John Fultz - Seven Kings

We are all history unfolding, he told himself. There is a book waiting to be written about what is happening right now. Yet I am stuck within its pages and cannot break myself free to write it. He remembered feeling this way before, when D’zan’s quest had drawn him far from the comforts of Uurz. He missed the Yaskathan King. When all of this was settled, he must arrange a trip to visit his southern friend.

Lord Undroth arrived, winged helm in hand. “My Lord,” he reported, “your brother agrees to the terms. He wishes to meet upon the hour.”

“Good,” said Lyrilan. His midday lunch with Ramiyah would have to wait. She would understand. If his errand succeeded, if his creation could truly reach Tyro’s heart, they would have something to celebrate.

Thirty guards with silver spears awaited him outside the study. He took up the book that contained his father’s life and held it to his chest like a talisman.

The Scholar King and his green-clad retinue descended the tower steps and streamed through the vaulted portico of the Great Hall.

Gods of Sun and Sky, Lyrilan prayed, let him be moved.

In the eastern courtyard the flag of Uurz billowed atop Tyro’s pavilion, a golden sun on a green field. The canvas walls of the tent were raised to admit the breezes of morning. Orderly rows of pomegranate trees stretched from the base of the palace to the foot of its eastern wall, where soldiers in golden helms and bronze mail walked the battlements. Attendants moved about the orchard bearing large urns of water hauled up from the cavern of the Sacred River. They poured the holy liquid generously among the tree roots. Thus did the royal orchards thrive, even in the midst of the long drought. The branches hung thick with swollen purple fruit.

Inside the tent the Sword King gathered with Lord Mendices and three captains of the Gold Legions. Daggers and jeweled goblets served as paperweights securing a series of dog-eared maps to the oval table. Tyro leaned forward in his chair to better view the markers and notations scrawled upon the maps. From the center of his chairback a pair of gilded wings spread from a central sun of inlaid opals. His broad chest was already bare against the heat of the day, and he wore a kilt of scarlet silk in lieu of his usual bronze girdle. Golden bracers hid the dueling scars upon his thick forearms. The emerald at the forepoint of his light crown glinted dully in the shade of the tent.

“Here…” Lord Mendices stabbed at the map with a pointed finger. “Where the marshes meet the Golden Sea. That is the route for our legions.”

“Treacherous territory,” said Tyro, tugging at his thick braid of beard. “Infested with vipers, lizards, and worse. Some say more dangerous than the jungles beyond it.”

“ ’Tis true, Majesty,” responded Lord Aeldryn. The man was the oldest of the captains, having fought with Dairon in his younger days. Tyro trusted his word, if not the strength of his now-unsteady arm. Aeldryn’s gray hair was still thick, but the deepset lines on his face spoke of a weary soul. “The dangers of the lands west of Khyrei cannot be overstated. Massive beasts wander those swamps, the kind that no longer live in the northlands. Throwbacks to the Age of Serpents.”

“Nonsense,” said Lord Mendices. “Superstition, Your Majesty. I am certain there will be some resistance, but Serpents? We may lose a few men, I’ll concede, but what beast can stand against an entire army? This route through the swamps is the only way to flank the Khyrein forces. They will never expect it because no one has ever dared to try it.”

Lord Rolfus harrumphed. “None have ever tried it because it is so dangerous. You make Aeldryn’s point for him. I say we approach entirely by sea. With the aid of Yaskatha’s navy we’ll cut round the southern horn-”

“No,” said Mendices. “You revisit an argument already proven false. The Khyrein navy is formidable, perhaps the greatest in the world. Our allies’ ships will serve as a diversion, while our land legions move in to sack the city from the east. The Crab Strategem. Rolfus, do not undo these last days’ work by taking us backward.”

Rolfus chose not to face the accusing eyes of Mendices. Few men could. Tyro watched as Rolfus chose instead the goblet of wine sitting before him, letting the red vintage fill his mouth instead of rash words. Tyro considered the advice of Mendices. There was much battle wisdom there… and a great sense of reckless courage. He admired Mendices for both qualities. It was partly the reason he had made the bald Warlord his chief advisor. That and Mendices’ hunger for destroying the threat of Khyrei once and for all. Nothing could be more important.

“Very well, Mendices,” said Tyro. He glared at the three captains. “ ‘In the midst of battle, the best choice is often the least sane choice’,” he quoted. “Your advice hearkens to the words of Quorances the Fourth. His ability to surprise and confuse his enemy led Uurz to victory in the Campaign of the Southern Isles. I see no reason why the same approach will not serve us here.”

“Well quoted, Majesty,” said Mendices.

“The strategy is decided,” said Tyro. “Now let us speak of alliances. What news from Mumbaza?”

The taciturn Captain Dorocles spoke for the first time this morning. “The King on the Cliffs remains indecisive. Undutu neither refuses nor denies our entreaties. Yet I believe we can bring him to our cause. We must remain persistent.”

Tyro nodded. The Mumbazans were known for their long love of neutrality. Yet eight years ago they had marched against the Usurper of Yaskatha. Tyro had ridden with them. At that time Undutu had still been called Boy-King. Now he was a man, and must be eager to prove the might of his nation. Tyro decided that a generous gift of gold and precious stones would likely sway the balance. He would send Dorocles with a sizable amount of treasure for the ruler of the Pearl Kingdom, as soon as the business of unifying Uurz was settled.

“What of Yaskatha? Does good D’zan join us? Surely he wishes to avenge the death of his father.”

Rolfus put down his wine cup. “The signs are excellent, My Lord. D’zan has sired an heir, soon to be born. He will wish to secure the safety of his kingdom now, so that his son can inherit his throne during peacetime. He awaits the birth of the child before committing his forces.”

Tyro smiled. “Sharadza is pregnant? I thought her too wild and independent to settle into the role of Royal Mother.”

Rolfus coughed. “Your perception is keen, Majesty. The mother of D’zan’s heir is not the daughter of Vod. It seems she has… gone missing.”

Tyro sat up straighter in his chair. “Vireon will be displeased,” he mused. “What is the word from Udurum?”

Mendices handled that ambassadorship. “Our envoys have yet to return, Sire. Surely your close relationship with the Slayer will bring him to our side. Although he can offer little in the way of Giant forces, his kingdom boasts a sizable army of Men these days. At least twelve legions, if my sources are correct. And there is no enemy to fight north of the Grim.”

Tyro looked at him. “Do not be so quick to discount the Ninety-Nine Uduri,” he said. “Yes, they are Giantesses, but they are not like human females. They are every bit as dangerous as male Giants. Perhaps even more so. Look to your history books, Mendices.”

“Yes, Majesty.” Mendices bristled. Tyro knew he hated being talked down to like this, even by his King. Tyro was but half his age, yet he was still the ruler of Uurz. Mendices occasionally needed reminding of the fact. The Warlord was wise in military matters, but Tyro’s father had forced his sons to endure a broader education. Only now that he sat upon the throne did he value Dairon’s insistence. The sword alone is not enough, Dairon had told his son. The arm wields the sword, but the mind wields the arm.