He did close his eyes then, lost in a dark reverie. Dahrima waited for him to finish the tale. Tears squeezed from beneath his eyelids, streaming to join the filth trapped in his beard.
His eyes flew open. “Blood! So much blood! The Prince of Shadows took their lives and their blood. I was the last. I begged him for mercy… Oh, how I begged, Lady. He took pity on me. He chose not to drink my blood. Tell them, he said to me. Tell them what happened. His teeth were wolves’ teeth. He sprouted black wings and flew away…”
Sir Nothing cradled his head in the palms of his hands, fingers twitching on his scalp.
“They locked me in the yellow room after that. There I stayed, laughing and screaming. I had to tell them, you see. He had commanded me to tell them. Oh, the blood… the blood. Then he returned with the Pale Queen and her armies of black metal. The city burned and fell to ash. Someone broke open the door of the yellow room. They tortured me. They had the faces of demons. Then they were gone and I was alone. There are no more left of the King’s bloodline. I am the last.”
“What of your father?” she asked. “Who was he?”
“He died at sea, battling demon-faced pirates.”
Brother of Dutho. Nephew of Ammon. That made him Shaira’s nephew as well. Dahrima did not know enough of Sharrian genealogy to guess his name. Vireon would know. Perhaps a name was all the poor wretch needed to end the spell of madness that held him here.
As if sensing her thoughts, he whispered a final confession.
“I was Pyrus, Son of Omirus.”
Dahrima met his sad eyes and offered him a smile. She bent to one knee before him.
“Hail, Pyrus,” she said. “Last King of Shar Dni. I am Dahrima the Axe. I serve Vireon, King of Giants and Men, Son of Vod, Lord of Udurum and the Icelands.”
“Pyrus…” He repeated the name, as if remembering it again for the first time.
She stood then. Her courtly gesture had not impressed him. The memories must weigh too heavily on his broken mind. He had lived like a rat in these haunted ruins for eight years. He could not be older than thirty, though he looked closer to sixty.
“Are you hungry, Pyrus?” she asked.
He smiled at her, displaying rotted teeth. “There are plenty of fish in the river, Lady.”
Pyrus seemed to forget the sad tale he had told as he led her through the ruins to the bank of the Orra. There he produced a crude spear from its hiding place inside a hollow log. He waded into the shallows and tried several times to skewer a passing fish. Dahrima was amazed that he could see so well in the moonlight. Yet he speared one and raised it wriggling from the water. He offered her another crooked smile as he climbed back onto the riverbank.
“I will build a fire,” Dahrima said. She gathered enough twigs to serve and sparked them with a piece of flint from her belt. As she blew on the tiny flame to make it grow, Pyrus used a sharp rock to scale and gut his catch. Soon it was spitted and roasting above the flame. He watched it with an eager glee, licking his lips.
“Soon there will be great danger here,” she told him. “A great foreign army sails toward this valley, and the Legions of Uurz and Udurum are marching to stand against them.”
Pyrus ignored her words, intent on the cooking fish.
Dahrima gazed at the stars. The night was clear and the moon was bright above the valley. “It will not be safe for you to stay here much longer,” she said. “Do you understand?”
Pyrus nodded his head and removed the spit from the cookfire. “It is done!” He tore a chunk from the fish and offered her the rest of it. She nodded thanks and accepted it. She would have to force him to leave the valley before the battle began. She put that unpleasant thought aside for later and enjoyed the taste of the fish. It was not bad, despite the lack of seasoning. Not a Giant’s preferred fare, but it filled her belly.
After the meal they lay back and watched the stars. Pyrus hummed an ancient melody of the Sharrian folk. He nodded off and she followed soon after.
There was no way of knowing how long she slept before the darkness rose to wrap itself about her throat, arms, and legs. She came awake in its frigid grip, limbs of solid shadow reaching out of the ground to seize her with claws sharp as daggers. They raked across her flesh, tore the bronze corslet from her body, and stole the breath from her lungs. She strove to rise, to suck in air before she suffocated. Her fingers found nothing to grasp. The shadows were going to rip her apart and she could not touch them.
She gagged and kicked and rolled across the glowing embers. The bodiless claws tore at her stubborn flesh. An Uduri’s skin was tough enough to turn arrows, but the bloodshadows would keep at it until her insides burst forth and her blood spilled out to feed them. Pairs of eyes like crimson coals hovered in the mass of living darkness, radiant with malice. A scream escaped her throat as the first set of claws pierced her shoulder. Another tore the flesh of her thigh. Every second, more of them found ingress to her flesh. They sucked at her seeping blood like a cloud of formless leeches.