zan, his eyes upon the sorceress.
Lyrilan shrugged. “She seems a sweet and kind girl. Untutored. Yet she carries herself with a certain… purity.”
“A sweet and kind sorceress,” said D’zan. “Can there truly be such a thing?”
“You have seen her flame. What else could she be?”
“Where does she come from? Has Vireon told anyone?”
“My guess is everyone fears to ask. The Son of Vod is a God to most of these people. She is his consort. I say we’re lucky to have her.”
“Hmmm,” said D’zan. “Still, it nags at me that someone with such power could come right out of the wilderness.”
“Where does power come from?” asked Lyrilan. “Obrin says-”
“Not another quote.” D’zan smiled. “Tell me later. I must speak with Vireon.”
“I’ll be up here until we cast off,” said Lyrilan. He looked forward to the open sea. With all its perils and the inherent risks of nautical travel, there was nothing else like it. The sea would always remind him of his mother, and the way they had felt together on that grand day long ago, laughing and skimming across the waves. It was exhilarating.
D’zan made his way down the forecastle steps and greeted Vireon with a shake of his hand, Alua with a bow. She fluttered her dark eyes at him. The last of the water barrels were carried into the hold, and now four bearded Muralans carried a large crate up the ramp. Probably extra foodstuffs. With all these men and horses and perishables, the captains had no room for merchant cargo; but then they were being well-paid by the thrones of Udurum and Uurz for their troubles.
A flutter of movement caught Lyrilan’s eye. One of the crate-bearers sprang toward D’zan. Something fla Soheightshed in his hand. Vireon pushed the Yaskathan Prince aside. D’zan fell to the deck on his rear, but avoided a stabbing. Lyrilan gasped as Vireon grabbed the knife-wielder by the throat, his other hand on the attacker’s wrist. Vireon tossed him mercilessly against the mainmast, halfway across the deck. Even in the forecastle Lyrilan heard the cracking of the man’s spine.
The other three loaders dropped the crate and sprang toward D’zan before he could stand up. Their knives glimmered in the sun. Green-bladed daggers. Jade. The weapons of Khyrein Death-Bringers. The foremost among them shoved Alua aside – she did not matter – and sprang blade first at D’zan. The Prince’s booted heel caught the assassin’s sternum, and he kicked the man backward. Another assassin jabbed at him, barely missing his skull, pinning D’zan’s cloak to the deck. The assailant pulled the dagger from the planks, elbow swiveling for a final strike. But D’zan struck first, jamming the dagger from his boot into the assassin’s neck.
Two more killers scrambled at D’zan but faced Vireon instead. His broadsword flashed and the strength of his blow split a man in two. Alua pounced on the last Khyrein’s back like a rabid hound, digging her nails into his flesh, biting at his throat. He stumbled forward and fell face down on the deck. Vireon’s boot stamped down upon his dagger hand, crushing it. The man howled, unlike his brothers, who had died silently.
Vireon pulled Alua off the Death-Bringer’s back, and D’zan ended him with a downward thrust of his greatsword. Lyrilan gasped. This was the first time D’zan had killed with that blade. The Prince pulled it from the dead man’s body, staring down at the bloody corpse a moment. Lyrilan’s fascination expired and he dashed down the steps toward the scene, picking his way through the wide-eyed soldiers filing out of their quarters beneath the foredeck. He saw Vireon lean down to tear a false beard from the man D’zan had killed.
“Khyreins.” D’zan nodded. “Their skin has been painted brown to appear Muralan.” He kicked at one of the jade knives with his boot. “These are poisoned.”
Alua drew close to Vireon, and his great arm fell about her shoulders. He addressed the soldiers and sailors milling about the bloody deck.
“These men came to kill the Prince of Yaskatha!” Vireon shouted. “These are the cowards of Khyrei.” He grabbed D’zan’s hand and raised it high with his own. “The Prince lives!”
