“Dahrima?” He said her name once, but she barely heard it beneath the pounding rain.
She could not bear to see what emotion would flood Vireon’s face next, so she turned and pushed her way through the mumbling Udvorg, knocking many of them into the mud. She ran while thunder and lightning tore open the sky above the cliffs. Horses and Men rushed to get out of her way. She passed the green-gold pavilion of the Sword King without looking back, running north along the shore.
The words of Varda rang in her head as she fled: Vireon is done with you.
She came to a high crag and leaped from it into the driving wind. She seemed to fall forever, sinking toward the gray ocean. In her right hand the great axe was already washed clean of the witch’s purple blood. A reflected flash of lightning danced across its blades as she fell.
Finally the frigid water accepted her; she plunged into its dark depths.
She contemplated death by drowning. She might let herself sink to the bottom of the sea and stay there forever, a proper penance for her crime of rage. She had betrayed her King. She had seen it in his eyes as Vireon stared at her over the corpse of his lover.
She sank deeper into the peaceful bliss of the waters below the storm. It was so quiet down here. Yet now she heard herself thinking, and her thoughts were loud as thunder.
Vireon is done with you.
No. Varda will not haunt me in this way.
She earned her death with those words. Let the Udvorg moan the loss of their shamaness. Vireon will be free of her spells now. Free to rule both his kingdoms as he thinks best.
With a single stroke of her axe, Dahrima had freed him.
With her crime and her shame, she had restored his liberty. Her feet met the sandy ocean bottom. The last bit of breath escaped her lungs as she pushed herself upward. Her head and shoulders broke the surface, and she sucked in rainwater along with precious air. She swam toward the rocky shoal. Far above and beyond the lip of the precipice, the morning smokes of the camp rose into the sky and disappeared.
Dahrima walked out of the sea and ran northward along the beach, axe in hand.
I have disgraced myself. Yet I have sworn the oath.
I will serve Vireon.
Let my sisters return to Udurum if they will.
I will not.
I cannot.
Neither could she march with the Udvorg any longer. They would hate her now, and they would call for her head to pay for the witch’s. A life for a life, that was the way of justice for both Uduru and Udvorg. Vireon might even give it to them.
Perhaps the blue-skins would indeed have her head someday. But not today.
A great invasion was coming. Vireon still needed her. The first battle would be fought at the ruins of Shar Dni. She sprinted north along the strand, leaving behind the twin armies that crept along the cliffs.
He needs me.
She ran against the sea winds, and the rain pelting her face mingled with salty tears.
4
The Feathered Serpent
Khama missed the days when he was a simple herder of goats. For twenty years he had enjoyed that blissful existence on the yellow plains west of the Pearl City. During that time he had been only a Man, with a loving wife who bore him four perfect children. He missed the sweet winds playing over the tall grass, the bleating of his docile herd as he led them to water, and the serenity of the open sky. He missed Emi’s brown face and soft lips, the laughter of his children and their warm hugs.
Goats were so much easier to guide than Men.
He might have lived in domestic bliss on his tiny farm for decades more, might have forgotten his ancient past completely, if the two hawks had not come south from the Land of Giants. One of the hawks was Iardu the Shaper, the other his disciple–daughter of the dead Giant-King. It was Iardu’s prismatic eyes that made Khama recall the truth he had hidden from himself. Iardu’s soft voice woke him from the dream of tranquility he had woven so carefully about his family.
All dreams must end eventually, as all dreamers must awaken.
Khama stood upon the forecastle of the Bird of War, wrapped in a fluttering cloak of scarlet feathers. The calls of sailors and soldiers mingled with the songs of low-flying seabirds. A powerful wind filled the white sails of four hundred Mumbazan swanships, a wind Khama had summoned himself and kept steady for three days. Three hundred Yaskathan galleys glided among the swanships, the silver Sword and Tree insignia bright upon their crimson sails. Nearly two hundred black-sailed reavers, newly pledged to the Slave King of Khyrei, served as rearguard for the southern fleets.
Soon the emerald hills of the Jade Isles would dot the eastern horizon. Khama hoped the combined fleet was not too late. The Hordes of Zyung approached the island chain even now from the far east. If the Jade King were a wise man, he would surrender to Zyung immediately and accept the yoke of his rule. By doing so, he would save thousands of lives. His island folk, never a warlike race, might prefer slavery to slaughter. They were more like goats in that way than the people of Mumbaza or Yaskatha. However, the Jade King would have little choice in the matter if Undutu and D’zan reached his court before Zyung. They would persuade him through mighty orations, chests of gold, and implied threats if necessary, to join his small fleet with their own. Khama sighed and breathed deeply of the marine air, dreading the battle that would ensue.