The Gods Awaken Read online

  Palimak shrugged. “I hope you're right,” he said. Then he turned to the airship's bridge, where Biner held forth, directing the crew.

  "Can you maneuver around the castle, Uncle Biner?” he shouted.

  "Sure thing, lad,” Biner called back. He barked orders and the crewmen scrambled around the airship's deck. Some tended the magical furnaces that pumped hot air into the huge twin balloons. Others checked the lines that held the ship's body suspended beneath the balloons. Still others spilled ballast to help stabilize the airship when Biner made the turn.

  As they sailed around the peak, Leiria studied the fortress with a professional eye. On two sides the castle was protected by steep, rock-littered slopes. Obviously the rocks had all been piled up by the castle's human defenders.

  One small stone hurled into the right place would set off an avalanche that would pour down on any ground troops foolish enough to climb the slopes.

  The castle's front was just as steep and the road winding up to the gates was edged with low walls and a series of stone guard shacks, with slits for arrow holes.

  The rear of the castle came right up to the edge of a sheer cliff shooting down to the hissing seas that beat against the little beach.

  In the center—about twenty feet below the castle walls—a waterfall spilled out of a wide cave mouth. It fell hundreds of feet before it thundered into waves that crashed over the beach and against the base of the cliff.

  "On the whole,” Leiria said at last, “I'd rather defend it than attack it."

  Palimak touched the hilt of his sheathed sword, eyes flickering demon-yellow. “I don't want a fight,” he said. “We have more important things to do. But if that's what King Rhodes wants...” he grinned, displaying surprisingly sharp teeth ... “That's what he'll get."

  Leiria nodded approval. “I'm sick and tired of all these little Syrapian despots and their game playing,” she replied. “They think the only purpose of a truce is to give them time to get behind you and stab you in the back."

  Palimak shrugged—what would be, would be—and returned his attention to the castle.

  The airship sank lower and he could make out the crowd waiting for them in the center courtyard. All eyes were turned upward to see the airship's approach.

  He could imagine the amazement on their faces. The airship was a wondrous sight to behold, with the tattooed face of a beautiful woman on the front balloon. And the words “Methydia's Flying Circus” emblazoned on the other.

  Methydia, dead for many years now, had been his father's lover and mentor. She'd rescued Safar from the desert and had let him join her troupe of circus performers while he had hidden from the Walarian spymaster, Lord Kalasariz.

  The circus lived on in Biner, the muscular dwarf; Arlain, half fire-breathing dragon, half fabulous woman; Elgy and Rabix, the intelligent snake and the mindless flute player; and, finally, Kairo, the strange acrobat who could detach his head from his shoulders, tossing it about on the tether of his ropy neck.

  In normal times, Palimak thought, they'd be preparing for a royal performance at the castle. Biner would've been stirring up excitement with his traditional bellow of: “Come one, come all! Lads and maids of All ages! I now present to you—Methydia's Flying Circus of Miracles! The Greatest Show On Syrapis!"

  Palimak grimaced. The airship and circus troupe had spent more time than they liked acting as a military force, rather than entertaining. He was as sorry about that as Biner and the others. But what could be done about it?

  From the moment Palimak and his fellow Kyranians had landed on Syrapis they'd been at constant odds with the violence-loving inhabitants of the island. How so many warring factions could be packed onto an island one hundred and twenty miles long and thirty miles across at its widest was a continuing and unpleasant amazement to Palimak when he was at his most depressed.

  As if reading his thoughts, Leiria said, “Honestly, sometimes I think the Syrapians have got some sort of congenital war disease.” She shook her head. “Remember how they greeted us at the beach that day? Olive branch in one hand, dagger up the other sleeve!"

  Palimak sighed. “Poor father thought Syrapis would be a paradise for us all,” he said. “A new home—maybe even a better home—than the one we left behind."

  The yellow demon flecks faded from his eyes, leaving them sad and all too human. “Instead we landed right in the middle of about twenty wars all going on at the same time. Everybody in Syrapis hates each other. But now that we're here they finally have something in common—which is to hate us."

  His eyes misted slightly. “I guess things don't always work out the way you want,” he said. “Even if you're someone as great as my father was."

  Leiria wished she could give Palimak a comforting hug. But that would only make the boy feel awkward. Actually, he was a “boy” only in human reckoning.

  The product of a romance between a demon princess and a human soldier, Palimak's demon side made him mature at a much faster rate than was normal for humans. At thirteen he was nearly six feet tall, although he hadn't filled out yet and was quite slender. Still, his shoulders were wider than those of most boys of his age and his broad-palmed hands had long, supple fingers. When he was angry or upset, sharp talons lanced from his finger tips like a cat's claws: a phenomenon so disconcerting that even Leiria, who'd known him since he was a babe, had never become used to it.

  He also didn't act like a boy—except in rare moments when he allowed himself to relax enough to be playful. Or, blushingly so, when he was in the presence of a flirtatious maiden. Thank the Gods, Leiria thought, this part of his nature hasn't matured at the same rate as the rest of him. He had enough problems without adding sex to the equation.

  Despite his youth, Palimak was the undisputed leader of the more than one thousand Kyranian villagers he and Leiria had led across the Great Sea to Syrapis and supposed safety. He had the strength of will and the charisma of his adoptive father. Backed by demon magic nearly as powerful as Safar's—who'd been the greatest wizard, demon or human, that Esmir had ever known.

  During the three years since Safar's death and the Kyranians’ flight from Esmir in a fleet of hired ships, Palimak had used all these attributes, plus a sometimes chilling ability for calculation, to keep the Kyranians from being overwhelmed by the fierce natives of Syrapis.

  Palimak suddenly shifted. “There's the king,” he said. Then he grinned. “Maybe Rhodes is going to keep his side of the bargain after all."

  Leiria peered down at the courtyard. Though the airship still wasn't low enough for them to make out individual faces, there was no way she could miss Rhodes, ruler of Hanadu, the northernmost kingdom in Syrapis.

  He was a giant of a man sitting on a huge, gaudy throne, placed on a platform in the center of the courtyard. The only other people on the platform seemed to be two liveried attendants. Leiria spotted a dozen or so uniformed soldiers’ but they were scattered throughout the crowd, rather than being in any sort of military formation.

  "That's a scene with peace painted all over it,” Leiria said dryly. “I wonder why I'm not impressed?"

  Palimak curled a lip. “Maybe it's because Rhodes is the last and trickiest of the bunch,” he said. “And neither one of us thinks that after all this time he's finally going to roll over on command like a dog!"

  Just then the crowd stirred and the sound of fierce martial music thundered upward. Banners waved, flags were unfurled and a hundred or more colorful kites took flight.

  "I think that's our official welcome,” Leiria said. “Either that, or a declaration of war.” She was only partly joking, knowing from bitter experience how quickly the Syrapians could turn on the unwary.

  Palimak patted the fat purse hanging from his belt. “I've got enough gold here to light up even King Rhodes’ scowling face,” he said. “With promises of more to come for his cooperation."

  He laughed. This time it wasn't forced. “My father used to always say that if you sue for peace you'd better bring both
swords and money. I didn't know what he meant then, but I sure do now!"

  Rhodes was notorious for his greed: Palimak was counting on this in his bid for peace, as well as on the bloody defeat the Kyranians had handed the king's forces not one month before.

  "My best bet,” Leiria said, “is that any treaty we work out with Rhodes will be violated by spring."

  Palimak laughed. “That long, huh?” Then, more seriously: “If this is the right place—the castle I saw when I was with my father that day—then all we need is a couple of weeks and a free hand. After that, King Rhodes can do whatever he wants—up to and including going to the Hells."

  The airship had made a full circle and they were once again hovering just off the rear of the castle—the waterfall and the cave now in clear view. Palimak leaned far over the rail to get a closer look. The tide was running out fast, water retreating from the bottom of the cliff face at an amazing rate.

  Palimak probed the atmosphere with his magical senses. Instantly, he felt a powerful force dragging at him, as if his spirit self was a bit of flotsam caught in that raging tide.

  Instead of breaking away, he fought against the force, wave after wave of sorcery smashing over him.

  Leiria was shocked at his sudden struggle, seeing the blood drain from his already pale features. Talons emerging to cut into the rail as he gripped it. She had an urgent desire to grab him and rip him away from whatever invisible enemy he was fighting.

  But she steeled herself to remain a witness, knowing there was nothing she could do to help.

  Then Palimak gasped. “There it is!” he said, voice shaking with effort. “The island! And the idol, too! Just the way I remember it!"

  Leiria dragged her attention away from Palimak. Below, about a hundreds yards from the cliff face, a small rocky island was emerging from the frothy waves.

  Towering over the island was an immense stone image of a demon, with a long narrow face and heavy brows arching above deep-set eyes. The sculptor had given the demon a sad smile, which added to the overall effect of making the demon seem very wise.

  "It's Lord Asper!” Palimak breathed.

  Magical tendrils reached out to take him and suddenly he was a small boy again, gripping Safar about the waist as the great white warhorse, Khysmet, bore them both through a blinding snowstorm. Behind them an enormous ice beast was closing in fast as Safar shouted the words of a protective spell.

  "Let me help you, father!” Palimak cried out, adding his own magic to the spell.

  Safar hurled a magical jar into the beast's path and Palimak heard an explosion, followed by a shriek of agony. Then he gasped with relief as he sensed the beast falling away. But he knew instinctively that this wasn't enough and the ice beast would soon be upon them again.

  He peered around his father and saw the beautiful Spirit Rider racing ahead on a black mare. She held a blazing magical torch high to guide them through the storm. They were heading for the point of a narrow peninsula, waves breaking on either side.

  To Palimak's amazement, the Spirit Rider didn't stop when she reached the end of the peninsula. Instead, she rode her mare right out onto the water, leaping across the surface as it were a broad, firm king's highway.

  He felt his father tense and knew he was wondering if he should follow. Then Safar relaxed—decision made—and gave Khysmet his head. Immediately the stallion sprang across the water, running after the mare with no difficulty.

  They rode like that for a time, hooves splashing in what seemed like shallow water, while on either side enormous waves boomed past. Soon the novelty wore off and Palimak dozed. He slept fitfully, waking every now and then to see the beacon still moving ahead of them.

  Then Gundaree and Gundara were both shrieking in his ear. The two little magical Favorites, his ever-present guardians, were both crying out at the same time: “Beware, Little Master! Beware"

  He felt a rumbling beneath him and he shouted a warning to Safar. But his father was already coming up out of his stupor, steadying them as Khysmet shrilled surprise and bounded high into the air. When he came down, his hooves skittered on slippery rock, but then the nimble-footed horse steadied himself and they were racing over stony ground.

  At that moment a blast of cold winds swept in from the side, sweeping the snow away. Palimak gaped at the sight. Hunched over the little island they now found themselves on was a huge statue of a demon.

  Palimak felt his father jump in shock, as if he'd been stung.

  "Asper!” he said in a harsh voice. “It's Asper!"

  As they rode toward the statue Palimak lifted his head and saw something loom up just beyond. About a hundred yards away was a tall, sheer cliff face, unmarked except for a wide cave mouth in the center. At the top of the cliff that was some sort of black stone structure. Palimak dully wondered what it was. Then he saw several turrets and he realized it was a castle.

  Just then he heard the Spirit Rider shout and his head snapped back. He saw her poised on the mare, waiting at the steps of a wide stairway that led up to the statue's open mouth.

  She shouted, “This way!” And plunged up the broken staircase to disappear into the mouth of the statue.

  Safar didn't have to urge Khysmet on. The big horse leaped after the mare with such force that Palimak's grip around his father's waist was nearly torn away. A heartbeat later they were inside the idol and all was darkness.

  There was a flash of light and he felt a shock shiver through his body, rattling his teeth. Dazed, he realized his father had vanished. And now Palimak was holding Khysmet's reins. More puzzling still, his hands were no longer those of a small boy, but were large and muscular.

  Khysmet whinnied and Palimak instinctively leaned forward, ducking under the dim shape of a low overhang. From far ahead he heard the rhythmic pounding of drums. A great chorus of voices chanted words he couldn't quite make out.

  Then, soaring over the chorus, he thought he heard a familiar voice. Recognition dawned and he shouted, “Father! Father!"

  A voice full of agony cried out in reply: “Palimak. Help me, Palimak!"

  At that moment a great explosion erupted, lifting him up and hurling him away on a hot fierce wind.

  He burst out of the vision, gasping for air as if he had come up from the bottom of the sea itself.

  And he was back on the airship again, Leiria's hand on his shoulder, eyes deep with concern.

  Palimak brushed at his face, as if swatting away a fly. “By the gods,” he said, hoarsely, “I swear I heard his voice!"

  "Whose voice, Palimak?” Leiria asked. “Who did you hear?"

  The young man's eyes were agonized. “My father's,” he said. He shook his head. “It can't be possible,” he said. But I think ... somehow ... somewhere ... he must be alive!"

  Leiria felt like the sun had suddenly decided to arise after a long, cold sleep. The ice jam broken, all the feelings she'd been holding back for so long flooded forth.

  Safar! she thought.

  Alive?

  She clutched Palimak to her and wept.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE SEA OF MISERY

  All was pain.

  Iraj had no body: no blood, no sinew, no muscle, no bone—much less skin to contain them.

  And yet there was still pain.

  In its torment, pain defined him. He was a writhing shadow of a soul on fire. A smoking stone in the guts of some howling devil dancing on the coals of the Hellfires.

  If he'd had tears, Iraj would have wept them. If he'd had a tongue, he would've lapped up those tears to quench the awful thirst. And if he'd had a voice, he would've screamed for mercy. Yes, Iraj Protarus, who had never seen value in mercy, would trade his crown—and a thousand more—for one drop of pity now.

  But who was there to pity him?

  The gods?

  Safar had once told him the gods were asleep and wouldn't answer even if the prayer were cast into the Heavens by a million voices. Safar had said many things like that and if Iraj had possessed
a heart to break, or a heart to hate, he would have both loved and despised Safar now for all his wise words.

  Safar Timura—enemy and friend. Friend and enemy. The one who had saved him. The one who had condemned him to this eternity of pain.

  If Iraj had possessed the ability for amusement, he'd have finally known the true meaning of irony.

  In his previous existence Iraj had been a shapechanger. Rabid wolf to black-hearted man, then back again.

  And before that?

  Images bubbled up to burst on the thick surface of his pain.

  He was a boy again in Alisarrian's secret cave, swearing a blood oath of eternal loyalty to Safar. He was a young prince again, leading his armies against the demon king, Manacia, who threatened all humans with enslavement. He was King of Kings again, betraying Safar because he feared Timura would betray him first. He was a fiend again, avenging himself on Safar for the crime of uncommitted sins.

  As each of these images took form, only to dissolve into a soul-searing froth, Iraj gradually emerged into an awareness that was somehow separate from the pain. It was like struggling from a molten sea to rest a moment in a world both familiar and yet alien.

  He was only a lowly creature whose sole desire was to escape into death. But in his desperation to escape a more solid firmament was formed.

  His first thought was: Where is Safar?

  With this thought came heightened awareness: Safar was nearby! And he was also in pain. Satisfaction followed, but then he was pummeled by a further realization: Safar was not in as much pain as Iraj.

  He pulled himself higher out of the sea of misery, determined to reach Safar. As he did so, Iraj sensed other creatures scuttling up behind him. Groaning things. Weeping things. Evil things.

  Something like a tentacle wriggled toward him. Then a second. Then a third.

  He knew who they were. When they had names, they were Kalasariz, Fari and Luka. Iraj had escaped them once, but somehow they had followed.

  Not voices, but images of voices, came to him like the dry scuttling of many insects itching across his memory. “The king! Where is the king?” And, “Here, brothers!” And, “Follow him! Follow him!"