This reminded him of Lyrilan, and the bitter power struggle that had seen his brother exiled and his sister-in-law murdered. He poured another cup of wine from the flagon and drank deep. The irony of his own considerations was not lost upon him.
I had to put the good of the realm before Lyrilan. There was no other choice.
I will never do this with my own son.
Perhaps Mendices was right. Tyro’s best course of action might be to bring his legions back to Uurz and secure its walls, letting the Men and Giants of Udurum face the onslaught of Zyung by themselves. If he did this now, Tyro was certain to reach home in time to witness the birth of his son. If he maintained his present course, however, he might never see the boy. In the final analysis, it was a question of honor. He could not abandon Vireon without disgracing himself in the eyes of Udurum and its people, including the great folk of the Icelands.
Suddenly a new thought struck him: How many Giants remained still in the Frozen North? How many more legions of them could Vireon summon to fight for him? This was another reason why Uurz must remain allied with Udurum. If Zyung’s horde was as massive as Iardu’s vision showed it to be, the Land of the Five Cities might need more Giants to come to its aid. Putting aside the invasion of Zyung, Vireon might also be the only thing standing between the wild Giants and the gates of Uurz. Better to fight alongside the King of Giants than to oppose him, even if the war was costly. Having the united Giantlands as an enemy was unthinkable.
Tyro stood to unbuckle his breastplate when the sound of beating hooves cut through the clutter of camp noises. Someone spoke in a loud, urgent voice. A mount whinnied as it was led away to be groomed and fed. A soldier entered through the royal pavilion’s flap, his green cloak swirling in the evening breeze.
“Majesty, a herald arrives from Uurz.”
Tyro nodded. He knew the sound of a herald’s advent well. “Have him fed and washed. I will see him within the hour.”
“My Lord…” said the soldier, his eyes steady upon those of his King. Tyro recalled that his name was Aerodus, or it could have been Aerion. The two men were brothers and much alike. Another reminder of Lyrilan. There were so many of late. “This herald has ridden through the night. He says his message cannot wait. He wishes to see you immediately, if it please you.”
Tyro wished Mendices was back from his fish-buying to meet with the messenger. Politics never ceased to complicate his life, even hundreds of leagues away from the City of Sacred Waters. “Very well,” he said. “Admit him.”
Tyro settled back into his chair and filled a second copper goblet for the herald. Soon the man came stamping into the tent, mud and road-dirt dripping from cloak and greaves. He smelled strongly of horse, and the soiled state of his garments evinced several days of hard riding. An unkempt beard of several days’ growth obscured his chin; without the green-gold livery of an Uurzian official he might have passed as a vagabond.
The herald sank to one knee, clutching his tarnished helm in the crook of an arm. He carried no scroll or missive that Tyro could see. The message must be a private one, meant only for the King’s ears. Perhaps this was more than a political development that needed his attention.
“Rise,” said Tyro. “Will you drink?”
The worn-out herald shook his head. His breath was heavy, his eyes weary. Tyro realized this could only be bad news.
“Majesty,” the herald said. “I have ridden six days from Uurz to bring you ill tidings.”
Of course. Tyro nodded. “Speak then,” he said, taking another swig of wine. Someone must have died. Could the Green and Gold factions still be quarreling even after Lyrilan’s humiliation and exile?
The herald would not meet his eyes as he spoke. “Empress Talondra…” His voice became a stammer. In the early ages heralds who brought bad news were often slain immediately. “She was found…”
Tyro’s temper kindled. Let the man be brave enough to speak his message. Tyro was no barbarian chief to slit the throat of a loyal servant. Any man of Uurz should know that about him.
“Speak,” said Tyro. A hollow hunger yawned in his gut. He had not taken supper.
“The Empress Talondra was found… dead, Sire. In her bed-chamber. Seven days past.” The herald kept his gaze fixed upon the faded carpets of the tent.
Tyro stood up and grabbed the man by his throat, pulling him to his feet. The hunger in his belly was replaced by a black claw ripping at his intestines. The rider repeated his message at Tyro’s command. Tyro stared into his gray eyes, looking for signs of falsehood. The messenger wept, his tears carving channels through the grime of his worried face.