John Fultz - Seven Kings

Like Iardu, she had no answer. But perhaps questions mattered most.

Questions led to wisdom.

Or to death, which was itself a kind of wisdom.

The wisdom of change.

His dreams were bloody infernos, hordes of howling foes, a rain of blades hissing at his skin, the skulls of dead men crunching beneath his boots. Winged shadows fell from the sky to pluck eyes from living faces. Flames consumed the earth on every side, and his enemies rushed from the fires, eager to spill his guts and trample them into the bone-littered earth. His blade was an extension of his right arm, as it always was in the murderous chaos of battle. He hacked a path through the flames, splitting open faces and bellies and chests. He killed until he was sick of killing, and the battle continued. The great, stony face of the God-King hovered in the black sky, flaming comets dripping from its eyes. Its vast mouth was open, pouring forth an endless stream of armored Men and blazing Giants.

After a restless eternity of battling phantoms, he rose from the morass of nightmares into the quiet gloom of his tent. His eyes fluttered open. The muted sounds of camp life drifted through the canvas walls, and the terrible heat of Khyrei lay heavy upon his chest. The blankets on which he lay were soaked through with sweat, as were the bandages about his arms, legs, and torso. The silhouette of an Uurzian spearman stood outside the tent, sunlight casting a golden aura about his shield and corselet. Tyro called to the guard, but his voice was no more than a hollow croaking.

Water. He must have it now or die. Black ashes filled his chest, as if his interior organs had burned to cinders. He no longer saw the flames of his nightmares, but still he felt their merciless heat licking at his flesh.

Someone stirred in the gloom and a new figure moved into view. The sharp-nosed face of Mendices leaned over him with a chalice of sparkling fluid. His hand slipped beneath Tyro’s head and he raised it so the Sword King could drink from the cup.

Water, cool and perfect. He drained the cup.

“More… more…” he moaned.

Twice more Mendices filled the cup and twice more Tyro drained it.

He fell into a deeper sleep then, dreamless and dark.

How long was it until he awoke again, the sun still hanging high above his tent? He might have lain here for days or weeks, so oblivious was he to the passing of time. Mendices once again walked out of the tent’s shadows and gave him water.

“Hungry…” Tyro mumbled.

Mendices grinned, his pockmarked face suddenly feline in aspect. “Good,” he said. “Hunger is a good sign, My Lord.” He sliced apart a ripe pomegranate and placed a few tangy seeds into Tyro’s mouth. Tyro sucked the sweet flesh from the seeds, then crunched them between his molars. A sudden wash of strength fell across his limbs as he devoured the pomegranate. Then quickly it fell away again, leaving him exhausted on the crude couch.

“How long?” he asked.

“Less than a day,” said Mendices. “You fell ill last night. Now is just past midday.”

“Where is Vireon?”

“With his Giants,” said Mendices. The look on his face was one of deep worry. “Tonight the Kings meet once again for a war council.”

Tyro inhaled the hot air. “I must go,” he said, and strained to bring himself into a sitting position. His head swam crazily, and he fell back to the cushions. His arms and legs seemed made of lead. He lay helpless before the only man of Uurz he trusted completely.

“Rest easy, Majesty,” said Mendices. “Sixty men have died from this red fever already. Gods of Earth and Sky willing, you will not join them. Let the fever run its course.”

“I have slept too much,” said Tyro. “I am done with nightmares.”

Mendices moved a chair near to Tyro’s couch and sat himself upon it. He wore a corselet of boiled leather over a green tunic. His swamp-stained boots had been replaced with easy sandals. A longblade hung at his side, the same one he always carried. Its pommel was carved in the likeness of a hawk’s head with tiny garnets for eyes. They glinted at Tyro as he lay powerless and listened to Mendices’ words.

“Iardu has given you some concoction of herbs and sorcery,” said the Warlord. “It has done you well. The first stage of the fever passed quickly. Your head is cleared, your skin cooling. It will be a while still before your full strength returns. You must be patient…”

Patient? The greatest conquering horde the world has ever known is bearing down on Uurz and its allies, and Mendices wants patience?

“I will represent the throne of Uurz tonight in your stead,” said the Warlord. “So speak, Majesty, as best you can. Tell me your mind so I may convey it to the Kings.”

Tyro blinked and managed to raise a hand to wipe his damp brow. “You speak eloquently, but I know your mind,” he said. “When you have something to say, you take on the aspect of the keenest listener. Out with it.”

Mendices grimaced. His dark eyes glanced toward the tent’s entrance. The blurred shapes of Men and horses passed by. Somewhere in the distance the gravelly voices of Giants were raised in song. “You know me too well, Majesty.” He stood and paced between the couch and the far tent wall. Tyro’s gilded breastplate hung upon a wooden stand, alongside a new shield bearing the Uurzian sun and a freshly polished spear and broadsword. He coughed and waited for the Warlord to speak his mind.

“You saw what happened to Vireon,” said Mendices. “How he defeated the Swamp God.”

Tyro nodded weakly.

Mendices turned toward him, lowered his face to stare directly into his King’s eyes. “You saw him standing tall as a mountain, tossing towers into kindling with a single step. Never will I forget the sight of it…”

“Aye,” Tyro mumbled. It was a miraculous tale he hoped to tell his grandchildren someday. The legends of Vireon the Slayer were built on a solid foundation of truth. He was every bit the legend his father had been.

“With Angrid’s death, Vireon adds the might of the Icelands to that of Udurum. In this southern clime he rules two thousand Udvorg. How many more thousands must lurk still in the Frozen North? Vireon now wears the crown of a true Giant-King. He wields the mightiest force in the world. And this force is not human.

“I have seen him walking about the camps at the height of his Giants, as if he is now one of them. And I have come to realize that he is indeed more Giant than Man. Why, taking Angrid’s throne has made him Emperor of the North. He might declare himself so at any time!”

Mendices grew silent. He poured a fresh cup of water for Tyro, and a goblet of amber wine for himself. He helped Tyro swallow a few sips before he continued.

“I fear him, Majesty. Vireon’s might is beyond our ken. Now this sorcerer shows us a vision of Zyung and his approaching hordes. I know you feel the weight of this vision, as I know it to be true in the depths of my heart. The Shaper would not lie about such things. Our situation is dire, My Lord. We came south to conquer Khyrei and it has been done for us. Stolen from us, one might say. What more will we lose if we stay here?”

The words rolled like hot stones about the confines of Tyro’s skull. His head hammered, but he would not yield to the pain. He would vanquish it, as he vanquished all foes.

“What would you have us do?” he asked.

“Return to Uurz,” said Mendices, his voice a whisper. “Bring our legions together and fortify our walls for the long siege that is sure to come. Let Vireon and his Giants lead the defense against these invaders. Let Yaskatha and Mumbaza, and this New Khyrei, take the brunt of Zyung’s assault. The war that falls soon upon us will be deadly beyond mortal reckoning. Let our enemies humble Vireon and his newfound power, while he weakens the ranks of the invaders. By the time Zyung reaches Uurz, he will have faced an army of Giants and several armies of Men. We will have the advantage of unspoiled legions and the strength of our unfailing walls.”