When the Gods Slept

by Allan Cole

"Absolutely, Sire," the prince said. "How foolish of me not to see it right off."

  The king’s mood turned from fair to foul. Muttering oaths, he resumed his watch - searching the bleak horizon for some sign of his Grand Wazier.

  In the king’s opinion - which, as he often said, was the only one that mattered - few truly appreciated how hard he’d labored these past few years. Nothing had come easily and every platter of victory he’d been served up always seemed to hide a nasty little insect under the tastiest morsels.

  All of the demon lands had been brought completely under his control. His kingdom now bore the name Ghazban, after the ancient emperor who’d first welded all the demon lands together. Zanzair was now the seat of the mightiest kingdom since the time of Alisarrian, the human conqueror who had cut short Ghazban’s long and honorable dynasty.

  No sooner had the naming festival ended when trouble began to gnaw at Manacia’s accomplishments. First there was the drought, which still held the kingdom in its grip - turning the harvests to ashen husks. Then there were the locust swarms - great clouds that first blackened the sky and then the earth as the insects descended to devour whatever had managed to defy the drought.

  Plagues mysteriously erupted across the land, ravaging the populace - turning cities to towns and towns to desolate villages. There were reports of ghastly phantoms rising from graveyards, giants suddenly appearing to threaten distant crossroads, Jinns crouching in ambush to devour unsuspecting travelers.

  Manacia and his wizards had worked at a dervish’s pace to halt these outbreaks. Huge spell machines were constructed and hauled out to the troubled regions. Whole forests of cinnamon trees had been felled to make the incense that was burned in those machines. Day and night the furnaces churned out immense clouds of fragrant healing smoke. The expense sometimes made the king nostalgic for simpler times when his realm was smaller and less expensive to maintain.

  Despite Manacia’s efforts, trouble continued to dog Ghazban. His subjects were becoming increasing restless and unruly. It was whispered that the gods were punishing all demonkind for allowing such a greedy pontiff to rule them. Word leaked out about his experiments with the curse of the Forbidden Desert, fueling further religious fears and discontent.

  In the past Manacia had dealt with such things by immediately invading a neighboring kingdom. It not only released domestic pressure but gave him a brother monarch to blame and then bring to task for his sins. This was no longer possible in the brave new world that was Ghazban, where the subjects had only Manacia as a target for their suspicions.

  In the beginning Manacia’s dream of ruling all Esmir as King of Kings was only that - a private dream. Now it had become a necessity. He needed to challenge his subjects, to fix their minds on a great peril; an historic enemy - godless humans - to bear the blame for their ills.

  To achieve this he had to solve the riddle of the curse that kept demonkind and humankind apart. Once he thought he had the answer and sent the bandit chieftain, Sarn, across the Forbidden Desert to spy out an invasion route. But Sarn had never returned. The king falsely blamed the curse and spent every free moment searching for the solution to its riddle. He had ripped apart his original spell and then reformed it many times.

  None of his efforts worked. It was as if he had gone back to the original days of failure when hundreds of slaves and felons were forced out into the Forbidden Desert to die horribly before the eyes of the soldiers who had prodded them there. Distracted as he was by domestic toil, it took Manacia a long time to return to the spell he’d used to shield Sarn and his outlaws. He added a few improvements and tried again.

  The very first effort met with success. The villain used for the experiment not only survived, but was able to walk to the most distant hill, the soldiers playing out rope and tying on additional lines until he was nearly out of sight and had to be dragged back so he wouldn’t escape.

  After his experience with Sarn, Manacia was wary of this success. He called for his Grand Wazier, Lord Fari, and asked his advice.

  "We require a volunteer, Majesty," Fari said. "Someone loyal, above reproach."

  "Exactly my thinking," Manacia said.

  The old demon built on this success. "Perhaps Prince Luka," he said. "It would be a mighty accomplishment he could add to his deeds, thus assuring the admiration of your subjects when he assumes the throne some day."

  The Grand Wazier hated the Crown Prince and this seemed an excellent time to be rid of him - if the king’s spell failed, that is.

  Manacia, who kept a firm talon on the pulse of his court, knew what Fari was up to.

  "What an excellent thought," he said brightly. Then he frowned, "Unfortunately, that can’t be. At this particular time I need him by my side."

  He clicked his claws against the arm of his throne, pretending to ponder further. Then he smiled. "I’ve got it!" he said. "And I have you to thank for the idea, Fari. For it made me focus on who my most loyal subjects were. And the answer was there in an instant. For other than my own son, who could be more loyal than you, my dear fiend?"

  The Grand Wazier was aghast. "Me, Your Highness? You want me to cross Forbidden Desert?" His voice quavered. "As much as I’d love to have the honor to serve in you this, I fear I am too old, Majesty."

  "In this case," Manacia said, "advanced age makes you even an even better choice. To begin with you have many years of wizardly experience to draw upon. And if by some distant chance the experiment meets with failure, why you can’t be that far away from your natural death.

  "It would be tragic, of course. But not as tragic as if a younger wizard were cheated out of a long life."

  Fari realized it was hopeless to argue with the king. It was obvious the choice had been made before Manacia summoned him. The advice seeking had only been for appearance’s sake.

  The Grand Wazier acceded to the king’s command with as much grace as he could muster. Preparations were made, detailed instructions were given, and in less than a month Fari and a small expedition set out across the Forbidden Desert. Their orders were much simpler than Sarn’s. Once they reached the humanlands they were to turn back immediately and report their success to the king.

  Demon scholars estimated the crossing and return journey should take no more than eight weeks. When the time drew near for Fari’s return King Manacia became so anxious he ordered his whole court transported from Zanzair to the edge of the Forbidden Desert.

  There he sat, day after talon-biting day, waiting for his Grand Wazier. Eight weeks became nine. Nine became ten. The king was so restive he rose before dawn and paced before his traveling throne until late at night.

  He’d all but given up hope when Lord Fari finally appeared.

  It was at dusk and the sun was just disappearing beneath the horizon. The western-most rim of the desert was a thick red smear that drew the king’s eyes like an insect drawn to flame.

  His whole being flew out to the rim. He whispered prayers and curses to gods and devils alike. Then his heart bumped hard against his chest. Shadowy figures formed at the horizon. They seemed to be moving, growing larger as they approached. Fearing to spoil his luck the king said nothing, waiting for his lookouts to shout the news.

  The cry came and still the king said nothing. He remained motionless, giving no sign of the chaos raging inside.

  Then night fell and far out in the desert a score of torches flared into life, bobbing in the darkness like fireflies.

  There was no doubt now that it was Fari.

  The riddle of the curse of the Forbidden Desert had been solved.

  Prince Luka shouted his congratulations, pounding his father on the back - wishing his hand held a knife. Officers and courtiers crowded around the king to praise his wisdom and perseverance.

  Manacia was not moved. His excitement had died quickly - he’d waited too long for joy to find a resting place.

  When the weary, bedraggled expedition bearing Lord Fari arrived the king was already huddled with his generals in the c
ommand tent.

  Prince Luka had the great pleasure of seeing the aged demon’s shock of disappointment at his poor reception. The journey had taken a heavy toll on Lord Fari.

  Slumped in the saddle, every bone aching, he peered first at Luka and then the lights of the tent city. "Where’s the king?" he asked, voice quavering from age and weariness. He despised himself for letting the weakness show in front of Luka, but he couldn’t help it.

  "My father asked me to relay his apologies," the prince answered. "He said you’d understand that he couldn’t actually be present to congratulate you.

  "He’s busy right now, you see, planning the invasion of the humanlands."

  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Cloudship

  For a long time Safar floated on a balmy sea. Below were mysterious depths where nightmares were sea dragons pursuing his dreams.

  He dreamed of Kyrania and its fruited fields. He dreamed of clouds melting in the Sun God’s forge, dripping colors on the land. He dreamed of clay that leaped into fantastic shapes the moment he touched it. He dreamed of maids bathing in the lake and they were blessed with figures as beguiling as Astarias’ and faces with winsome smiles and starry eyes like Nerisa.

  But each time a dream popped into being it was devoured by the swift-moving nightmares. He saw the volcano overwhelm the people of Hadin. He saw the demon cavalry charging the caravan. He saw Tulaz lift his sword, saw Kalasariz peeping through a dungeon grate, saw Katal die at Zeman’s hands - and Didima’s soldiers slay Nerisa.

  He dreamed of Alisarrian’s cave where he crouched beside Iraj, watching smoke form into a woman’s seductive lips and he saw them move and he heard the Omen speak:

  "Two will take the road that two traveled before. Brothers of the spirit, but not the womb. Separate in body and mind, but twins in destiny. But beware what you seek, O brothers. Beware the path you choose. For this tale cannot end until you reach the Land Of Fires."

  Eventually the intensity of this sleeplife lessened and Safar became aware of the world around him. It seemed as mysterious as the ocean of dreams.

  He still felt buoyant as if he were floating on that sea, except now he seemed to be lying on a cushioned raft. Instead of hissing surf he heard the flutter-drum of the winds and the whistle and ping of it singing through taut lines. He heard the rhythmic pumping of bellows and the low roar of a furnace.

  Strong, gentle hands lifted his head. A spoon touched his lips, which parted and he lapped up a meaty broth. The spoon dipped up more and he ate until he heard the hollow scrape of wood, signaling the bowl was empty and he drifted away again.

  The next time he became aware he heard odd voices saying even odder things, like, "Tighten that carabiner." Or, "Work the mouth, dammit! Work the mouth!" And, "Who’s minding the burner? It’s almost out!"

  Once he heard the woman whom he’d thought was Death cast an incomprehensible spell.

  "Come to us Mother Wind.

  Lift us in hands blessed

  By the warm sun.

  We have flown high.

  We have flown well.

  Take us in your arms, Mother Wind.

  And when you are done,

  Set us gently on the ground."

  Safar wondered at the purpose of the spell. While he was puzzling he fell asleep.

  Time passed. A time of dreamless drifting. Then a current of cold air washed over him and he opened his eyes.

  There was the shock of sudden sunlight and then vision cleared.

  He seemed to be lying on a firm surface at the bottom of a fantastic canyon with dazzling walls of many colors. The walls curved inward until they seemed only a few feet apart. Through that hollow he could see skies as blue as the high vaults above the Bride and Six Maids.

  Then hazy reason formed and he thought - That’s no cliff. It’s too smooth. Also - I’ve never seen slate with all those colors. And so bright! Like they were painted. Then he realized the canyon walls were moving as if they were made of living skin.

  Maybe a giant swallowed me, Safar thought, and I’m looking up into his guts. But that conclusion made little sense - it didn’t allow for the sky.

  I must still be dreaming, he thought. Then a leg muscle threatened to cramp and he stretched the limb until the pain eased.

  And he thought - There is pain, which proves I’m awake. But exactly where am I awake? He considered. Then it came to him that he was flying - or, lying upon something that was flying, at any rate. Perhaps he was awake, but in the middle of a vision and in that vision he was perched on a mighty eagle flying to wherever the vision commanded.

  No good. Where were the wings? If he were riding an eagle, there’d be wings.

  He tried to sit up and reconnoiter his surroundings.

  Someone shouted. Weakness overcame him and he fell back. Dizzy, he closed his eyes.

  Slippered feet approached.

  A whiff of perfume as someone knelt beside him.

  He opened his eyes and found a beautiful woman bending over him. She had almond eyes and long silvery hair streaked with black. It was the face of the woman he’d seen floating across the desert; the woman he’d believed was Death herself come to take him away. But this face was of normal size and it wasn’t painted with all sorts of savage colors. Her skin was white and smooth as the most expensive parchment, with a fine, barely visible net of age etched on the surface.

  "I did this once before," Safar told her. "Awaken from the dead, I mean. With a beautiful woman hovering over me." He was thinking of Astarias.

  The woman laughed. It was a rich, earthy laugh. A laugh with appetite.

  Instead of answering she turned her head and called to someone, "The lad wakes up pretty as he sleeps, Biner. He has the loveliest blue eyes. And you should hear the compliments. First time I’ve blushed in thirty years."

  "That’s enough hot air to lift us another thousand feet, Methydia, " Biner replied. His voice was a familiar baritone.

  Heavy feet thudded forward. "Last time you blushed," Biner said, "The Goddess Felakia was a virgin."

  Safar craned to look. From the deepness of the voice and the obvious weight the feet were carrying, Safar expected to see a huge fellow come into view.

  Biner was immense all right. He had the girth of a giant, the mighty arms and hams of a giant, but all that size had been squashed by an enemy giant’s hand into a body that stood less than four feet high. He had a huge bearded face with an overly wide mouth filled with broad teeth.

  Biner saw Safar staring at him. He displayed his teeth in what was meant to be a comforting smile. "Bet you’re glad I wasn’t the one to wake you up, lad," he said. "I got a face that’ll peel the reflection right off a mirror."

  Safar struggled to answer. He didn’t want to be rude by appearing to agree with an all-too-obvious truth.

  Methydia patted him. "Don’t worry about Biner’s feelings," she said, guessing what was on his mind. "Ugly as it is, he’s proud of that face. People pay good money to see it. Almost as much as they pay to see him lift a wagon of pig iron. Or smash a pile of bricks with his fist."

  Biner toed the floor, embarrassed. "Aw, that stuff isn’t much," he said. "Just tricks to wow the fair crowds. Besides, Methydia does some of her witchy business first to soften them up."

  Methydia gave Safar a look of immense sincerity. "Biner is a fine actor," she said, a dramatic hand going to her flowing bosom. "The best male lead in all Esmir, in my judgment."

  Safar’s head was swimming. He was very confused. "Excuse me, dear lady," he said. "But would I be wrong in guessing that I’ve been rescued by, uh... entertainers?"

  Biner and Methydia laughed. Biner stood as tall as he could, shouting: "Come one, come all! Lads and maids of Alllll ag-es! I now to present to you - Methydia’s Flying Circus Of Miracles!

  "The Greatest Show In Esmir!"

  Methydia applauded, crying "Bravo! Bravo!"

  Safar became alarmed. He propped himself up on an elbow. "Excuse me again,"
he said. "I know it isn’t polite to question one’s rescuers too closely, but... What was that thing you said about flying?"

  Biner seemed surprised. "Of course we’re flying, lad," he said. "We’re about two miles up, is my estimate."

  Safar coughed. "Two miles up? In what?"

  "Why, a Cloudship, boy. A Cloudship!"

  Fear overcame weakness and Safar stumbled to his feet.

  He went to a rail and looked down. Far beneath him was the floor of a wide, fertile valley. He could see a great double-humped shadow moving swiftly across the fields. His veins turned to ice as it came to him that he was probably part of that fast-moving shadow.

  He called back to his rescuers, "How far up did you say we were?"

  Biner replied, "Two miles, lad... Give or take a thousand feet."

  First Safar threw up.

  Then he passed out.

  * * *

  When he regained awareness a small crowd was gathered around him.

  Methydia was beside him, trying to coax brandy between his lips. One look at the crowd and Safar opened his mouth wide and choked down a flood.

  Biner was in the center. To his left was a tall, skeletal fellow wearing nothing but a breech cloth and a turban. He had a huge snake draped about his neck - a snake with the face of a man. Just behind him was a stocky man with the hard muscles of an acrobat. He had a too-small head that was detachable, holding it up by the hair to see over the others, a long tube-like neck trailing down to his shoulders. Towering over the group was what had to be a dragon. A white dragon, with a long snout and a spiked tail, which curled up as Safar looked to scratch a place behind its ear. Then someone moved and Safar saw the creature wasn’t entirely a dragon. The long torso was that of a well-endowed woman, complete with breast plates and a triangular modesty patch tied about the hips with a thong.

  There was much to goggle at. But the dragon noticed Safar had fixed upon her.

  "I altho’ juggle," she lisped. "Thix globth and theven thwords. We thoak them in oil and I thet’m on fire with my breath."

  She raised a claw to her snout and burped. Smoke and flames shot around her fist.