When the Gods Slept

by Allan Cole

  "Kyrania?" Badawi cried. "Kyrania? Why, Master, there isn’t another man within a hundred leagues who knows the way to Kyrania better than this, your most desolate slave."

  Sarn nodded in satisfaction. He turned to Giff. "Let him live for now," he said. "It seems this human swine may be of use to us."

  Badawi wept in relief. He came to his feet, bowing and blubbering. "Oh, thank you, kind master," he wailed. "May the gods smile on all your efforts."

  But even then - life still hanging in the balance - Badawi’s greed reared up.

  He dried his eyes, saying, "I’m, uh, reluctant to bring up a small matter, master. A boon, if you please, for serving you. When we arrive at my farm do what you like." He waved his arms. "All that’s mine is yours, master," he said. "Except... well, there’s this white camel, you see. It isn’t much, master. No breeding at all. Worthless to anyone. But I’ve grown fond of her, master. And if you’d only-"

  Sarn’s claw shot forward and Badawi’s jaws snapped shut, cutting off the rest. The demon beckoned and Badawi’s mouth became a parched desert when he saw the length of the demon’s razor talons. He took an obedient step forward, then was rocked as a great smothering force enveloped him. It fell over him like a fisherman’s net, dragging him toward the demon chieftain. His throat clogged in fear and he couldn’t speak, much less breathe. He staggered forward, drawn by the demon’s spell.

  Badawi trembled as his chest touched the longest talon, jutting like a curved blade. And still he couldn’t stop. The spell made him press forward until the talon pierced first his robe, then his flesh. Blood flowed, staining his robes. The pain was unbearable but no matter how hard his mind struggled he couldn’t regain his will. He felt the talon cutting deeper. Then he heard Sarn laugh and suddenly the spell was gone and he was free.

  Badawi fell to the ground clutching his wound, too frightened to do more than groan.

  "If you want to live, human," Sarn said, "you will do all I command. Without question. And you will never ask anything in return."

  "Yes, master, yes," Badawi wailed, knocking his forehead against the ground in obeisance. "I was a fool! Please forgive such a stupid one."

  "Rise, human," Sarn said.

  Badawi did as he was told, standing before the demon trembling and wondering what would happen next.

  "Here is my first command to you, human," Sarn said. "You will immediately lead us to your home. And when we arrive..."

  "Yes, master?"

  Sarn grinned, exposing a double row of stained fangs. "You will lead us to the camel first."

  Badawi wisely buried his dismay, nodding eagerly in case the demons couldn’t read his expression of wild agreement.

  "And then, human," Sarn said, "when we are done…"

  "Yes, Master! Anything Master!"

  "… When we are done with your family you will lead us to Kyrania!"

  * * *

  After the demons finished with Badawi’s homestead, they raided along the Gods’ Divide for nearly six hundred miles. Scores of homes and settlements were overrun and many humans were killed. Some were granted a honorable death as worthy enemies. But many were killed for the pot, or jerked for flesh to feed them on the road.

  Badawi led the way, picking out the fattest settlements, betraying the human leaders, and generally making himself useful. And whenever the subject of Kyrania came up, the horse merchant would say, "Just a little further, Master. Just a little further."

  In truth, Badawi hadn’t faintest idea where Kyrania might be. He knew the legendary caravan route over the Gods’ Divide was in the general direction he was leading the demon bandits. But he didn’t have the faintest idea where the passage was. Only a few merchant princes knew the route and Badawi, despite his success, was a treasury or two short of actual wealth. So he did what any decent horse merchant would do.

  He lied… "This way, Master. Only a little further along…"

  At first the bandits had been satisfied, gathering up pack animals to carry off their growing booty. In the beginning they’d also taken many young men and women captive for later sale in the demon slave markets. They chained them together, fixing them to long posts which the slaves carried on their shoulders - and made them march along with the baggage animals. But the number of slaves and baggage weight became unwieldy, slowing the demons’ progress to a crawl.

  Then the day came when the demons had enough and once again Badawi faced the roasting spit.

  They’d hit another settlement typical of the human villages scatted through the remote foothills regions. It was rich in bountiful fields and bursting storehouses, but, as Sarn’s chief lieutenant complained, there was barely a copper or two for a decent bandit to rub together.

  Sarn and Giff took their dinner that night in a wide pavilion pitched above the main encampment. Below them they could see the main roasting pit where their brother demons were gathered about a shrieking victim, slowly turning over a slow fire.

  Crouched among them was Badawi, daring many talons to snatch a piece for himself.

  Giff sneered at the sight and turned to his leader, saying, "That is the most disgusting mortal to have ever fouled the land. He even eats his own."

  Sarn laughed. "It wasn’t as if we gave the human a choice," he said. "He’s been allowed to eat nothing else."

  "Still!" Giff said. "Still. You’d think he’d have more pride."

  At that moment Badawi made the mistake of looking up from the fire and staring at the pavilion. Giff growled as their eyes met and the horse dealer quickly ducked to avoid the demon’s glowing yellow eyes. He muttered a prayer to himself, beseeching the gods to not let Giff take offense. That prayer went unanswered as in the pavilion Giff gnashed his teeth in anger and turned to Sarn.

  "The human was looking at us," he said.

  Sarn shrugged. "What does it matter where the human looks?" he asked.

  "It matters to me," Giff said. "I hate that lowly creature. I feel filthy in his presence. His very gaze makes me want to scour myself with dust."

  Sarn laughed. "That would indeed be a sight, my good but unclean fiend," he said. "Considering that nearly four seasons have passed since you last bothered to bathe."

  Giff saw no humor in this. "That’s not my point," he said. "This human offends me. His presence disturbs my demonly serenity. Let me kill him so I can have some peace."

  "Be a good fiend and try to learn patience," Sarn said. "Peace comes with patience, or so say our priests. This human offends me as well. They all offend me. Their odor is worse than the shit of any beast I’ve ever encountered. And their looks are as bad as their odor. So soft and wriggly they remind me of worms. But worms with hairy heads and bodies. And their small mouths and flat teeth with only four puny fangs make me think of blood suckers." Sarn shuddered. "Two headed demon children have been known to be born to mothers who have looked upon things half so frightening."

  "Then why must I be patient, Sarn?" Giff asked. "Let’s make the gods happy and kill that fat slug."

  "We still have need of the human," Sarn said. "That’s why you can’t kill him now."

  Giff snorted in disgust. "Oh, I forgot what a valuable slave he’s been to us," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why, tomorrow he may lead us to a village rich as this. Once again we’ll seize stores of useless grain, poor quality cloth, tools we can’t carry, old rusted weapons, and maybe, just maybe - the gods willing - two silver coins for a lucky thief to jangle in his purse."

  "I admit the take hasn’t been enough to make our enemies gnash their teeth with envy," Sarn said. "We’ve found only small villages and farming settlements to raid. Most of their wealth has been in their crops and animals. Some also might bring a pretty price at the slave market. But we’re too far from home to make that sort of thieving very profitable."

  Giff gnashed his teeth. "Very profitable!" he said. "You don’t see any of us doing a demon dance for joy over the weight of our purses, do you? Why, even if you count the little gold and few paltry ge
ms we’ve taken, I doubt we’ll make any profit at all. And we’ve missed nearly a whole season of raiding at home."

  "It’s not the human’s fault," Sarn said, circling back to the discussion of Badawi’s fate. "The terms of the warrant we hold from King Manacia bade us to stay close to the mountains where the population is small. We can steal what we want, do what we like with anyone we find. But we must leave no witnesses. We must not allow any human to live who might carry the news that we’ve strayed across the border.

  "And, most important of all to our king - and the only reason he even gave us this warrant - was that we were to seek a passage over these mountains. To a place called Kyrania."

  Giff snorted, gesturing with his talons at the distant figure of Badawi. "And that human was supposed to lead us to the bedamned place. Well, he’s been leading, and leading and so far we’ve nothing of it. Bah! He’s a horse trader! Therefore he’s lying."

  Sarn gazed out at Badawi, scratching his horny chin with needle-sharp talons. "Perhaps he is," Sarn mused. "Frankly, I was a little too overcome with raidmust to think about it."

  He shrugged. "If he is we’ll have to find another. It shouldn’t be too much of a bother. Humans are such a traitorous lot."

  "Why do need to find another?" Giff argued. "To the Hells with Kyrania." He snorted. "Valley Of The Clouds, indeed. I think Manacia is suffering from a royally cloudy mind."

  "Without Kyrania," Sarn reminded his henchdemon, "we have no warrant. We must at least make an attempt."

  "Your precious warrant from the king will be our ruin," Giff said. "What use is it to dare the curse of the Forbidden Desert when we get so little in return? The others feel the same way, Sarn. They were frightened to make this journey to begin with. All know a black spell was cast on that desert long ago. Any demon or human who crosses is becursed."

  "King Manacia is a most powerful wizard," Sarn pointed out. "The warrant he gave us will protect us from any curse."

  "How do you know?" Giff pressed.

  Sarn gave him a blank look. "What do you mean?"

  "You told us all about Manacia’s curse-defying warrant," Giff said. "That’s what convinced us. But now I’m beginning to wonder. How do we know Manacia didn’t lie? And he has no power to shield us from such a curse?"

  "What reason would he have to lie?" Sarn responded. "The king seeks information from us. Information I suspect his armies will one day follow up on. Why else would he want us to find a way over this mountain range? Why else would he be so particular to even name a place he suspects might be the key?"

  Giff scoffed at this. "What’s a damned name?" he said. "Kyrania? Humania? Dismania? Hells, he could have picked any name he liked and we’d never be the wiser!"

  "Might I remind you, my faithful fiend," Sarn said, "that the king has promised us much gold for these efforts. Over and above any loot we seize. And there will be a particularly handsome bonus if we find a pass that leads through the mountains."

  "Let him keep his bonus, Sarn," Giff pleaded. "Listen to me. We’ve been good fiends together since our youth. You lead. I advise. That’s why we’ve been so successful. You know you can trust my advice. So hear what I’m saying. I speak from my heart like a brother.

  "Let us leave this hellish land. Let us return home and breathe good demon air. If we make haste there’s just enough raiding time remaining in the season to make all our purses heavy. We’ve searched every gully, every trail for nearly six hundred miles, Sarn. I don’t believe there is such a place as Kyrania. Or any way at all over the Gods’ Divide. And if there is, it’s so well-hidden we’ll never find it in a hundred years. We’ll wander these hills the rest of our days. It’ll be our ghosts who earn the king’s bonus. And gold is no good to a ghost."

  Sarn thought a moment, then nodded. "If that’s what you and the others want," he said, "I won’t stand in your way. I’ll tell you what. We’ll cast lots in the morning. If the majority want to return home, that’s what we’ll do. You’ll hear no argument from me. I’ll add one more thing. No matter what the vote, at least ten of our fiends should return home with the goods and slaves we’ve already gathered. That’s all I can spare, although it ought to be enough. The slaves are quite docile with the spell I cast over them. Then the rest of us shall proceed as quickly as we can, taking no more slaves and carrying away only gold and silver and other easily-transportable goods."

  Sarn stretched out a paw. "Agreed?" he asked.

  Giff nodded, rasping talons against his leader’s claws. "Agreed," he said. "With one provision. If the vote is for our return I want the pleasure of killing the human."

  Sarn laughed. "Do what you want with him," he said. "But do it in public. It’s been a long time since we’ve enjoyed a really good entertainment."

  Sarn was an artful chief. Giff’s protestations of brotherhood didn’t fool him. Giff always had his eye on the main chance. But Sarn knew his lieutenant represented a point of view among his band that must be dealt with. For a bandit chief Sarn had a unique ability to appear to shift with the prevailing winds and still get his way in the end. More importantly, he had magical powers much greater than the normal talent for sorcery all demons possessed.

  In the morning he gathered his band together and carefully spelled out the two choices. He weighted no side heavier than the other. But he’d prepared well for the vote, casting a mild spell none of his demons would notice that would temporarily make the dangers and unpleasantness ahead seem of no consequence.

  Badawi watched the proceedings from a distance, knowing his fate hung in the balance. For the whole time Sarn spoke Giff stared at Badawi, hate and hungry longing in his demon eyes. The night before Badawi had suspected something was up because of the intensity of the conversation between Sarn and Giff. The horse dealer had gone on a frantic, all night search for something, anything, to assure his survival.

  Now he held what he prayed was that item in his hand and after the demons had cast their lots - voting to continue on King Manacia’s mission - he was waiting with it at the pavilion when Sarn returned.

  "What do you want, human?" Sarn demanded.

  Badawi stilled his trembling limbs, doing his best to ignore Giff’s stares of unrequited hate.

  He held out an old firepit-encrusted bowl for Sarn’s inspection. "I found this, master," he said.

  Sarn struck it away. "Rubbish!" he said. "You present me with rubbish!"

  Badawi grabbed the bowl up again, which had remarkably had not shattered. "Please, master," he said. "This isn’t rubbish at all. Look at this bowl. See the rich glaze beneath all the filth? Touch the clay, Master. Feel the quality. And old as this bit of pottery is, notice the artfulness of the design. Why, if this were new and we had its twin, we could get a pretty bit of silver indeed at any marketplace."

  "Don’t insult me with silver, pretty or not," Sarn said. "I’m through with pots and jars and bolts of cloth. That’s no way for a decent bandit to make a living."

  "Ah, but master," Badawi said, "I’m not suggesting we look for more of this. But I am suggesting we find out where it came from. I’ve seen this type of pottery but once in my life, master. It’s very rare. And therefore highly prized in human markets. The place this pottery comes from is secret to all but the richest caravan masters.

  "The story is told in the marketplaces that there is a family of master potters who live in a valley high in the mountains. And in those mountains is a holy lake surrounded by beds of the purest clay. Clay that is used to form pots and dishes and brewing jars fit only for kings and their most royal kin.

  "That family of potters, Master, is known as the Timuras. And this is a Timura pot, Merciful One. It could be no other!"

  "My ears are growing heavy just listening to you, human," Sarn said. "Say what you came to say and be done with it. What do I care about this tale of lakes and beds of clay and grimy potters who grub in the earth?"

  "Yes, master, I’ll hurry master," Badawi babbled, but frightened as he was, he stuck to his po
int.

  "That valley I spoke of, master," he said, "sits on a caravan route that leads over these mountains. At least that’s what the stories say. And those same stories also claim the caravan route is the same ancient trail Alisarrian took when he invaded Walaria. It was said that to his enemies it seemed Alisarrian and his entire army suddenly appeared, pouring out of the mountains. They said it was magic, master. Sorcery. However, it wasn’t magic that was their undoing, but a secret passage across the Gods’ Divide."

  Badawi waved the bowl in front of the demon. "The same place this bit of pottery was made."

  Sarn used a talon to pick a bit of food from between his fangs. "If you aren’t speaking of Kyrania, human, find a good dull knife and slit your throat for me. I grow wearier by the minute."

  "Yes, Master, immediately, Master," Badawi said, scrapping and bowing. "I am indeed speaking of Kyrania. This bowl is proof that Kyrania is near."

  "You’ve said that more than once, human!" Giff snarled.

  Badawi shivered, but held his ground. "Forgive me, master," he said to Sarn. "This low worm you call your slave admits he stretched the truth just a little bit when he had the immense honor of first meeting you. I don’t know exactly where Kyrania is. But I do know how to find it."

  He saw the two immense demons exchange a look that did bode well for him. So he hurried through his logic.

  "Listen to me, please," he said. "I’m a merchant. I know things. I know you can’t hide something as large as a caravan route. So we must assume it is still to our west. How far I can’t say with certainty. However, I can guess, master. The route would by necessity go from Caspan, the largest city on this side of the mountains, to Walaria. This, as you know, is the most important kingdom on the southern side."

  Badawi crouched down and scratched a map in the dust. "Caravan masters are secretive, but they wouldn’t waste time covering their trail. Time is money and money is time and the length of the shadow between is feared by all men of business. So I think we can assume the route is fairly direct."

  Badawi kept scratching until he had the mountains sketched in and the two cities of Walaria and Caspan. Then he drew a circle. "It’s only reasonable to assume, master," he said, "that the place you seek is within this circle. Perhaps two or three hundred miles distant at the most."