The dark trees grew taller as she paced toward them. The sounds of the sea faded behind her. The forest had looked more impressive from a distance; there were no mighty Uygas growing here. The mightiest of the skinny trees stood twice as tall as Dahrima, and the floor was an endless tangle of vine and root, leaf and brushwood. She enjoyed the splintering of undergrowth beneath her boots, the wholesome smell of green growing things. Her spear pushed hanging branches and broad leaves out of her path as she trudged through the gloom. When her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she found a thick carpet of moss near a small cascade of whitewater. She sat down on the wet moss and rested her back against a tree bole.
Vireon had changed greatly since he had slain the Swamp God. Since he had found his true stature. Dahrima always knew that he possessed the soul of a Giant, even though he had stood barely taller than the Men of Udurum. Now Vireon’s true inheritance had manifested; his father’s sorcery ran in his veins. Now he was a true Giant in both spirit and body. Yet it was more than his physical nature that had changed.
It began with the death of his wife and daughter. Ianthe the Claw had taken them both. The sorceress had masqueraded as little Maelthyn for seven years. The child itself was a living lie, the product of Ianthe’s sorcery quickened in Alua’s womb. Vireon’s cherished daughter was never real, only a cruel joke spun by the Claw. Dahrima had seen the Giant-King weep when the truth fell upon him like a maiming blade. She too had endured the deep pain of that terrible discovery. Dahrima had loved Maelthyn, watched over her from the moment of her birth. Many of her spearsisters had perished trying to save the child and its mother. Yet the Claw, once revealed, had eluded Vireon’s justice.
Vireon tracked Ianthe to the Mountain of Ghosts. Dahrima followed, and more of her sisters died there. With the stolen power of Alua’s white flame, the sorceress had crossed the sky and returned to Khyrei. So Vireon summoned his legions, gathered the Lord of the Icelands to his cause, and marched south with the Sword King of Uurz. In the stinking swamps west of Khyrei they faced a behemoth that killed hundreds of Giants and thousands of Men. Vireon’s unleashed power had finally crushed the monster. Dahrima had been there to pull the senseless Vireon from the mire and dress his wounds.
Yet it was Varda of the Keen Eyes who had given Vireon the crown of Angrid, making him King of All Giants. Several nights later Dahrima found them lying together inside her own tent. That was the moment she realized how much her King had truly changed. Now that Vireon stood as tall as any Giant, he was a true King in the eyes of the blue-skins. The scheming blue-skinned witch had to have him for her own. Had Vireon already forgotten Alua, his beloved Queen? Had he forgotten Dahrima too, who followed him without fail through blood and death and terror?
Perhaps the blue witch had cast a spell upon him. When Varda sat the iron crown upon his head, she must have stolen his heart. A false magic, a curse to bend the new Lord of Giants to her will. Now she shared Vireon’s tent, and Dahrima avoided the Giant-King.
It must be a spell, she decided. How else could he bear the frigid touch of the blue-skin harlot? Had Varda influenced the actions of King Angrid in exactly the same way? That must be the secret of her power. Dahrima hated her, as she had begun to hate the sour stench of the Udvorg males. Why did the blue-skin women not march to war with their men? They must be too busy raising the new children fostered on them by the Uduru. Were those children blue or pale-skinned? How many more blue-skin warriors had stayed behind in the Icelands? Less than two hundred Uduru had been willing to walk the path of war with Vireon. Were they so happy in their icy hovels, gathered about the cold flames with their squealing babes and blue-skin wives?
The gurgling of the whitewater lulled Dahrima to sleep, and she awoke to another gray dawn. Gathering axe and spear, she stalked back to join the spearmaidens. The double army was breaking camp and preparing for another day’s march. The rain fell as steady as ever, and the Golden Sea was a dull expanse that matched the color of the roiling sky.
“Dahrima the Axe!” A Man’s voice called to her from the edge of the Uduri camp. She turned to see a herald in the black-and-purple livery of Udurum. “His Majesty Vireon wishes to speak with you in his pavilion.” Dahrima’s sisters gave her queer looks that she tried her best to ignore. Let them think what they will. I am the only one with sense enough to see what the blue witch is doing.
She followed the herald through the ranks of yawning Udvorg. The Giants pulled themselves from the mud and drank mouthfuls of rainwater caught in their bronze war helms. The stink of them filled her nostrils as she walked. A few called out to her, complimenting her golden hair or challenging her to a wrestling match. She had made it clear that she had no interest in lying with any of them, but still they persisted. Before the march to the Sharrian ruins was complete, she would have to break one of their jaws to make her point. The first one who touched her without permission would regret it.