John Fultz - Seven Princes

“Ah! Sweet Moryia and Juniel! Come here, my darlings,” Lyrilan called to them, raising his cup.

The girls approached the table, and Lyrilan introduced D’zan. He stood and kissed the hand of each maiden. Both women eyed him with sly grins, as a hungry man might eye a steak.

“Come, D’zan,” said Lyrilan. “Enough of our heavy talk for the day. It is time for you to experience our Uurzian hospitality.”

D’zan looked at Lyrilan, who stood with his arm around Moryia. Juniel had already taken D’zan’s hand in her own. “I’d be delighted,” he said, quaffing the last of his wine.

Lyrilan smiled as Moryia kissed his cheek. “I may be a scholar,” he said, “but I’m still a Prince.”

The girls led them into private chambers, and D’zan soon forgot all about the long road ahead and the terrible evil he was to fight.

At least for a little while.

Prince Tyro met his father on the great veranda overlooking the green and gold city. Stormclouds rolled on the horizon, lightning danced, and the smell of coming rain filled the air. A flock of ravens flew above the domes of the Grand Temple in the distance, and a thousand thousand smokes rose into the blue afternoon sky. This was always the weather in Uurz: brief periods of brilliant sunlight between thundering squalls that came three or four times a day.

Emperor Dairon sat on a cushioned divan at the veranda’s center, where he could look over his realm and see into the gray skies of the north. The Grim Mountains were barely visible along Svis wh the purple horizon, hovering like smoke at the edge of the Emperor’s vision. A pair of guards stood nearby, and servants prepared a tray of wine and fruits for Dairon’s pleasure.

Tyro’s green tunic was tied with a belt of silver and onyx. A bronze kilt left his strong legs bare in the manner of an Uurzian footsoldier. The short sword at his side had been a gift from the Emperor on Tyro’s thirteenth birthday. A single emerald set into the pommel was the only extravagance in its design. Tyro had mastered the longblade, the scimitar, the dagger, the spear, and even the war axe, but always he wore this modest blade, his first weapon.

The son stood beside his father and looked beyond the city walls into the rising storm.

“What word of these assassins?” asked Dairon.

“None,” said Tyro. “They may as well have sprung from evening mist. They left no trace entering the city or the palace.”

The Emperor frowned. “Then they were truly the Death-Bringers of Khyrei,” he said. “Ghosts of the Jungle…”

Tyro sat beside his father on the royal divan. Dairon had not touched the platter of black grapes or the sparkling wine.

“What does it mean, Father?” asked Tyro.

“It means that Khyrei and Yaskatha are allied,” said the Emperor, “and they both want Trimesqua’s son dead.”

Tyro plucked a grape from the bunch and popped it into his mouth. He savored the tartness of its taste for a quiet moment.

“Surely these are evil kingdoms,” said Tyro, “ruled by wicked powers. This Elhathym is some new terror unleashed. Ianthe the Claw we already know. Why not support Prince D’zan’s claim for the throne?”

The Emperor smiled at Tyro. “Are you so eager for war, son? You think of the glory, yes. But what of the blood… the innocent lives… the destruction, the mayhem? What of the terror and disgrace that war brings? These things always outweigh the glory. Always.”

Tyro could say nothing. His father had fought in a war; he had not. There were few among the legions who could best Tyro in the dueling pits, but that was not the same as leading men into battle. Thousands of men tramping forth to slaughter thousands more. Still… how could evil be defeated if not through battle and blood? Should they simply wait for the legions of Khyrei and Yaskatha to come marching north, bringing flame and death upon the Stormlands?

“Olthacus the Stone,” said Tyro, “was your friend.”

Dairon nodded, and the long braids of his beard shook. “As was Trimesqua…”

“You taught me that a wrong must be avenged,” said Tyro. “That justice can sometimes only be found at the end of a sword. The world is cruel and dangerous, so we cultivate strength to preserve the innocent. Must we not do that now?”

“You are young, Tyro,” said Dairon. “You understand the subtleties of combat, the S cowidrules of the blade. But you know little of diplomacy, statecraft, strategy. These are the things that matter most. It is not enough to be strong. You must be wise in your strength.”

Tyro drank his father’s untouched wine. Thunder rolled in the north. The storm moved closer, threatening the blue sky with looming shadows.

“Listen to me,” said the Emperor. “Never, never, begin a war without a strategic advantage. Preparation is everything. Alliances must be made, declarations issued. No nation can stand alone. Udurum and Shar Dni are our brother-cities. We will not fight without them.”

“Then send me to Shar Dni to make alliance with King Ammon,” said Tyro. “He has no love for the Khyreins – they raid his ships on the Golden Sea. He must be hungry for justice.”

“Perhaps,” said Dairon. “But Shar Dni does not have a quarter the military might of Uurz. They have warships, yes, but on the land their numbers are small. Ammon has already been appealing to Uurz for assistance against these pirates.”

“There you have it,” said Tyro. “An alliance is inevitable.”

Dairon turned his squinted eyes to Tyro. This was the look his father always gave him when he was about to make an obvious point that Tyro had somehow missed.

“Tyro, why do you think I am sending D’zan to Queen Shaira? Why grant him a company of legionnaires for the journey?”

Tyro thought a moment, casting his gaze across the city. In the noble quarters servants were running through gardens as the first cold drops of rain fell. In the streets beyond, tiny figures rushed for shelter.

“Because you pity him… because Trimesqua and Olthacus were your friends.”

“No, son. I do pity poor D’zan. But this is not the reason. An Emperor does not rule only with his heart, but with his mind.”

Tyro stroked the light stubble on his chin. “You send him because you believe he will gain Shaira’s sympathy.”

Dairon smiled. “Now you begin to use that head of yours.”

“If Udurum stands with us, and Shar Dni, will we be prepared for war?”

Dairon leaned back in his cushions. Black clouds had swallowed the sun, and a curtain of cold rain fell beyond the veranda roof. A slight spray of mist cooled Tyro’s skin. The city now lay in the shadow of the booming clouds. Lightning kissed the distant fields, turning black to emerald for a brief moment.

“War is a test for which no nation can ever be fully prepared,” said the Emperor. “But I have seen the Uduru on the march. I have seen the spectacle of a thousand Giants striding across the desert, heard the thunder of their feet and the clashing of their steel. They nearly brought down the walls of Uurz before you were born. As it was, they conquered the city in three days. Only Vod’s intervention saved my life and thousands more who would have been crushed into dust.”

“I’ve read the stories, Father,” said Tyro. “I know the tale of your rise to power.”

“It was Vod who made me Emperor,” said Dairon. “He had the city in the palm of his great hand, Tyro. He could have kept it, smashed it, or ruled it forever. But he gave it to me. Someday I will give it to you.”

“But Vod is gone.”

“So they say. But men have said such things before.”

“Men say the Giants are a dying race.”

“That may be… but they are long-lived. No longer do they breed, it’s true.”