by Allan Cole
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Wildside
www.wildsidepress.com
Copyright ©Copyright 1998, 2004 by Allan Cole
First published by Del Rey, 1998
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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The Gods Awaken
For Cassie and Thomas Grubb
and
My friends in Washington State ...
especially
Judy, Jon, Stormy, and Brian
and
To all my faithful friends in New Mexico particularly Sal, who changed my altitude
O threats of Hell and hopes of Paradise;
One thing at least is certain: this life flies.
One thing at least is certain, the rest is lies.
The flower that once has blown forever dies.
I sent my soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that afterlife to spell,
And by and by it returned to me
To answer: I myself am Heaven and Hell.
Heaven but the vision of fulfilled desire.
Hell but the shadow of a soul on fire.
Cast onto darkness into which we—
So late emerged—shall so soon expire!
From The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
Edward Fitzgerald Translation
Part One
Syrapis
PROLOGUE
ESCAPE TO SYRAPIS
And so they flew away on bully winds blowing all the way from far Kyrania...
It may have been the strangest, the saddest voyage in history. The People of the Clouds mourned the loss of their leader, Safar Timura, who had guided them over thousands of miles of mountains and deserts and spell-blasted blacklands to the shores of the Great Sea of Esmir.
A paradise awaited them across that sea: the magic isle of Syrapis, where they would make their new home far away from the evil beings who had driven them from their mountain village in Kyrania.
Safar Timura—the son of a potter who had risen to become a mighty wizard and Grand Wazier to a king—had sacrificed his own life so that his people might escape.
And now a thousand villagers were packed aboard a ragtag fleet of privateers, sailing to Syrapis and safety. High above them a marvelous airship flew over the silvery seas, pointing the way.
For many days and weeks the skies remained clear, the winds steady; and at any other time there would have been cause for a grand celebration. A feast of all feasts, with roasted lamb and rare wine, playing children and sighing lovers.
The world should have been a bright place, full of promise and joy. After months of terror, the Kyranians were free of Iraj Protarus and his ravening shape-changers.
But hanging over them was the Demon Moon—an ever-present bloody shimmer in the heavens. Reminding one and all of the doom Safar had predicted would befall the world. More haunting still was the memory of Safar. The handsome young man with the dazzling blue eyes and sorrowful smile.
Everyone wept when they learned that he had been given up for dead. The mourning women scratched their cheeks and tore their hair. The men drank and regaled one another with tales of Safar's many brave deeds, shedding tears as the night grew late.
Lord Coralean, the great caravan master who had hired the ships so that they could all escape together, spoke long and memorably about the man who had been his dearest friend.
Aboard the airship the circus performers—among them Biner, the mighty dwarf, and Arlain, the dragon woman,—worked listlessly at their tasks. They did only what was absolutely necessary: feeding the magic engines; adjusting the atmosphere in the twin balloons that held the ship aloft; manning the tiller to keep them on course.
Meanwhile, the decks grew shabby, the material of the balloons drab, the galley fires cold. It seemed impossible to them that Safar would no longer be at their side, amazing the circus crowds with his feats of magic.
Sadder still were Safar's parents, Khadji and Myrna, who had never imagined, even in their deepest night terrors, that they would outlive their only son. And his sisters mourned Safar so deeply they could not eat or sleep and if their husbands hadn't begged them to desist for the sake of their children, they surely would have died from sorrow.
Only four outsiders—a warrior woman, a boy and his two magical creatures—prevented the voyage from becoming a disaster.
When the privateers, seeing the poor morale of the Kyranians, conspired to seize them and their goods—planning to sell the people into slavery—the woman overpowered and slew the raiders’ captain. While the boy—Safar's adopted son—combined his powers with those of the magical creatures to cast a terrifying spell that paralyzed the pirates with fear. And forced them into obedience.
The woman's name was Leiria. The boy, half human and half demon, was Palimak. And the creatures, twin Favorites who had lived in a stone turtle for a thousand years, were called Gundara and Gundaree.
Leiria and Palimak had made a promise to Safar Timura—a promise that they were determined to keep. And they would allow no one to stand in their way.
Then one day the lookout in the airship shouted the joyful news that land was in sight. And the little fleet finally came to the shores of fair Syrapis: the promised land.
Except, instead of milk and honey, they found an army waiting on those shores.
An army intent on killing them all.
But Palimak and Leiria remembered well their promise. So they roused the people and routed the army.
For three long years they fought the ferocious people who inhabited Syrapis.
And for three long years they searched for the grail Safar had urged them to seek.
They had many adventures, many setbacks, and many victories.
During that time Palimak strove mightily to educate himself. He scoured ancient tomes, quizzed witches and wizards. And he seized every spare moment to study the Book of Asper that his father had bequeathed to him.
For in those pages, his father had said, was the answer to the terrible disaster on the other side of the world—in far Hadinland—that was slowly poisoning all the land and the seas.
It was a race against extinction for humans and demons alike.
And in that race Palimak lost his childhood.
CHAPTER ONE
THE DANCE OF HADIN
Oh, how he danced.
Danced, danced, danced.
Danced to the beat of the harvest drums.
All around him a thousand others sang in joyous abandon. They were a handsome people, a glorious people; naked skin painted in fantastic, swirling colors.
And they danced—danced, danced, danced—singing praises to the Gods as shell horns blew, drums throbbed and their beautiful young Queen cried out in ecstasy. She led them, tawny breasts jouncing, smooth thighs thrusting in the ancient mating ritual of the harvest festival.
Safar danced with her, pounding his bare feet against the sand, rhythmically slapping his chest with open palms. While above him the tall trees—all heavily laden with ripe fruit—rippled in a salty breeze blowing off the sparkling sea.
But while the motions of his fellow dancers were graceful, Safar's were forced and jerky—as if he were a marionette manipulated by a cosmic puppeteer.
Madness! was his mind's silent scream. I must stop, but I cannot stop, please, pleaseplease, end this madness! Yet no matter how hard he battled the spell's grip his body jerked wildly on—and on and on—in the Da
nce of Hadin.
For Safar Timura was trapped in the prelude to the end of the world.
Beyond the grove, a dramatic backdrop for the beautiful Queen, was the great conical peak of a volcano. A thick black column of smoke streamed up from the cone. It was the same volcano that Safar had seen in a vision many years before. And Safar knew from his vision that at any moment the volcano would explode and he, along with the joyous dancers, would die.
Was this real? Was he truly on the shores of Hadinland, destined to be swallowed in a river of molten rock? Or was it just a night terror that would end if only he could open his eyes?
He'd had such dreams before. Once he'd dreamed of wolves and Iraj Protarus had risen from the dead to confront Safar with murder in his heart and a horde of shape changers at his back.
And, with a jolt, he thought: Iraj! Where is Iraj?
He tried to force his head around to see if Protarus was among the dancers. But his body wasn't his own and all he could do was prance with the others, slapping his chest like a fool.
He had no idea how long this had gone on. It seemed as if he'd been a barely conscious participant in a dance that went on endlessly. Yet there were moments of chilling clarity, such as now, when he would regain use of his mind enough to struggle against the mysterious force that held him.
It was a cruel clarity, because each time he knew the fight was hopeless. He'd struggle fruitlessly, then lapse into semi-consciousness.
Safar thought he heard Iraj's voice among the others and once again tried—and failed—to look.
Then he felt his senses weaken as if a drug were creeping through his veins to cloud his mind. He bit down on his lip, grabbing at the pain to keep his wits.
With the pain came a sudden memory of Iraj standing before him. Half giant wolf, half all-too-human king. Flanking him were Safar's deadliest enemies: the demons, Prince Luka and Lord Fari; and the spymaster, Lord Kalasariz. All bound to Iraj by the Spell of Four.
Yes, yes! he thought. Iraj! Remember Iraj!
And what else?
There was something else. Something that had brought him here. If only he could recall, perhaps he could escape.
The machine! That was it!
The image floated up: Iraj and the others bearing down at him; at Safar's back the great machine of Caluz. A hunched turtle god with the fiery mark of Hadin on its shell. It was a machine whose magic was out of control and if Safar didn't stop it his beloved land of Esmir would die an early death.
He fought hard to remember the spell he'd cast then to plug the sorcerous wound between Esmir and the deathland that was Hadin.
The words kept slipping away. Think! he commanded himself. Think!
And it came to him that the words formed a poem. A poem from the Book of Asper.
Asper, yes, Asper. The ancient demon wizard whose strange book of verse had predicted the end of the world a thousand years before. And who had speculated on the means to halt the destruction.
Safar felt sudden joy as the spellwords burst from nowhere:
"Hellsfire burns brightest
In Heaven's holy shadow.
What is near
Is soon forgotten;
What is far
Embraced as brother ... “
He groaned as the rest of the words fled. Safar bit his lip harder, blood trickling down his chin. Remember, dammit! Remember!
But it was hopeless. The remainder of the spell remained agonizingly just out of reach in a thick mist.
Fine, then. Forget about the verse. Think of what happened when you faced Iraj. Remember that—and perhaps the spellwords will come.
His mind threw him back to Valley of Caluz. His enemies before him, the sorcerous machine behind. He was alone: Palimak and Leiria had fled on his orders, leading the people of Kyrania to Syrapis and safety. Safar had remained to stop the machine and destroy Iraj so he couldn't pursue the villagers.
And then what?
His life, he realized instinctively, depended on recalling what had happened next. No. Not just his life—the world depended on it.
Very well. He had cast that spell. He could remember that. But, wait. Something had interfered! What, or who, had it been? Iraj? Had Iraj cast a spell of his own?
That was it! Iraj had attempted to break free from the Spell of Four, which bound him to Kalasariz and the others. Iraj had surprised Safar with that powerful bit of magic.
A collision of spells.
An explosion.
A blinding white light.
And then what?
Safar dug deep for the memory. He could recall intense heat. Then blessed coolness. Followed by a long time of floating on what seemed like billowing clouds—as if he were aboard Methydia's magic airship.
Time passed.
How much time, he couldn't say.
Then he'd heard—from far below—pipes and horns and throbbing drums. And voices—many voices—chanting a haunting song. Safar didn't have to struggle to remember those words, for it was the same song the beautiful Queen and her subjects were singing now:
"Her hair is night,
Her lips the moon;
Surrender. Oh, surrender.
Her eyes are stars,
Her heart the sun;
Surrender. Oh, surrender.
Her breasts are honey,
Her sex a rose;
Surrender. Oh, surrender.
Night and moon. Stars and Sun.
Honey and rose;
Lady, oh Lady, surrender.
Surrender. Surrender ... “
Safar recalled twisting around and finding himself floating above a green-jeweled isle set in a deep blue sea.
Towering over the island was the volcano. He knew in an instant this was one of the islands that made up Hadin. But how could that be? Hadin was on the other side of the world from Esmir—the continental opposite of his homeland.
Had the violence of the spellcast hurled him so far?
Or was he only dreaming of his boyhood vision, when he'd foreseen the end of the world?
The song grew stronger, rising up to enfold him ... "Surrender. Oh, surrender ... ” It drew him down like a netted fish. "Surrender. Oh, surrender ... “ Fear lanced his heart when he saw the dancing people of his vision and their lusty young queen. "Surrender. Oh, surrender..."
Panicking, he tried to struggle free, but the song flowed through and around him until he became a part of it. "Surrender. Oh, surrender..."
And he had no choice but let it take him. He fell into a stupor, floating downward.
Then he found himself among the dancers. Except, now he was one of them. Dumb and gaping at the nubile Queen. Warm sun on his suddenly naked back. His bare feet beating against the sand. Open palms slapping his chest in time to the music: ” ... Night and Moon./Stars and Sun./Honey and rose;/Lady, oh Lady, surrender..."
Yes, that was how he came to be here. Safar suddenly felt quite calm—reassured that his mental faculties were returning. Only one small step was left. Once he retrieved the remaining words to the spell he'd cast in Caluz he could free himself.
Then excitement blossomed as another piece came: “...Piercing our breast with poison,/Whispering news of our deaths..."
Yes! That was it! Now, there were only two more lines. Two more and the spell could be broken.
Safar heard the Queen shout and he looked up at her—dismay poisoning his resolve—and his concentration was broken.
The Queen was crying out to her subjects, pointing at the volcano. The column of smoke was thicker, blacker and pouring out more furiously. Great sparks swirled in the smoke, showering upward like blossoms from the Hells.
Any moment the volcano would explode. Just as it had in Safar's vision. Just as it had...
A great shock rocked Safar to the core. Not the shock of the volcano's eruption—that was still to come. But a shock of realization that he'd lived and died in this very same scene hundreds of times before.
The volcano would erupt. A deadly sh
ower of debris driven by typhoon winds. Followed by a river of lava that would kill any who survived.
Even those who fled into the sea wouldn't be able to swim or canoe out far enough to escape. They'd be boiled alive like shellfish in a roiling pot.
In the long ago vision Safar had only been a witness to these events. But now he was one of the dancers doomed to die not once, but an endless number of deaths until the world itself was dead.
Only then would his soul be released.
Just then the last two lines came to him: “...For she is the Viper of the Rose/ Who dwells in far Hadinland!"
But even as he reached for them, desperate to complete the spell, he knew he was nearly out of time.
Still, he rushed on—no time to hope, much less pray. He started reciting the spell: "Hellsfire burns brightest/In Heaven's holy shadow..."
Then it was too late.
And the volcano erupted.
But just before it did, he thought he heard someone calling to him: “Father! Father!"
Desperate, he cried out: “Palimak! Help me, Palimak!"
And everything vanished—except pain.
CHAPTER TWO
OF SONS AND LOVERS
Palimak peered over the railing, clutching his cloak against the damp chill as the airship slowly descended through the clouds.
Behind him he could hear Biner cautioning the crew in his rumbling baritone, “Steady, now ... Keep her steady, lads..."
The clouds thinned and he could see the forbidding north coast of Syrapis: jagged reefs rising out of a stone-gray sea; a narrow pebbled beach ending at black cliffs that ascended to forested mountain peaks.
There came a rattle of chain mail and a faint breath of perfume as the warrior woman moved up behind him. “Over there,” she indicated. “On the easternmost peak. Do you see it?"
The moment she spoke, Palimak spotted the castle. It was a black stone crown sitting atop the lowest peak, with eight turrets strategically positioned around the thick walls.
Palimak grimaced. “I see it, Aunt Leiria,” he said. “But it doesn't look like how I remember it."
Leiria patted his arm. “That was more than three years ago,” she soothed. “And you were on horseback, sitting behind your father."
