Allan Cole - Timura Trilogy 01 - When the Gods Slept

WHEN THE GODS SLEPT

The Timura Trilogy Volume 1

Allan Cole

aka Wizard of the Winds

To Danny Baror

And to all my friends in the United Kingdom

Especially

Nick Austin

a N.E.R.D's Release

THINK, IN THIS BATTERED CARAVANSERAI

WHOSE PORTALS ARE ALTERNATE NIGHT AND DAY

HOW SULTAN AFTER SULTAN WITH HIS POMP

ABODE HIS DESTINED HOUR AND WENT HIS WAY

THE RUBAIYAT

OF

OMAR KHAYYAM

(EDWARD FITZGERALD TRANSLATION)

PART ONE

VALLEY OF THE CLOUDS

PROLOGUE

Stranger on a Hill

THE VILLAGERS FEAR HIM.

They draw lots each day to see who must fill his beggar's bowl.

The loser creeps up the hill trembling and clutching a talisman. The stranger knows they fear the evil eye

so he doesn't look when the approach is made. He makes no sound or movement until the deed is done

and the villager flees as if there were a dervish at his heels.

The villagers think the stranger is a mad priest and curse the day he came to hide in these hills.

He's not mad and he is no priest. But he lets them believe what they like. If his true identity were revealed

the village treasury would soon be bursting with gold. For the stranger is a fugitive from the King. Safar

Timura, who was once Grand Wazier to King Protarus, is hunted by him now.

They were blood oath brothers. Safar sat by his friend's throne and gave him counsel and exorcized the

devils troub-ling his sleep. Several times he saved the King's life. He was rewarded with lands and

palaces and jewels and more honors than most men have ever dreamed.

When the history of King Protarus is written they'll say it was Lord Timura who betrayed him. They'll say

Safar gambled and lost all for love.

To the first he pleads innocent. It's Safar's view it was the King who betrayed him. As for the second he

admits guilt. And it is for that crime Protarus wants his head. But for the King's offense Safar demands

more.

And he will have his payment--if the King doesn't catch him first.

Safar can see his enemy's city from his lonely post. At night, under the swirling Demon Moon, he can see

the lights of Zanzair blur the stars. See the smoke from the foundries and kitchens rise up each morning to

haze the day. And he can see the King's Grand Palace quite clearly, its windows a rosy glow in the

dawn.

He models the palace in clay of the purest white--skillfully forming the towers between wet palms,

etching the designs on the parapets with his silver witch's knife. He whispers potter's spells as he shapes

the domes and pillars. Breathing his hate into the clay.

At night he wraps the model in wet leaves and sets it aside to await the new day. He empties the beggar's

bowl, then wraps himself against the chill in a black mourning cloak. At dawn he begins anew.

When the palace is done and the great spell is cast Safar Timura's revenge will be complete.

Then he'll depart that lonely hill. He'll flee across deserts and grasslands and wide rocky plains to the

mountains of his birth.

Where the snowy passes carry the high caravans to clear horizons.

The place he should never have left.

The place where this tale begins.

CHAPTER ONE

Valley of the Clouds

IT WAS A TIME when the world was large and dreams were small. Few ships strayed from the four

great turtles who bore the mountains and plains across the seas. Humankind and demonkind alike

brooded under the faded banners of kings who'd ruled too long. Borders were no more distant than a

fast march could secure. All who dwelt beyond huddled in armed settlements to keep thieves and beasts

at bay.

It was an uneasy time, a time crying out for change. Royal wizards studied the stars for signs to reassure

their masters. Subjects gathered in secret to implore the gods to rid them of those Same masters.

But the gods gave no clue of their intentions. The starry wheel where the gods slept in their ten holy

realms churned onward year after year, heedless to all pleas.

Then the portent came. It was not from the slumbering gods but from the molten depths of the world

itself. And it was a boy, not a master wizard, who first marked the sign.

That boy was Safar Timura.

He lived in the land known as Esmir, the Turtle of The Middle Seas. It was a land where demons faced

humans across the Forbidden Desert. Only an ancient curse and constant internal warfare kept those

ancestral enemies from overrunning and slaughtering the other.

In the demon city of Zanzair, however, King Manacia and his sorcerers plotted and waited for the right

moment. Although humans were greater in number, Manacia knew their magic was weak and their

leaders cowardly. And he yearned for the day when he'd make their corpses a staircase to a grander

throne.

To achieve his dreams he pored over ancient maps and tomes and consulted many oracles. Then he

created the greatest oracle of all, sacrificing five thousand human slaves in the process.

The human head was mounted on a metal post in the center of Manacia's courtroom. The eyes were

closed. The mouth slack. The skin ghastly.

Manacia cast his most powerful spell and then commanded: 'Speak, O Brother of the Shades. What is

the key to my heart's desire? What road do I take, what passage do I seek, to win the throne of the King

Of Kings?'

The head's eyes came open, blazing in hate and agony. Stiff lips formed a word:

'Kyrania,' the head croaked, sounding like an old raven with its mouth full of gore.

'What place is that?' the king demanded.

'Kyrania,' the head croaked again.

The whole court looked on, demon jaws parting in antici-pation, as the king jabbed a long sharp talon at

an ancient wall map of the human lands.

'Where do I find this… Kyrania?' he asked.

'The Valley Of The Clouds,' the head answered. And then its eyes dulled and its mouth sagged back into

death.

'Speak!' the king ordered, casting another mighty spell. But it was no use. The oracle was emptied of its

power.

The Demon King turned to his assembled wizards and advisors. 'Find me this place,' he thundered. 'Find

me this Kyrania…!

'…This Valley Of The Clouds!'

* * *

A thousand miles distant Safar Timura and his people toiled the land and tended their flocks in relative

peace. They lived high above the troubles of the world and had grown to think they were of small

concern.

Their valley was so remote it appeared on few maps. And those were jealously held by the merchant

princes who trans-ported their goods across the Gods' Divide, which separated the ancient human

kingdoms of Walaria and Caspan.

The valley was known as Kyrania--meaning, in the lan-guage of Safar's people, 'Valley Of The Clouds.'

It was a bountiful place and each spring and summer the valley became a bowl of blossoms and fruit

cradled high in the craggy range they called The Bride And Six Maids. The name came from seven

graceful peaks shaped like slender young women. From the south they appeared to march in an eternal

procession. The tallest and most graceful promontory was in the lead and to all Kyranians this peak was

The Bride because she was always covered with snow and veiled in lacy clouds. Although the valley was

so high strangers sometimes found it difficult to draw enough breath, it was sheltered by the maidenly

peaks and the weather was nearly always mild.

Filling half the valley was the holy lake of Our Lady Felakia and sometimes pilgrims traveled with the

caravans to pay homage to that goddess of purity and health and to drink from the curative waters. They

gathered to be blessed at the ancient temple, set on the eastern shore and so small and unimportant it was

attended by only one old priest. Twice a year flocks of birds stopped at the lake to rest on their seasonal

journeys. No one knew where they came from or where they went but they were always welcome

visitors--filling the air with their song and the cooking hearths with their roasted flesh.

The people of Kyrania grew barley and corn and beans, irrigating the fields with water from the lake.

Olive and fruit orchards also abounded, but the growing season was short so the Kyranians placed great

value on their goat herds. In the spring and summer Safar and the boys would lead them into the

mountains to graze on tender shoots. When winter came the goats huddled in stables beneath the

people's homes, eating stored grain and keeping the families warm with the heat of their bodies.

All those things, which might seem trivial and even dull to city dwellers, were of prime importance to

Safar and his people. They made up their talk, their dreams and all the rhythms of life.

In his own way--the way of Kyrania--Safar was royally born. He was the son of a potter and in Kyrania

such men as his father were second only to the village priest in importance. His father's father had been a

potter as well, and his father before him. It had always been so for the Timura clan and many generations

of Kyranian women had balanced Timura water jugs on their heads as they made the hip-swaying

journey to the lake and back. All food in the village was cooked in Timura pots or stored in Timura jars,

which were sealed with clay and buried in the ground for winter. Spirits were fermented in Timura jugs,

bottled in Timura vessels and it was said all drink tasted best when sipped from Timura cups and bowls.

When the caravans arrived Timura pottery was more sought after than even the few fresh camels and

llamas the villagers kept to resupply the merchant masters.

When the troubles came Safar was being trained to succeed his father as a practitioner of that once most

sacred of all the arts. To accomplish this was Safar's sole ambition. But as a wise one once said--'If you

want to make the gods laugh… tell them your plans.'

The day that marked the end of those youthful ambitions began well before first light, as did all days in

Kyrania. It was early spring and the mornings were still cold and one of his sisters had to bang on Safar's

sleeping platform with a broom handle to rouse him from his warm feather mattress.

He grumbled as he broke away from a dream of swim-ming in warm lake waters with nubile maidens. He

was just seventeen summers--an age when such dreams are remarkably vivid and nearly as frequent as

the grumblings at the unfairness of life.

Then he heard Naya, the family's best milking goat, com-plaining in the stable below. She was the

sweetest of animals and he hated to think of her suffering. Safar leaped from the platform onto the

polished planks that made the floor of the main living area. He dragged out the trunk where he kept his

belongings and hastily pulled on clothes--baggy leather trousers, pullover shirt and heavy work boots. His

mother was already at the hearth stirring handfuls of dried apple into the savory barley porridge that

would make his breakfast.

She clucked her tongue to chide him for being tardy, but then smiled and gave him a hunk of bread

spread with pear jam to tide him over until the milking was done. Safar was the middle child but the only

boy of his parents' six children, so he was lovingly and deliberately spoiled by his mother and sisters.

'You'd better hurry, Safar,' his mother warned. 'Your father will be back for his breakfast soon.'

Safar knew his father would be in the adjoining shop inspecting the results of the previous day's firing.

The elder Timura, whose name was Khadji, preferred to have the family together at mealtimes. It would

be especially important to him this morning. There had been a late-night meeting of the Council Of Elders

and Khadji would be anxious to report the news.

Mind buzzing with curiosity, mouth full of bread and jam, Safar thundered down the ladder and lit the fat

lamps. He got out several pots made of his father's purest clay and glazed a dazzling white. As usual he

tended Naya first. Her milk was delicious and his mother frequently accused him of squirting more into

his mouth than in the pot.

'Why am I always to blame when something goes wrong around here?' he'd protest.

'Because you've got some on your chin, my little thief,' she'd say.

Safar was always taken in, giving his chin a reflexive wipe and making the whole family howl at his

embarrassment.

'Don't ever decide to become a bandit, Safar,' his father would joke. 'The master of the first caravan you

rob is certain to catch you. Then the only thing we'd have left of our son would be his head on a post.'

Naya seemed more anxious that morning than an overly full udder should warrant. When Safar removed

the canvas bag kept tied about her teats for cleanliness's sake he saw several angry sores. He checked

the bag and saw it was frayed on one side. The rough area had rubbed against her udder all night. The

sores would fester quickly in the damp spring.

'Don't fret, little mother,' he murmured. 'Safar will fix you up.'

He looked about to make certain there were no witnesses. His sisters had gone to fetch water from the

lake so besides the goats and other animals the stable area was empty. Safar scratched his head,

thinking.

His eyes fell on the lamp beside the stool. He dipped up thick, warm fat with his fingers and rubbed it

gently on Naya's udder. Then he made up a little spell and whispered it as he dipped up more oil and

coaxed it gently over the sores.

Rest easy,

Little mother;

Safar is here.

There is no pain,

No wound to trouble you.

Rest easy

Little mother;

Safar is here.

He looked down and the sores were gone. There was only a little pink area on her udder and that was

quickly fading.

Then he heard his mother say, 'Who are you talking to, Safar?'

He flushed, then answered: 'I wasn't talking to anyone, mother. I was just… singing a song.' In those

days Safar felt compelled to hide his magical talents from others.

Satisfied, his mother said nothing more. Safar quickly fin-ished the milking and his other chores and by

the time he was done his father and sisters were sitting down to breakfast. There was one empty place at

the table--the spot where Safar's oldest sister, Quetera, had held forth all his life. Safar saw his mother

give the seat a sad glance. His sister lived with her husband now and was pregnant with their first child. It

had been a difficult pregnancy and the family was worried.

His mother swiped at her eye, forced a smile, and began to pass the food around. There was porridge

and bread toasted over the fire, with big slabs of cheese from the crusted round Safar's mother always

kept sitting near the embers. They washed their breakfast down with milk still warm from the goats.

'You were late coming home last night, Khadji,' his mother said as she gave his father another slice of

buttered toast. 'There must've been much business for the council to discuss. Not bad news, I hope.'

Khadji frowned. 'It wasn't exactly bad news, Myrna,' he said. 'But it certainly was troublesome.'

Myrna was alarmed. 'Nothing to do with the caravan, I hope?' she said.

Caravan season was just beginning and the village had received word the first group of traders was

making its way to Kyrania. It had been a long winter and the money and goods the caravan would bring

were sorely needed.

'No, nothing to do with the caravan,' Safar's father said. 'It's not expected for a few weeks, yet.'

Myrna snorted, impatient. 'If you don't want a second bowl of porridge served on your head, Khadji

Timura,' she said, 'you'll tell us right now what this is all about!'

Usually, Khadji would have laughed, but instead Safar saw his frown deepen.

'We agreed to accept a boy into the village,' Khadji said. 'He was presented to us by an elder of the

Babor clan, who begged us to give him sanctuary.'

The Babors were the leading family of a large and fierce clan of people who lived on the distant plains.

Myrna dropped a serving spoon, shocked. 'I don't like that!' she said. 'Why, they're practically

barbarians. I'm not sure I like having one of their young ruffians among us.'

Khadji shrugged. 'What could we do? Barbarians or not, the Babors have kinship claims on us. It

wouldn't be right to say no to our cousins.'

Myrna sniffed. 'Pretty distant cousins, for all that.'

'He seems a likely enough lad,' Khadji said in the stranger's defense. 'His family is related to the Babor

headman's wife. They live somewhere in the south. People of influence, from the cut of the boy. He's a

handsome fellow about your age, Safar. And tall--about your size, as well. Very mannered. Good

clothing. And well spoken. Seems the sort who's used to having servants to order about.'

'He'll soon learn there are no servants in Kyrania,' Myrna said sharply. Then, 'Why is he being sent to

us?'

'He's an orphan,' Safar's father said.

Myrna was scandalized. 'An orphan? What kind of orphan is he? No, I take that back. The Gods make

orphans. It's no fault of a child's. It's the boy's kin I wonder about. What manner of people are they to

push an orphan on strangers? Have they no feelings?'

Safar saw his father shift, uneasy. 'It seems there's some sort of difficulty in his clan,' Khadji said. 'A

quarrel of some kind.'

Myrna's eyebrows rose. 'With those sort of people,' she said, quarrel usually means violence and

bloodshed. It's the only way they know how to settle an argument.'

Khadji nodded, unhappy. 'I suspect you're right, Myrna,' he said. 'The boy's uncle said as much. I think

he fears for the boy's life. He's asked us to let the lad stay at the temple until the danger has passed.'

Safar could have told his father he'd used the wrong words.

'Danger?' his mother exclaimed. 'What danger, Khadji?'

'Only to the boy, Myrna,' his father soothed. 'Only to the boy.'

'But what if they come here? What if they cause trouble?'

'Only his uncle will come,' his father said. 'And only when it is safe for the lad to return to his family. Be

reasonable, Myrna. We have to explain this to the others and if you're opposed to it, why, we'll have to

go back on our agreement.

'Besides, who would travel so far to Kyrania just to cause us grief? We have nothing they want. At least

nothing that's worth so much trouble.

'And, as I said, how could we refuse?'

'Next time ask me!' Myrna said. 'I'll show you all you need to know about refusal.'

Then she relented as her natural Kyranian hospitality came to the fore. 'We'll make the best of it,' she

declared. 'Can't blame a boy for the troubles caused by his family.'

'What's his name?' Safar asked.

'Iraj Protarus,' his father said.

The name struck Safar like a thunderbolt.

He heard his mother say, 'Protarus? Protarus? I don't know that family name.'

But Safar knew the name quite well--much to his sudden discomfort.

He'd experienced a vision some days before while working in his father's shop. Whether it meant good or

ill, he couldn't say. Still, it had disturbed him deeply.

The vision had seized him while he was cleaning pebbles and roots from a new batch of clay his father

had dug up from the lake.

Besides the lake, there were many fine clay beds in Kyrania. The lake clay was pure and therefore gray.

But as any potter knows pure clay needs to be mixed with other kinds or it will not fire properly. Within a

week's stroll in any direction the Timuras could find clay of every color imaginable--red, black, white, a

yellow ochre, and even a deep emerald green. Clay was long considered a holy substance and the clay

from Kyrania was considered the holiest of all because it was said that Rybian, the god who made

people, once spent much time in the Valley Of The Clouds wooing the beautiful goddess, Felakia. The

tale was that she spurned the god's advances and during the long lovers' siege Rybian became bored and

pinched out all the races that make up humankind and demonkind. He used the green clay, it was

claimed, to make the demons.

As Safar worked his thoughts were far from heavenly speculation. Instead, his imagination was fixed on

the hiding spot he'd discovered overlooking the pool where the village maids liked to bathe.

Then he found an unusual stone in the clay debris. It was a broad pebble--smooth and blood-red.

Examining it, he turned the pebble this way and that. There was a clear, thumbnail-size blemish on one

side. The blemish was like a minuscule window and he was oddly drawn to look into it.

Safar jumped back, thinking he'd seen something move… as if trapped in the stone. He looked again,

blinking. The image blinked back and he realized he was looking at a reflection of his own eye. He

peered closer, wondering the idle things people contemplate when they are alone and staring at a

mirrored surface.

Suddenly Safar found himself falling. But it was unlike any sensation of falling he'd experienced before.

His body seemed to remain kneeling by the clay bucket while his spirit plunged through the window.

His spirit self plummeted through thick clouds, then broke through. Safar felt oddly calm, looking about

with his spirit eyes. Then it came to him he was floating rather than fall-ing. Above was a bright sky, with

clouds that were quickly retreating. Floating up at him was a wide vista of fertile lands with a broad

highway cutting through.

At the end of that highway was a grand city with golden spires.

The last of the clouds whisked away, revealing a mighty army marching along the highway to the city,

banners flut-tering in a gentle wind. It was a dazzling array of troops and mailed cavalry--both horse and

camel. Two graceful wings of chariots spread out on either side. In the lead was a phalanx of elephants

Safar recognized only because of the illustrated books at school. The elephant heading the column was

the largest by far. It was white and carried an armored howdah on its back. A large silk banner flew over

the howdah, displaying a comet moving across a full moon.

The comet was silver, the moon harvest-red.

Then he saw the city gates thrown wide and a crowd poured out to greet the army. Safar spread his spirit

arms and flew toward the crowd. No one saw him as he sailed over a forest of spears and lances and he

took a boy's immense pleasure in doing what he liked amongst so many adults and yet remaining

unobserved. Then he overshot his mark and nearly flew through the city gates. Correcting his course, he

hovered over the crowd and looked down.

Milling beneath him were hundreds of screeching monsters. He knew instantly they were demons. He

should have been frightened. Demons were humankind's most ancient and deadly enemies. But there was

an opiate blur to his trance that allowed him to feel nothing more than amazement.

The demons had yellow eyes and were fiercely taloned; horns jutted from their snouted faces. Sharp

fangs gleamed when they opened their mouths and their skin was scaly green. All were costumed in the

finest of cloth and jewelry, especially the tall slender demons in front, whom Safar took to be the city's

leaders.

The tallest of them held a pike. And stuck to the top of that pike was a head. Safar had never seen such

a grisly sight and it disturbed him far more than monsters boiling about beneath him. Still, he couldn't help

but move closer. It was a demon's head on that pike. Huge--twice the size of a human's. Its snout was

fixed into a wide grimace, exposing two pairs of opposing fangs the size of a desert lion's. It had a jutting

armored brow and long bloody hair. Perched on the brow, as if in mockery, was a golden crown.

The demon king's dead eyes were open and staring. But Safar imagined he saw a small spark of life in

their yellow depths. This unsettled him even more than the gory display of death. He stretched his arms

and flew away.

Seeing the great white elephant approaching, he flew toward it to investigate. Sitting in the howdah was a

large man with long gold hair, flowing mustaches and a thick military beard. His features were so fair he

appeared strange to Safar, although not as strange as the demons.

Below dark, moody eyes was a strong beaked nose, which added to his fierce looks. His armor was rich

and burnished; the hilt of his sheathed sword was finely worked ivory bound with silver wire. Encircling

his head was a thin band of gold embedded with rare stones.

Safar knew he was looking at the new king--come to replace the one who had his head mounted on a

pike. The demon crowd was shouting to their new king and he waved his mailed hand in return.

They grew wilder still, chanting: 'Protarus! Protarus! Protarus!'

The king looked up and saw Safar. Why this man alone could see him, Safar didn't know. Protarus

smiled. He stretched out a hand, beckoning the hovering spirit closer.

'Safar,' he said. 'I owe all this to you. Come sit with me. Let them praise your name as well.'

Safar was confused. Who was this great king? How did he know him? What service could Safar have

possibly performed to win his favor? Again Protarus beckoned. Safar floated forward and the king

reached out to take his hand.

Just before their fingers touched Safar again felt the sensa-tion of falling. But this time he was falling up!

The movement was so swift he started to feel sick. Then city, army and finally even the green fields

vanished and he was enveloped by thick clouds.

The next he knew he was crouched over the bucket, turning away as quickly as he could to avoid fouling

the clay with the contents of his belly.

Luckily his father was absent. Safar hastily cleaned up the mess, finished his other chores and crept up to

his bed. The experience had exhausted him, unnerved him, so he pleaded ill when the dinner hour arrived

and spent a troubled night contemplating the mysterious vision.

That uneasiness returned as Safar sat listening to his family chat about the young stranger who had come

to stay in Kyrania--a stranger whose name was also Protarus. He fretted until it was time for school.

Then he dismissed it as a coincidence.

In his youth Safar Timura believed in such things.

It was a clear spring day when he set out for the temple school with his sisters. Men and women were in

the fields readying the muddy land for planting. The boys whose turn it was to tend the goats were driving

their herds into the hills. They would stay there for several weeks while Safar and the others studied with

the priest. Then it would be his turn to enjoy the lazy freedom of the high ranges.

The small village marketplace was already closing for the day, with a few late risers arguing with the stall

keepers to stay open a little longer so they could make necessary purchases.

The Timura children walked along the lake's curve, passing the ruins of the stone barracks which legend

claimed were built by Alisarrian The Conqueror who crossed the Gods' Divide in his campaign to win a

kingdom. That kingdom, the Kyranian children were taught, had once included all Esmir and demons as

well as humans bowed to Alisarrian's will. But the empire had broken up after his death, disintegrating

into warring tribes and fiefdoms. It was during that chaos humans and demons had sworn to the

agreement making the Forbidden Desert the dividing point between their species--a 'Nodemon's' as well

as a 'Noman's' land.

Outsiders claimed it would've been impossible for the Conqueror to have driven his great army over the

Gods' Divide. But Kyranian tradition had it that Alisarrian settled some of his troops in the valley and they

married local women. Kyranians were mostly a short, dark-skinned people while Alisarrian and his

soldiers were tall and fair. Occasionally a fair-skinned child was born in Kyrania, bolstering the claims.

Safar saw his own appearance as evidence that the local tales were true. Although he was dark, his eyes

were quite blue and like the ancient Alisarrians he was taller than most. Also, his people tended to be

slender, but even at seventeen Safar's chest and shoulders were broadening beyond the size of others

and his arms were becoming heavily muscled. Any difference, however, is an embarrassment at that age

and so Safar saw his size and blue eyes as a humiliating reminder that he was different from others.

As the Timuras passed the stony inlet where the women did the wash one fat old crone happened to

glance up. Her eyes chanced to meet Safar's and she suddenly gobbled in fear and made a sign to ward

off evil. Then she cursed and spat on the ground three times.

'It's the devil,' she shrieked to the other women. 'The blue-eyed devil from the Hells.'

'Hush, grandmother,' one of the women said. 'It's only Safar with his sisters going to school at the

temple.'

The old woman paid no heed. 'Get thee gone!' she shrieked at Safar. 'Get thee gone, devil!'

He hurried away, barely listening to the comforting words of his sisters who said she was just a crazy old

woman and to pay her no mind. But there was no solace in their words. In his heart he believed the

woman spoke true. He didn't know if he actually was a devil. But he feared he'd become one if he didn't

abandon the practice of sorcery. Each time he performed a magical feat or had a vision he swore to the

gods he'd never do it again.

Allan Cole - Timura Trilogy 01 - When the Gods Slept

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