Once it had been called the Valley of the Bull, when its slopes were filled with terraced croplands. In those days not so long ago the towers of Shar Dni stood white and strong between the blue temple-pyramids of the Sky God. Dahrima had never seen it in person, only in colorful landscapes adorning the halls of the palace at Udurum. Queen Shaira, Vireon’s mother, was born a Sharrian and retained the pride of her heritage. Dahrima did not know Shaira well–certainly not as she had known Vod himself–but she understood Shaira’s love of her homeland and respected her for it. Scenes of the Sharrian valley were common throughout Vod’s palace, whether rendered in oils, woven in tapestries, or crafted into stone murals. Men said the deep green of the valley’s grass could be seen in Shaira’s eyes. Sharadza Vodsdaughter had those same eyes, though she was a child of Udurum.
Shar Dni was only a pile of cursed ruins now. Ghosts and devils were said to roam the valley. Perhaps these rumors accounted for why no living men had resettled the valley after Gammir and Ianthe destroyed and plundered it. Dahrima recalled the blood-shadows that had crept into Vireon’s chambers and fed upon the blood of her spearsisters. The ghosts had nearly claimed Dahrima’s life as well, but Vireon had saved her by driving out the witch who wore the shape of his daughter. Dahrima could not imagine the pain of losing a child to such dreadful sorcery. Vireon had lost Alua as well. This war had begun with bloody betrayal inside the Giant-King’s house, and the revelation of Ianthe’s rebirth inside poor, doomed Maelthyn.
Vireon had lost all that he loved on that night. The burden of a King was heavy, and loneliness was his usual recompense. Dahrima realized days ago that it must be loneliness, an unshakable sense of loss, that had driven Vireon into the arms of Varda. Even cold arms must provide comfort to one who suffered as Vireon did. Yet Dahrima, in a fit of rage, had robbed her King of that small comfort. For this she hated herself, even though she knew that Varda’s comfort was a false one. Nothing more than a strategy for gaining Vireon’s trust.
Dahrima would atone for her crime somehow. She must stay alive at least long enough to do this. Let Vireon’s justice fall upon her if it must, but first she would stand against his enemies. She may have broken the vow of service with her hands, but not with her heart.
He needs me.
On the second day, her flight had turned into a scouting mission. She decided on reaching Shar Dni before the forces of Uurz and Udurum. Alone she could run faster than any marching legions. Let her spearsisters stay behind and march with the Udvorg–they had not sinned against the blue-skins. If Dahrima had stayed, her sisters would have risen to protect her from any reprisals. Slaying Varda was a matter of personal honor, every Uduri would argue. This was the way Uduri had always settled their conflicts, with strength of arm and, if necessary, naked steel. It was Varda who drew steel first and thus sealed her own fate; otherwise the witch might have endured only a sound beating. Of course, the Udvorg might not see it this way. Perhaps Vireon would not either. Yet by moving ahead and scouting the way for the northern hosts, Dahrima could still be of service. When the battle began, she would be there, ready to slay and die for her King.
Her running had slowed when she approached the harbor town of Allundra. At the foot of the Earth Wall it nestled above a small bay. Trading galleons from all the great cities were moored at its wharves, along with a dozen Jade Isle traders. There were even a few Khyrein reavers docked there, having escaped the revolution that placed the black fleet into the service of Tong the Avenger. They were likely pirates now, expatriate seadogs who would rather sail the main preying on merchant vessels than pledge fealty to the King of New Khyrei. Allundra was a haven for any ship that dared its port, no matter its nation or purpose. The town had long been neutral in affairs of state, even allowing Khyrein slavers access to its taverns and warehouses. Though it lay at the southeastern edge of the Stormlands, it was not claimed by either Uurz or Khyrei. Despite Allundra’s important position as a crossroads for seagoing merchants, it was little more than a haven for smugglers, pirates, and outlaws.
Dahrima had not liked the smells of raw fish, human waste, and rotting seaweed that wafted from the seaport. The jumble of red-tiled roofs leaked a thousand gray smokes. She decided against braving the muddy streets to seek ale and fresh meat. Instead she rested until sundown and ran on, skirting the edge of the town. She crossed the inland road under cover of night.
The following sunset she discovered a cluster of fishing villages girding the delta of the Eastern Flow. Tiny two-man boats dotted the ocean here, and children in brown tunics played along the beaches. These settlements seemed more wholesome than Allundra, but again Dahrima hid herself from those who might gawk at a lone Giantess and carry word of her far and wide. She waded across the delta by moonlight and sprinted away from the villages.