John Fultz - Seven Princes

“What about the Serpent Lord? Is it true my father slew him?”

“Yes,” said the Storyteller. “By virtue of his sorcery, the same powers that make him both Giant and Man, your father destroyed the oldest enemy of Giant-kind. His magic made him tall as the Grim Mountains, and he wrestled with the Great Wyrm, his flesh burned by the great fires that it spit in his face. Their battle took place right here, among the ruins of Old Udurum. Nearly all the Giants had been slain and their city toppled. When young Vod crushed the life out of the monster, he vowed to rebuild the city. That is why we have this capital of Giants and Men. Your father brought peace to the Great Ones and the Small Ones. He is a hero. Never forget that.”

Sharadza nodded. How could she ever forget the legacy of her father? But there was much she still did not understand. The wind caught up her long black curls, and she brushed them away from her face.

“Is it true the Giants are dying?” she asked.

The Storyteller frowned at her. “Since the destruction of Old Udurum, no Giantess has borne a child. Some say the dying Serpent Lord put a curse on his enemies, and that is the reason why the she-Giants are barren. If your father had not fallen in love with your mother, a human, you and your brothers might never have been born at all! The Giants who live among us now are old. Yes, they are a dying breed, and they know it. Little more than a thousand still walk the world, and by the time your own children are grown someday, they may all be gone.”

“Is there nothing we can do?” Sharadza asked. Such finality made her want to cry. Her cousins were Giants, so if they died a part of her died with them. Her father’s best friend was his uncle Fangodrim, who was uncle to her as well.

“Likely not,” said Fellow. “These things are decided by higher powers than you or I. But remember that it is not death that counts in the end, but a life lived well.”

Sharadza smiled through her brimming tears. Fellow was always saying things like that. “Jewels of wisdom” he sometimes called them. It was one of the things she loved about him.

“Fellow,” she said, “I have another question for you.”

“Of course, Majesty.”

“How did my father learn sorcery? Was he born with it?”

Fellow sat quietly for a moment. Sharadza heard the moaning wind and a peal of approaching thunder.

“I’d best tell that story another time,” said the old man.

“Why?”

“Because your mother is coming.” t="0em"h="27"› “Oh! You must hide. I’m not supposed to be listening to your tales. She says you’re a liar and not to be trusted.”

Fellow smiled at her, the skin about his gray eyes wrinkling. “Do you believe that, Princess?”

She kissed his cheek. “Of course not. Now go. I hear her steps along the walk.”

Fellow turned toward the tall hedge and disappeared into the leaves. He would find his way back out onto the streets of New Udurum by a hidden path she had shown him months ago. She could not explain her mother’s distrust of the Storyteller, but she knew in her heart it was baseless, so she smuggled him into the royal gardens whenever she could, at least once a week. She began to think of him as her grandfather, albeit a grandfather she could never publicly acknowledge. She had learned much from his stories, and there was much more to discover.

Queen Shaira rounded the corner of the hedge maze with two palace guards in tow. Shaira was not a tall woman, but her presence loomed as that of a Giantess. Her hair was dark and her eyes bright as emeralds, both like her daughter’s. Looking at her mother, standing there in her gown of purple silk and white brocade, a crown of silver and diamond circling her brow, Sharadza knew exactly what she would look like when she was grown. There could be no doubt that she would be the spitting image of her beautiful and regal mother. At the age of forty-five, Shaira retained every bit of her beauty, and this gave Sharadza no small comfort.

Her mother called her name, and smiled at her in that loving way that nobody else could ever smile. In the warmth of that smile, the day felt a bit less cool. The blaze of summer lived in her mother’s green eyes. Maybe it was the fact that Shaira had grown up in a desert kingdom, or maybe her love itself was the source of the heat.

Sharadza ran to embrace the Queen.

“What are you doing out here, Little One?” asked Shaira. Even though Sharadza stood taller than her mother already, Shaira still called her by that nickname. She felt comfortably small in her mother’s arms. It had always been so.

“Admiring the leaves,” she answered. “Aren’t they beautiful?” She cast her gaze upward at the splendid fall colors.

Her mother gave her a quizzical look, as if suspecting that she told only part of the truth. “Your father summons you before the throne,” she said, running her hands along Sharadza’s hair, smoothing the dark curls.

“Me?” Sharadza asked, stunned by the news.

“You and your brothers,” said her mother, and the Princess saw a worried look pass across her face like a shadow passing across the face of the sun.

“What is the matter?” Sharadza asked.

“Come,” said the Queen. “We shall soon know.”

She followed her mother across the grand courtyard as big wet drops of rain began to fall. The sound of the drops hitting the leaves was a chorus of whispers. Then a blast of thunder split the sky, and she entered the palace properdivalace p.

Mother and daughter walked toward the King’s hall as the storm broke against monolithic walls built by the hands of Giants.

Not far from Udurum’s gates, beneath the branches of enormous trees, a gathering of Giants stood in a circle about two struggling figures. By the purple cloaks and blackened bronze they wore, these Uduru were known to all as the King’s Warriors. They howled and leaped and shouted curses, but their great axes, swords, and hammers hung sheathed on their backs. Their eyes focused on the two man-sized combatants at their center.

Among the brown leaves lying big as shields on the forest floor, two sinewy, broad-chested youths rolled in a contest of power and stamina. Straining muscles gleamed with sweat, and the wrestlers breathed through gritted teeth. A pulp of leaves and mud smeared their bodies. The Giants, each standing three times the height of the wrestlers, shouted and waved bags of gold above the peaks of black war helms.

“Tadarus!” some shouted.

“Vireon!” cried others.

On the ground, Vireon stared up into his brother’s face, feeling the weight of him like a boulder against his chest. Their arms locked together like the trunks of young oaks. Vireon’s legs shot upward, his heels dug into Tadarus’ abdomen, and his brother went flying. The giants roared. Now both brothers stood on their feet, coiled in the manner of crouching tigers. Tadarus laughed. Vireon smiled back at him.

“My little brother!” roared Tadarus. “You know I will beat you. I always do.”

Now Vireon laughed to show his defiance. “You are but one year my senior. And youth has its advantages.”

Shoulders slammed together and the Giants reeled from the sheer force of their collision. Once more the brothers stood locked in stalemate.

Vireon wondered who would tire first. If he could simply outlast his brother, he would win. The Giants would never underestimate him again.

They might have been twins, these two, but for Vireon’s more narrow face and slightly lesser height. They shared the same jet-black hair, the same sky-blue eyes, and the strength of raging Uduru.

Tadarus slammed Vireon’s back against a tree trunk. The monolithic Uyga trunk trembled, bark exploded, and the last of the tree’s faded leaves fell in a slow rain about the brothers as they wrestled. The Giants howled at this display of strength, and Vireon leapt forward, flipping over his brother’s head. They rolled together longwise through a debris of branch, bark, and leaf. Dead wood cracked beneath their bodies.