Seven Sorcerers(103)
“I have sent word to Ryvun Ctholl for five more legions,” said Sharadza. She had married the King of Yaskatha eight years ago, but still she was the Princess of Udurum. It was her right to rally the northern forces while her brother lay wounded. “Yet they will be at least two weeks in arriving, even at a hard march.” She turned to Mendices, whose grim nod agreed with her.
Dahrima wondered how many more Udvorg and Uduru would descend from the Icelands if they were summoned by Vireon. There were at least a thousand Uduru living on the northern plateau who had chosen their new blue-skin families above the call of war. Vireon might still rouse them, and perhaps thousands more blue-skins as well. He might promise the Udvorg justice for the death of Angrid, and set them all to marching southward. Yet they would all come too late.
“We have also dispatched an ambassador to the King of New Khyrei,” said Mendices, “calling upon him to send what legions he may. As it stands now, our best hope is to endure the coming siege long enough for these southern legions to reach our gates.”
“All this talk of legions and numbers is fruitless,” said Khama, waving his hand above the bowls and goblets. “Even if we had all the legions of the Five Cities at our command, it would not be enough. Zyung commands a thousand sorcerers. It is plain that military forces cannot win this war.”
A moment of heavy silence hung about the chamber.
“Khama speaks truly,” said Iardu. His eyes gleamed with an array of shifting colors, twin auroras seething below his brows. He stroked his silver beard. “This is not a war of blade and shield, but a contest of sorceries. Men and Giants are caught in the heart of it, yet the true contest is among sorcerers. If more of us had been present at Shar Dni, the defeat might have been less devastating, or avoided altogether. I take full blame for my absence. I cannot restore the lives that were lost, but I will do what I can to atone for my mistake.”
D’zan broke the silence this time. “None of us blames you, Shaper. You have assembled all the wizards at this table to face Zyung’s assault. You have our gratitude for this.”
“If I had heeded your advice in Khyrei,” said Khama, “Undutu and thousands more would be alive today. It is too late for them now, but I am ready to listen.”
Iardu refilled his cup and swallowed a mouthful of red wine. “A thousand High Seraphim serve Zyung, who has convinced them of his divinity. Twice that number of Lesser Seraphim attend him, yet their powers are limited–they are trained as war dogs and can be slain with a well-aimed arrow or blade. Most of the Lesser Ones’ attention is bent on protecting the dreadnought to which they are assigned, yet the High Seraphim are also scattered among these ships.
“The High Seraphim are of the Old Breed. They can be defeated, but cannot truly die. Ianthe the Claw has also returned to serve Zyung, although she will betray him if given the chance. We cannot count her among our allies, but her presence cannot be overlooked.”
“What of Gammir?” asked Sharadza. Dahrima saw fear and guilt in her eyes.
“Where the Claw goes, her pet will not be far behind,” said Iardu.
“So it comes to this,” said Mendices. “Six sorcerers must stand against a thousand.”
“We are seven.” A new voice rang in the chamber.
All heads turned to a hooded figure who stepped from the shadows between braziers. Dahrima’s hand went instinctively to the haft of her spear, yet none else about the table made any show of alarm.
The stranger’s robe was black and hung with a garland of emeralds about chest and sleeves. He stood now between the elbows of Mendices and D’zan, although there was no entrance or window at that end of the chamber. Had he been there all along, lurking in the shadows?
Dahrima recognized the dark robe and its obscure shape. This was the stranger who had stood before Vireon’s bleeding body as she raced toward it. He had raised a hand, spoken a word, and turned the God-King to black iron.
The stranger raised his hands, his long fingers heavy with jeweled rings, and pulled back his hood. The face of Tyro stared at the war council. Yet the cheeks were somewhat leaner, the hairless chin not quite as strong. The dark eyes were full of mystery where Tyro’s had been full of glinting steel. His black hair was long and curly, wet with the fragrant oils of Yaskathan nobility. Yet this was no southern lord who had entered the palace like a gliding ghost.
“Lyrilan?” D’zan blinked and leaped from his chair, wrapping his arms about the Scholar King. D’zan laughed loudly, a strange and merry sound that broke the solemn aura of the chamber. D’zan greeted Lyrilan as if he, rather than Tyro, was Lyrilan’s true brother.