The Gods Awaken tott-3

by Allan Cole

  "Over here!" Jooli said.

  Safar turned to see her pulling a blanket through the porthole. She held it up and he saw that one end of the blanket was tied to a broken stool. Jooli placed it across the porthole, measuring. The stool was larger by several inches than the opening.

  "He used the blanket to hang outside the cabin," she said, "so the creature couldn't get at him."

  Safar came to his feet. "Go tell the captain to turn the ship about," he said to Jooli.

  Then, to Leiria: "Ask Biner to get into the air as fast as he can. Palimak is out there someplace-and I mean to find him if I have to search every inch of sea from here to Aroborus!"

  Palimak tightened his grip on the blanket. He said to the twins, "All right. Tell him to come in!" And he dived head-first through the porthole.

  Slender though he was, he stuck at the hips and found himself in the ridiculous position of hanging half in and half out of the cabin, his posterior facing the monster as it burst through the door.

  A fit of hysterical laughter nearly overcame him when he had a sudden vision of the creature gaping in astonishment when confronted with such a rude view of his victim.

  But the chattering sound of many teeth spurred him onward and he kicked himself through the rest of the way.

  Palimak plunged out into the night, then was brought up short by the blanket rope as the stool rose up to slam across the porthole.

  He hung there a moment to recover, swaying with the motion of the ship. Then he spun about, got his feet against the hull and pulled himself up hand over hand until he could see through the porthole.

  His first sight of the creature took his breath away. Its twisted, blackened trunk. Scores of branches and minor limbs waving madly about. All pockmarked with hundreds of little mouths filled with sharp, chattering teeth. And it was huge. Standing just inside the cabin-the wreckage of the door hurled to one side-its jagged-edged top was jammed against the ceiling.

  It was also looking for him-turning slowly, first this way, then the other. Long barbed tongues tasting the air like a nest of snakes hunting their prey. Any minute now, it would make the connection between the stool jammed against the porthole and the whereabouts of its intended victim.

  Palimak concentrated, drawing on all his powers. Opening the gates to his demon side and feeling the strength pour in. His nails grew into talons, cutting through the blanket, making his grip catlike and more assured.

  He felt his canine teeth lengthen until the sharp points hooked over his lower lip. And his eyes burned in their sockets, turning a blazing yellow that cast twin beams of light onto the hull.

  He hissed the spell words remembered from his boyhood. Foolish words, composed by a child. But the moment he said them he felt a surge of magical energy well up. He called out to the twins, using his mental "voice" to urge them to join him in the spell.

  They replied in unison, their spirit voices like little bells-We're here, Little Master! We're here!

  And boom! he cast it. Thunder crashing against his spirit ears as he hurled it into the cabin. And boom!

  boom! the little dough men containing Gundara and Gundaree jumped to their feet, swinging around to confront the beast. They were on either side of him, so small and made only of moistened bread crumbs that it would be laughable even to think the word "surrounded," much less use it.

  But then they started growing and growing until they were the same size as the monster. And they were strong, so strong-dough flesh hardening into the consistency of steel-that they weren't laughable any longer.

  And there was nothing funny at all when the creature realized it had been tricked and closed with them.

  All those deadly branches whipping out to embrace and kill the Favorites.

  The three strange beings locked in battle. Crashing about the cabin, shattering everything in sight. The only sound was the destruction. There was not one roar of fury or agony from any of the creatures.

  For Palimak it was like watching three mute giants fighting it out in an arena too small for any of them to escape.

  As the fight raged, Palimak tried to shout a warning to the crewmen on deck. But his shouts were swept away by the heavy sound of the wind and crashing waves.

  Even so, it didn't seem to matter. Because, ever so slowly, the twins gained the advantage. Hardened flesh impervious to all those teeth, they ripped off limbs and gouged out hunks from the beast's thick trunk. Greenish-gray acid splattering everywhere to hiss and burn wood and cloth.

  Finally they had the creature pinned to the floor and were tearing at the jagged top Palimak imagined as a head. He thought it was over. The beast's movements growing weak, as if it were dying.

  Then, suddenly, it surged up. Strong and fresh as when the fight had begun. And the furious battle commenced again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Each time the twins got the creature down it somehow found new strength to fight on. The minutes dragged on like each was a year. And slowly Palimak and the twins began to weaken.

  He dug deep for more strength, finding just enough to make one last desperate attempt to call for help.

  But this time he made the shout magical, calling for Safar:

  "Help me, father! Help!"

  For a brief moment Palimak thought there was an ethereal connection. A stirring of the magical atmosphere. So he clung to the blanket harder, directing the twins to continue the fight as long as they could.

  After what seemed like an eternity he heard his father's voice raised in a thunderous cry:

  "All hands! We're under attack!"

  And Palimak laughed. Help was on the way. But then from the deck he heard cries of pain and the sounds of battle. Khysmet shrilling his battle cry, shattering the walls of his stable with his powerful hooves. And then the shouts of Leiria and Jooli and Biner and Arlain.

  All of them fighting just as desperately as he.

  Then the twins cried out, Help us, Little Master! Help us, please!

  And that was the end of it.

  Clinging with one hand, Palimak fished the stone turtle from his pocket and raised it high. He called for the twins and the turtle suddenly glowed as they fled into it.

  Through bleary eyes he saw the doughmen collapse, then shrink to their original size. And the monster started turning again, hunting him with those flickering snake tongues.

  Palimak returned the turtle to his pocket. And let go of the blanket.

  Cold, salty water enveloped him. He kicked his way to the surface and when his head emerged he could see the Nepenthe moving away from him.

  He saw a rope dangling from the side, trailing in the water and he swam after it. Arms and legs churning furiously. He nearly caught the rope. But then, weary, so weary from the battle, he slowly fell behind.

  Then he could swim no more.

  Palimak rolled over on his back and floated. The sounds of the fight on the Nepenthe growing fainter and more distant by the minute.

  Finally, there was silence-and he knew he was alone.

  Then he heard a stirring and Gundara and Gundaree hopped up on his chest.

  "Please, Little Master, don't give up!" Gundara said.

  "It would be awful if you drowned, Little Master," Gundaree added.

  Palimak couldn't help but smile. "It's nice to finally know you care," he said.

  "Of course we care, Little Master," Gundara said.

  "If you drown," added Gundaree, "then we'll sink with you."

  "And then we'd have to live on the bottom of the sea for ever and ever," Gundara said.

  "I can't think of anything more boring," Gundaree put in. "Although it might not be so bad if we could find some nice fat sea worms."

  "That's disgusting," Gundara said. "You stupid worm eater!"

  "Shut up, Gundara!"

  "No, you shut up!"

  Palimak was too tired to intervene. And he floated along under the Demon Moon, wondering how long it would be before he drowned.

  Th
e twins voices echoed across the empty sea like strange gulls that cried, "Shut up, shut up, shutup!"

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  BLOOD AND MAGIC

  When the king is unhappy, the sages say, all must suffer. And Rhodes was not a happy king. Standing on the bridge of the Kray, lashed by wind and rain, he watched grimly as his chief executioner applied an ax to the exposed neck of an unfortunate sailor.

  The offense: laughing at the king's clumsiness. Oh, the fellow protested he hadn't seen Rhodes slip and fall on the slick deck and was only laughing at a comrade's jest. And never mind that the comrade had supported his friend's innocence, swearing that neither had witnessed the royal mishap; and that the jesting and the laughter it drew was a mere coincidence.

  If the king's mood had been brighter he might have shown mercy and spared the friend's life. After all, Rhodes appreciated loyalty to a comrade as much as any man. A tongue plucked from the liar's mouth with hot pincers would've sufficed as punishment.

  On a feast day, or his birthday, he might even have reduced that sentence to a hundred lashes with the cat, followed by a bath in vinegar and salt.

  However, Rhodes had just come from a quarrel with his mother and there was never any question that both men would have to die.

  Usually, he would've enjoyed the proceedings: various tortures, performed by the executioner, so ingenious that both men were brought to the brink of death. Then their revival by a special elixir whose recipe had been the executioner's family secret for several generations.

  And, finally, two satisfying whacks of the ax, with the cutoff heads posted on stakes as a warning to all potential transgressors that the king's dignity must be preserved at all costs.

  Sadly, Rhodesa€™ heart was so troubled that not even these delights moved him.

  All hands had been ordered on deck to view the executions. Soldiers and crewmen, ship's officers and royal aides standing silent and miserable in the rain as first one, then the other head was removed.

  When the second head fell and rolled across the deck, Rhodes saw one of his men turn away and retch.

  "That soldier!" Rhodes snapped at Tabusir, who hovered nearby. "I want his head as well!"

  "Which one, Majesty?" Tabusir inquired mildly.

  The king stabbed out with a bejeweled finger, indicating a uniformed drummer's lad. Too young to grow a beard or to steel his heart against the troubles of another.

  "I'll have no man in my army," the king said, "who can't stand the sight of a little spilled blood."

  Tabusir didn't point out that the soldier was probably no more than thirteen summers old. And after two beheadings the pitching deck was running with so much blood mixed with rainwater, that it splashed over the men's boots like spillage in a heaving slaughterhouse with stopped-up gutters.

  Perhaps there was just a twinge of sympathy for the lad in the spy's heart. Or perhaps it was a pang of doubt at the king's judgment. In either case it was apparent from their gloom that none of the assembled men were happy about the executions. And maybe it was merely due to a spot of indigestion. After all, he'd eaten a hearty, heavily-spiced meal just before the day's bloody entertainment.

  Whatever the reason, Tabusir swallowed his rising bile and snapped a salute so military-perfect that even in a drenched uniform he looked crisp and professionally eager.

  "Immediately, Majesty!" he said.

  Then he strode briskly off to collect two guardsmen. Moments later the surprised drummer's lad was dragged from the ranks and delivered to the executioner.

  A mutinous murmur swept across the ship, silenced by growls from sergeants and bosons. Only to be aroused again by the lad's screams as he was forced to kneel on the gory deck.

  "Please! Please!" the boy cried. "I did nothing! Nothing!"

  Both the pleading cries and the angry muttering stopped abruptly when the ax fell and the boy's head plopped to the deck.

  Immediately, Rhodes felt much better. "Three's a charm against all harm," he murmured to himself, reciting an old nursery jingle. He smiled, trying to remember the rest.

  From inside him, Kalasariz spoke up, finishing the doggerel: … Four's a chore and to all a bore;/ Five's a sty, not a pig alive;/ But six is a trick of the very best mix!

  Rhodes chuckled, to the vast relief of all the aides gathered about him. Even these battle-hardened men worried that the executions were an ill omen and bad for morale.

  "That's good!" the king said aloud. "That's very, very good!"

  Thinking he was speaking to them, his aides all murmured that, indeed, Majesty, the executions had been a remarkable performance.

  Inside him, Kalasariz said, Thank you, Majesty. But it is you who deserves the greatest credit forthinking of these executions. I always found that a mass beheading was a lucky way to start a newventure. It both pleases the gods and chastens the men.

  Rhodes nodded agreement, but this time he used his internal voice to reply, saying: It's amazing howmuch wisdom can be found in a nursery rhyme. From a child's mouth, etc.

  At that moment, Tabusir came trotting up. "All has been done as you commanded, Majesty," he said, snapping another crisp salute.

  "Excellent work, Tabusir," Rhodes said.

  He pulled the smallest ring from the collection on his fingers and tossed it to the spy as a reward. Tabusir caught it and bowed low, murmuring artful words of appreciation.

  "Now go fetch three more," the king said. "And deliver them to the executioner with my compliments."

  Skilled as he was in covering his true feelings, Tabusir's gaze flickered. "Pardon, Majesty," he said. "But which three do you desire?"

  Rhodes shrugged. "Doesn't matter," he said. "Choose who you like. The main thing is that I want six heads posted on the main deck."

  Then the king turned and strode from the bridge, saying, "Lucky number, six." Then, in a sing-song voice, he added, "Six is a trick of the very best mix!"

  And he roared with laughter, stomping down the passageway to his mother's quarters. As if on cue, the squall suddenly ended when he disappeared from view.

  Stunned by the king's behavior, all the men were careful to keep blank faces and did their best not to meet each other's eyes. One of the aides, a jowly, red-faced colonel named Olaf, tried to pretend for all of them that everything was quite normal.

  "It's good to see the king in such high spirits again," he said to Tabusir. "You are to be congratulated for such excellent service to His Majesty."

  His smile was friendly, but jealousy glittered in his eyes. Seeing it, Tabusir only bowed his head slightly in thanks.

  Olaf made the mistake of continuing. "Although I certainly don't envy you your next task," he said with a smirk. "It's not going to make you very popular with the men."

  He turned to the others. "Isn't that so, gentlemen?"

  There were murmured agreements, some louder than others.

  He turned back to Tabusir. Laughing, he said, "Tell me, young man, how do you plan to choose three more victims? By lot? Or will you make them draw straws?"

  Tabusir pretended honest puzzlement. "I'm not sure," he said, his face worried. "But I'll come up with something."

  "You'd better think fast," Olaf said, amused at Tabusir's predicament. "When the king wants heads he tends to be most impatient."

  "Is that so?" Tabusir replied. Then he frowned, as if musing. "I've been trying to place your face for some time, Colonel," he said. "Then it came to me. Weren't you the officer who refused my commission a few years ago?"

  Olaf's eyes widened in sudden fear. Jowls trembling, he said, "Oh, it most certainly wasn't me!"

  Tabusir examined the man's face with deliberate slowness. Olaf couldn't help but let one hand steal up his chest to touch his fat throat.

  "Are you sure about that?" Tabusir asked. "I'd swear you were the man. I rarely forget a face."

  "No! Truly!" Olaf squeaked.

  Tabusir made an elaborate shrug. "Ah, well, then," he said. "I suppose it's a case of mistaken identity."<
br />
  Then he bowed low. "My apologies, Colonel for begging an end to this most delightful conversation. But I must be off to find the king his heads."

  Another bow. "With your permission, of course."

  Olaf made a weak-fingered wave, babbling, "Yes, yes. You must not tarry. You have the king's commission!"

  Tabusir strolled away, leaving a group of very shaken officers in his wake.

  He looked up at the clearing skies, thinking, What an excellent day this has turned out to be.

  In his mother's quarters, Rhodes was thinking the same thing as Clayre made an apology so rare that no matter how hard he racked his brains, he couldn't recall another such incident.

  "I humbly beg your pardon, my son," she said, "for being the cause of our quarrel. You were right to worry about the mural and I should have listened to your concerns."

  Rhodes was about to press his advantage and make her grovel more before accepting her apology, but Kalasariz hissed a warning and he thought better of it.

  "It's a thing of the past, mother," he said, forcing magnanimity. "We'll not speak of it again."

  He paused, giving Kalasariz time to suggest how to proceed. Then he said, "Have you figured out how the mural disappeared from your chambers, mother?"

  Clayre sighed. "I'm afraid not, my son," she said. "Nor do I know how it came into Safar Timura's possession, much less how he managed to use it against us."

  She raised a golden wine cup to her beautiful lips and drank sparingly. Then she said, "The trouble is that the mural was there for so long that I'd quite forgotten it. Oh, I had heard stories. Stories that I believed were myths. That the mural depicted the first great king of Syrapis and his daughters. One taleteller even had it that the king portrayed was the grandfather of Alisarrian."

  Clayre took another sip of wine. After a moment of reflection, she said, "Although I thought these tales were only myths, I must have sensed some truth in them. For it is the only one of the ancient murals in my chambers that I did not use or alter in any way for my magical purposes. And although it does not excuse my forgetfulness, it does explain why I put it from my mind."