John Fultz - Seven Kings

Tyro lay silent for a while, staring at the yellow canvas above. Already the heat consuming his body seemed to have lessened. Yet strength eluded him.

“I have been foolish,” he said. “I sought glory in the conquering of Khyrei and the deaths of the sorcerers who ruled it. I was angry that this glory had been stolen from me by Iardu and Sharadza… and this risen Slave King. Yet it was all a ploy to bring me here that I might see the truth of what is to come. Iardu is but the agent of that truth.

“Now I understand where the true glory lies. The greatest war in history sails toward us on the wild sea winds. Only by facing what comes can a warrior know the truest taste of glory. Only by abandoning ourselves to death can we truly know what it means to live.

“You ask me to run, Mendices. You would have me flee this coast and leave my allies to face the terrors that I will not. These are not the words of a Warlord. They are the yammerings of a coward.”

Mendices lowered his eyes. Whether anger or shame or some mixture of the two stole across his face, Tyro could not tell. He sat in silence for a long while.

“Forgive me, Lord,” he said at length.

Tyro forced his hand over the lip of the couch and placed it on the golden bracer encircling the Warlord’s forearm.

“Let us speak no more of it,” said the Sword King. “We will consult with the Kings, we will support them, and we will fight with them. There is no greater honor. And if we die in the coming storm? Well, if we die we become something far more than Men.”

“What is that, Majesty?”

“Legends.”

Mendices nodded and rubbed his tired eyes. “Do you still hunger?”

“I crave meat,” said Tyro.

“Very well.” Mendices left the tent and returned with a hock of roasted pork, part of the provisions given to the Uurzians by the Slave King. Mendices fed it to him in small bites. Tyro reveled in its delicious flavor. How long had it been since he tasted such solid fare? Mendices urged him on with every bite.

When the meal was done, Tyro drank a cup of wine. He managed to hold his head up and bring the glass to his own lips. Mencides was pleased.

Now came the difficult part. Tyro gathered his breath for an ultimate effort. The muscles of his belly contracted beneath the white bandages, and he pulled himself into a sitting position. He breathed in ragged gasps, sweat dripping from his wet locks. He sat now with elbows upon his knees, and looked at Mendices, who stood before him.

“Iardu’s potion has done its work,” said the Warlord. Tyro’s head resounded with the clanging of unseen shields. The heat seemed to rise once more inside his skull, as if his brain were immersed in boiling saltwater. He ignored it.

Mendices brought him a ewer of cool water and a sponge. With painstaking slowness, Tyro himself washed the sweat and grime from his body. He lay back down while Mendices removed his bandages, washed his wounds, and replaced them with fresh strips of linen.

The face of Talondra drifted into Tyro’s mind as he sat up a second time on the cot. It had been long weeks since he felt her hot kisses. Too long since he took her lithe body in his hands and enjoyed the sweet embrace of her womanhood. He missed her so. By now her belly must be growing round; not huge yet, but noticeable. He smiled when he thought of her hiding the lump beneath costly gowns. She would disguise the loss of her slim figure until the child came. Such was her vanity, and the vanity of all highborn women. Still, she took great pride in bearing his son. The Priests of the Sky God had ordained that Tyro’s first-born would indeed be a boy. He had never known them to be wrong about such matters.

For a moment all thoughts of glory and war left him. Perhaps Mendices was right. Perhaps his place was in Uurz with his wife and son. Yet he could not leave his friends and allies to fight a war for him. There was no honor in it. Better the honor that death provides than the shame of retreat. If he died, at least his son would live to take the throne of the green-gold city.

“Mendices,” he called. “Find parchment and quill. I wish to write a letter to my wife.” Mendices nodded and left the tent. Tyro forced himself to stay sitting upright. No matter how weary he felt, he would be at tonight’s war council. He would not let Mendices make any great decisions without him. The other Kings would see it as weakness if he missed a second gathering. The path to glory was long and hard, and he had barely set his foot upon it.

Mendices returned and arranged quill, ink, and parchment on a makeshift desk. Tyro spoke the words aloud while the Warlord inscribed them on the paper.

“Dearest Talondra,” he began. “May the Four Gods guide this letter so that it finds you whole and healthy. I miss you dearly. We have come to Khyrei, where the seeds of revolt have sprouted before us. Emperor and Empress are vanquished, though not by my hand. The city’s slave population has risen up and toppled the regime. In this noble feat they were aided by the hand of Iardu the Shaper. Although the humbling of the black city was our goal, we know now that we have been called here to face a far greater threat…”

He went on to tell her of Zyung the God-King and his approaching hordes. He spared her the details of aerial ships and flying lizard-beasts. It was enough to tell her that a force of millions would soon descend on the world from across the Golden Sea. He explained his decision to stay and fight together with the Kings of the known realms. He even shared his hope that they would survive the coming of Zyung and see a new age of peace and prosperity born from these historic alliances.

“I know not how many months or years will pass until I hold you in my arms again. Or when I will see the face of my son. Until that day I carry both of you in my heart. It is my fondest wish that you name our first-born after my father. Let him be called Dairon the Second. If I am to perish in the coming war, raise him to understand why I stayed here and fought with my brother Kings. Let him know the deeds and honor of his father and grandfather. Raise him to be a fearless warrior and a wise ruler. I know that you will serve him well, as you serve all of Uurz.” He finished the letter with the customary call for the blessings of Earth, Sea, Sun, and Sky.

“Find a strong rider, uninjured and quick-minded,” he told Mendices. “Bid him carry this scroll to Uurz and deliver it to the hand of the Queen herself.”

“It shall be done,” said Mendices. He rolled the parchment, stuffed it into a capped leather tube, and left the tent to find a suitable messenger.

Dairon the Second.

A fitting name for the boy who would one day rule the Stormlands. And if Tyro never got the chance to read Lyrilan’s book, let young Dairon read it and learn the history of his namesake.

Tyro forced himself to stand with no little pain. On his third try he succeeded in walking seven steps to the entrance of the tent. He stood there looking past the shoulder of the sentinel, scanning the sea of sun-kissed bronze and steel, the simple tents of legionnaires, the clusters of soldiers tending to mail and blade with oil and hammer. The towering forms of Udvorg stumbled across the crowded encampment; beyond their shaggy white heads the black walls of Khyrei stood strong as ever.

Near to that wall, in the place where the first Council of Kings was held, a parade of attendants was already setting the board for this evening’s summit. Out beyond the double armada, the sun sank at its own steady pace toward the sparkling mirror of the sea.

Tyro turned back to the cool interior of the tent.

“Guard!” he called. The man turned and stepped respectfully inside. “Come and help me with this armor.”