Chygara must have sensed her thoughts. “Sister, we spoke with the Giant-King on your behalf.” Dahrima frowned at her. “Listen before you get angry. Vireon understands the nature of the Uduri, yet also that it is not the way of Udvorg women. He knows that Varda took up his own sword and sought your head with it. He wishes you to fight alongside us, despite his condemning your misdeed. He suspends a royal judgment until the warring is done.”
Gorinna the Grin laughed. “He has already lost one Giantess on this march,” she said. “He does not wish to lose any more of us! Not before the battle is joined.”
Dahrima turned her face to the sea again. “So this is why you have raced ahead of the legions,” she said. “To tell me that Vireon gives me his permission to die for him.”
I will if I must.
“What did you expect, sister?” asked Chygara. “The blue witch had it coming.”
The Uduri laughed, filling the quiet valley with the thunder of their mirth. Dahrima could not help but join them.
“Come,” she said when the guffaws subsided. “There are fish in the river. One cannot fight a war with an empty belly.”
Not long after their morning meal, the first of Vireon’s legions topped the ridge.
The Northern Kings had arrived.
The hooves of Tyro’s charger stamped along the muddy riverside trail leading into the wild green valley. Mendices rode nearby, a sodden cloak billowing about the shoulders of his golden corslet. They followed a torn track that used to be a road running from the city to the farmlands upriver. The wind was at their backs, blowing strong from the Sharrian delta. It carried the odors of fish, brine, seaweed, and horse dung. Soon it would reek of blood and death.
Behind the King and the Warlord of Uurz, the despondent Undutu rode at the front of nine surviving Mumbazans, all on borrowed warhorses. Their armor and swords, too, were on loan–the metal of Uurzian soldiers. Undutu had given the nine men leave to return to their homeland, but all of them chose to stay here with their lord. Tyro admired Undutu’s ability to inspire men to die in his name, if not his appetite for rash action.
Let them wear the green and gold, Tyro had decided. Let them fight for Uurz, knowing that if the City of Sacred Waters falls, it will not be long before Mumbaza falls as well.
At the Mumbazan King’s side rode D’zan, looking like a man who had lost his own name. Not a single Yaskathan mariner had escaped Zyung’s wrath. Tyro wondered how D’zan himself had become the exception, but he supposed the Feathered Serpent had plucked the monarch out of the burning ocean, as he had plucked his own King from death’s jaws. The Southern Kings had lost their crowns along with their ships, but at least D’zan had managed to hold on to his greatsword. Legend had it that the Sun God himself had blessed that blade. Its power had guided D’zan to victory over the Usurper Elhathym. Tyro also shared in that glory, for he was the one who had taught young D’zan to wield the big blade eight or nine year ago. He was glad that D’zan had survived the smashing of his doomed navy. It seemed that everyone else Tyro cared for was either lost or dead these days.
What about Lyrilan?
This was no place for thoughts of his exiled brother. Already Tyro’s dreams were haunted by Lyrilan’s face. He could not allow his waking hours as well to be occupied by guilt. For the same reason, he put Talondra from his mind, yet that wound was still raw and stinging. He would lose its pain in the red rush of battle, where wholly greater pains would emerge to drown it. Until he was victorious or dead, he would not dwell on his wife’s tragic demise, or the loss of his unborn son. If he allowed himself such weakness, he would not have the strength to sit atop this horse and drive his sword into the guts of his enemies.
He hoped that Undutu and D’zan were making similar decisions. The Mumbazan’s dark face was empty of hope, as if he was already dead. The Feathered Serpent had spoken with Undutu at length, urging him toward the strength of a King. As for Tyro, it was Mendices who had talked him back from the edge of despair two nights ago. D’zan had spoken to nobody, only nodding his blond head when addressed. He insisted upon riding with the cavalry instead of returning to Yaskatha.
Tyro had advised D’zan to go home and gather his remaining legions for the defense of the southern realms, and he offered the same advice to Undutu. Neither man would listen. Perhaps they both wished to die in the coming battle. A warrior must accept death before he ever raises a blade, but not with the resignation of despair. He must accept death so that he can overcome it, with joy and fury and ruthless determination. Perhaps the Southern Kings would find these things in the heat of battle. It was their choice to ride and fight with the northern hosts.