John Fultz - Seven Princes

“What shall we do, Grandmother?” he asked. He already knew, but it pleased her when he played the role of innocent youth. It was one of the many ways he indulged her.

Ianthe fingered the necklace of moonstones about her slender neck. Her white hair was caught up in a beehive, wrapped in strings of beryl and agate. Her smile was a splash of blood on a statue of sculpted marble. The statue of a Goddess driven by wicked whims.

“We will strike first,” she said. “Elhathym has promised me half of his Vakai horde. He will send them to us through the mirror. Already he moves to take the border of Mumbaza. Soon his shadows will drink the blood of the Boy-King and his court, and we will drink that of the Sharrians. We will not bother with tiny Allundra, but make directly for Shar Dni.”

“Why not take Elhathym’s gift and kill him?” he asked. “Surely he holds no real interest for you.”

Ianthe turned her black-diamond eyes at him. “There is much you have yet to learn,” she said. “Elhathym is of the Old Breed. He ruled an empire on the southern coast before any other nations claimed this continent. He walked the Ancient World at my side and we played the games of blood and fire. The world was our toy, even after the Great Descent, when we took the shapes of mortals.”

“Where has he been all these ages?” he asked. “The world has forgotten him.”

A floating globe of fire above their thrones turned from orange to emerald and its light shifted the contours of her perfect face. “He grew bored and went off to explore the Outer Worlds for amusement. His earthly empire crumbled without him, and three thousand years of wandering yielded him no more pleasurable sphere than this one. Yet he stumbled, perhaps caught in his own terrible ennui, and fell into the void where the Vakai dwell. He lingered for ages among those famished spirits, observing their torments. They could not drink his blood, but they reveled in his pain for it distracted them from their own suffering, so they kept him there. In his madness he called out to me. Across a divide of centuries I heard his cry. So I pulled him from the void, sealing him to a pact that would meet my own needs.

“First he reclaimed the heart of his former kingdom. Now he has called forth the Vakai, his former tormentors, to serve him. In this world he is their master, and he assembles them now in great numbers. Together, Yaskatha and Khyrei are indomitable. As in the Ancient Times, we will stride across the world and spill its blood for our pleasure. This is our world, Gammir. You must learn to love Elhathym as you love me.”

He bristled. “You love him?”

She laughed again, musical knives upon his bare skin. “He is my lover… but he is not my husband.”

“I will never love him,” said Gammir.

She smiled and reached over to caress his cheek. The fire-globe turned to deep scarlet, his favorite color. “My sweet boy,” she cooed. “None will ever come between us. If you will not love Elhathym… then you must at least show him the respect due a fellow warlock.”

He said nothing to that. He would show the necessary courtesy to the gray-haired sorcerer. Until the day came when he found the chance to destroy him. For now, let him send his shadow legions to join those of Ianthe. What could it hurt? The destruction of Shar Dni was worth even this sour alliance. Time later for his own designs.

Ianthe spoke often with Elhathym in the Glass of Eternity. Gammir arranged to be outside the sanctum when this occurred. Let her deal with him; Gammir gave only silent consent. Three days ago, he saw Elhathym walk through the mirror, to stand in fleshly form inside the high tower. He had come to taste the sweet flesh of Ianthe, to ravish her and satisfy his inhuman lust. So the Prince went down into the Torture Garden alone to distract himself with blade and tongs, screams, and bits of torn flesh. He had no wish to dwell on what was happening in Ianthe’s lofty sanctum. Even among the wails of the dying slaves, he heard the moans of the Empress as her ecstasy spilled like a faint stink throughout the palace halls.

Not long after this tryst, the Vakai came flowing through the mirror like a deluge of black water, flooding out the sanctum windows, into the courtyard and the city beyond. They sank into the shadows and stones until they were called forth to flock behind the war fleet.

Four admirals commanded the Khyrein navy, but Ianthe set Gammir above them all. Now the Talon was his own ship, and she stood at his side calm and cool as marble. His thirst was rising… Nearly a full day since he drank the blood of nubile slaves. Tonight, Ianthe and he, and the host of shadows that followed like a black storm, would drink Sharrian blood.

There… The green coast came into view at last. The Valley of the Bull with its verdant slopes, the reedy delta thick with flocks of white birds, the city of white towers and azure pyramids, the cloud-painted ramparts. The smoke of temples rose into the evening sky like futile dreams… Their Gods would not help them this night. The sun kissed the western horizon. The inky waters in the fleet’s wake steamed now as if boiling.

Gammir saw the ghost of Tadarus standing near the rail, wrapped in his purple cloak, unstirred by the wind. Tadarus stared at him with eyes as blue as the Sharrian temples.

Brother…

Ianthe must have sensed something, for she turned her feline face toward the phantom. Yet it was gone. Perhaps he had only imagined it.

She leaned against him, her slim body wrapped in a crimson cloak and little else. She placed an arm about his waist and they eyed the blue-white city together. “Their King is already dead by your hand,” she said. “Whoever they have placed on his seat will be fearful and inexperienced, and they have no warning of our attack. This night Shar Dni belongs to us, Gammir. We will tear it to shreds, drain it dry as sand, burn it from the earth. We will build a new city on its ashes – your city. Its temples will worship us with blood and pain.”

She kissed his lips, stealing his senses. When she pulled away, the last rays of sunlight burned blood-bright across the Golden Sea. The Sharrian Navy rushed forward to meet the assault. A hundred gold-painted galleons flew the Sign of the Bull on their silks. The Khyrein warships crushed hapless fishing vessels caught in their path. Less than half the Sharrian ships had launched when night claimed the sky.

Now the legions of shadow rose from the waters like a wave of black clouds, roiling above the Khyrein vessels. Ianthe threw off her cloak, baring herself to the dark, and shouted into the mass of whirling shadows.

“Blood, Vakai!” She pointed her clawed finger at the Sharrian sails. “Your mistress offers the blood of all those aboard the golden ships! Take them! Feast, children of the void!”

A dark storm, lit by a mass of tiny red fires, rushed toward the Sharrian warships, which came boat after boat into the banks of howling shadow. Ianthe’s sorcerous wind fell away, and the black fleet crept slowly now toward the dark fog that consumed its enemies.

As the Talon moved closer at the head of a triangular formation, the shrieks of dying men reached Gammir’s ears. Famished Vakai swarmed the decks and rigging of his enemies, rending flesh and spilling blood. He licked his lips. Perhaps he should summon the phantom horse and join the blood-drinkers on those slippery decks.

“Be patient, Grandson,” said Ianthe, stroking his chin. “In the city beyond these meager ships runs a deep red river. We will sip from it soon.”

The black ships slid across the waves toward the wall of darkness. No golden galleons emerged from that writhing storm of shadows. Only the cries of dying men and the smell of steaming blood. The moon rose, a horned sickle between guttering stars.