Seven Sorcerers: Book Three of the Books of the Shaper

by John R. Fultz

  The pale man was tall with a bald head and large ears. His eyebrows were white and bushy, the only sign of hair on his head. A ring of platinum hung from his long nose, which overshadowed a wide mouth. A long robe of silvery substance hid most of his lean body. Sunlight flashed across the rippling fabric. His long-fingered hands were crossed before his waist as he offered the Southern Kings a passive smile. He stood to the immediate left of Zharua’s throne, bare feet visible on the middle of three broad steps.

  Zharua called for padded chairs to accommodate his visitors. Slaves rushed forward and soon Khama found himself seated between Undutu and D’zan. He declined the goblet of dark wine offered him by the slaves; the young Kings followed his example.

  “This is a rare honor,” said Zharua. He looked at them with a mixture of worry and awe. “Not only does the legendary Feathered Serpent grace my court, but two mainland Kings.” His voice was soft yet powerful enough to dominate the hall, which was built to amplify his speeches. His Ongthaian accent was barely noticeable; he was the Trader King, and he spoke all the dialects of the mainland superbly. In his younger years, Zharua had traveled to each of the great cities. Khama remembered a much thinner version of the Jade King meeting with Undutu’s father some twenty-five years ago.

  “We are grateful for your hospitality,” said Khama. The Southern Kings had agreed that he should speak for both of them to begin negotiations. “Surely the Jade King knows why we have come.”

  Zharua nodded, his double chin bouncing. “I received your hawk messenger,” he said. “My trade captains have brought word of your great fleet. Is it true that the Five Cities have achieved unity after centuries of feuds and squabbles?”

  Khama nodded. Undutu and D’zan bristled in their cushioned seats. “It is true. The threat that we now face threatens to destroy us all. Your realm lies in the path of that threat. The Hordes of Zyung approach from the other side of the world.”

  Zharua’s eyes shot toward the silver-robed emissary, then back to Khama. “I am pleased to introduce the esteemed Damodar of the High Seraphim. Envoy of the God-King. Voice of the Living Empire.”

  Damodar bowed his hairless head for the briefest of moments.

  Khama did not meet the envoy’s gaze. Before he could respond, Undutu spoke.

  “Has this bald mouthpiece offered you the chance to be the God-King’s slave? Has he swayed you with polite words to give up your isles and your people to Zyung? Or have you chosen to stand with the Five Cities?”

  Khama frowned inwardly. The boy’s temper will be the death of him.

  Zharua’s eyelids fluttered. He was not used to being addressed in so loose a manner. “Son of the Feathered Serpent,” he said. “King on the Cliffs… Master of Pearls… the fire of your youth exceeds your courtly decorum. Still, these are troubled times, and I attribute your rudeness to the sense of urgency you must feel.”

  “I, too, am a young King,” said D’zan. His green eyes blazed. The hilt of the Sun God’s blade rose above his right shoulder. “Yet we both are schooled by those far wiser than ourselves. We speak plainly because there is little time. We extend to Ongthaia the goodwill and martial protection of the Five Cities. We also bring a tribute of gold and jewels. Our triple fleet stands ready to oppose these invaders. Will you stand with us?”

  Beads of sweat glimmered on Zharua’s round face. His eyes flittered to the face of Damodar. Instead of the Jade King, it was Zyung’s envoy who answered.

  “The Great Zharua has not yet answered the Almighty’s offering of peace,” said the envoy. “Though his time for reply grows short.”

  Khama spoke before either of the young Kings could. “What offer has he made you, Zharua? The choice to die as a King or live as a slave? There is no true choice here… only a veiled threat.”

  Zharua nodded. A slave fanned him with a great peacock feather at the end of a gilded pole. “Damodar tells me the God-King brings three thousand great warships.”

  “Holy Dreadnoughts,” corrected Damodar. “Each carrying a thousand armored Manslayers.”

  Zharua swallowed a lump in his throat and downed a cup of wine offered by a female slave. Khama sensed fear hanging about the Jade King like an invisible fog, a stink of desperation. Could these numbers be true? Iardu’s vision supported the claims. Best not to consider this conflict in terms of numbers. The Manslayers were only Men. It was the God-King’s sorcerers that were the true threat. This Damodar must be one of them.

  “Three million soldiers,” said Zharua, his small eyes growing wide. “Can you imagine this, Feathered One? The forces of this Living Empire dwarf those of the Five Cities combined. And Damodar tells me there are yet more–legions of knights who ride the skies on the backs of scaly beasts…”

  “Trills,” said Damodar. “Twenty thousand, each driven by a skilled Manslayer. The Almighty’s empire is beyond anything established on this side of the world. There is no standing against his will. Yet he would rather have your loyalty than your blood.”

  “We will tear your ships from the sky!” said Undutu. His hand was already on the hilt of his sword. Khama knew he longed to cut down the emissary. D’zan sat in silence, perhaps stunned by the numbers revealed by Damodar’s boasting. He might now regret sailing east with Undutu’s fleet.

  Damodar smiled as one who indulges a child’s foolishness.

  Zharua seemed at a loss for words. How could he refuse an offer that was his only certain chance at continued existence? The Jade Islanders were not warriors. Perhaps their healthy trade would continue, even increase, under the auspices of the Living Empire. He did not realize that the true price he would pay, that all of his people must pay, would be their very souls.

  Khama stood up. “Great Zharua,” he said, “perhaps you should remove your lovely concubines and eager servants that we may speak more openly.”

  Zharua waved his hand and the ladies rose from their cushions in a jangle of jewelry and rustle of silks. They followed the slaves from the hall, one of whom led away the black tiger by its chain.

  Khama stepped closer to the nervous King. Damodar’s eyes followed him closely, the eyes of an adder moments before it strikes. “Know this, Majesty,” said Khama. “This man offers you death, not life. The death of your freedom, your sovereignty, and the independence that has made the Jade Isles a true power in the world. His master will replace your crown with a yoke; your temples will be cast into ruin and your Gods forgotten; your people will no longer be able to earn their way from slavery to wealth because all of them will be slaves to Zyung. Those who resist his smallest command will be slaughtered without mercy. The God-King cares nothing for individual lives, only for his all-consuming Order.

  “I know these things because I have walked the shores of the Living Empire. Long ago my own people fled Zyung’s hordes. I have seen lakes of blood spilled in his name. There is no other choice but to stand against him. If we must die, we will die together with honor. To do otherwise is to accept the slow death of all you hold dear. Look into my eyes, Great Zharua, and know that I speak the truth.”

  Zharua did stare into Khama’s eyes. His fear did not lessen, but an understanding dawned in his mind. Khama urged it to grow as a man fans a fire to greater heat. Zharua’s lips quivered, but he made no sound.

  “Enough!” said Damodar. For the first time the envoy’s composure was shattered. He stepped between the Jade King and Khama. The sparks of an unrevealed power glimmered in his eyes. “You speak of matters that border on heresy. You pour words into Zharua’s ears like a poison to murder his wisdom. I see now that you are a sorcerer.”

  “As are you,” said Khama.

  Damodar uncrossed his lean hands. They hung limp at his sides now. His silver robe shimmered. “Perhaps the battle for Ongthaia begins right now,” said the envoy.

  “It does,” said Khama.

  A bolt of lightning crashed through the glassy panes of a skylight. It struck Damodar with a clap of thunder. Zharua shuddered on this throne. Undutu and D’zan
leaped backward, tossing their chairs to the floor.

  Damodar’s struck body did not fall. He stood steaming in his splendid silver vestment, a grimace distorting his face for a moment. Then he laughed long and loud, perhaps at Khama, perhaps at his own fleeting pain.

  Khama’s flesh flowed like water, taking on a dozen different colors as his arms and legs merged with his torso and a riot of feathers sprouted. The two Southern Kings drew their swords, as did every man of their escorts. The guards stationed about the Jade King’s throne rushed forward to shield Zharua with their bodies.

  Damodar should have been a mass of charred flesh. The proof of his Old Breed power was evident in the fact of his surviving Khama’s strike. Now the Feathered Serpent coiled his serpentine body across the length of the hall. The maw of his triangular head bristled with fangs. He raised the black stinger at the end of his tail, broad nostrils flaring and steaming.

  The silver sorcerer was quick. He leaped above the Feathered Serpent and shot a bolt of green flame from his open mouth. Khama’s plumage ignited, black smoke streaming from his elongated body. His forked tongue shot out to constrict the envoy, but Damodar grabbed it with a flaming fist and nearly ripped it out by the roots. Khama roared in agony and his roar became a peal of thunder. Men dropped their spears and clasped hands over their ears. Damodar’s body slammed into the wall high above the marble floor.

  The Zyungian did not fall. He hovered before the cracked palace wall as mortar dust rained upon the carpets below. Khama launched himself at the sorcerer. His snout caught Damodar in the chest and tore through the shattered wall. He burst into the sky between the jade towers with Damodar clinging to his jaws. Freed of the palace confines, Khama could now bring the full force of his power to bear.

  Damodar’s eyes were silver-gray like his raiment, and blood trickled from his mouth. “You cannot survive his coming!” shouted the envoy. “We are all but sparks about his great flame!”

  The envoy released his hold on Khama’s snout and fell toward the streets of Morovanga. The Feathered Serpent coiled about in mid-air and belched a streak of lightning hotter and brighter than the one he had called from the clouds. The bolt found Damodar as he fell. This time, however, the lightning struck a sphere of light that enclosed the envoy’s body like gleaming crystal.

  Khama sped toward him on currents of hot wind, but the radiant bubble arced toward the eastern coast of the island. Damodar was no longer falling; he was flying. He shouted back at Khama, who struggled to overtake him.

  “There are hundreds of us, Khama! We are the last of the Old Breed! All of us serving him! You have a few more days to think on this…”

  Khama opened his maw to spew another thunderbolt, but the sphere of light shot away with terrible speed. Soon it was lost over the eastern horizon, where Khama saw only the green waves of the Outer Sea. Somewhere beyond that horizon, not too far from him, the Hordes of Zyung were winging their way toward the Jade Isles and the Land of the Five Cities.

  You have a few more days…

  Khama turned his wingless body back toward the island chain, a few smoldering feathers falling free of his leathery flesh. New ones grew instantly to replace them in shades of scarlet, emerald, azure, and gold.

  A matter of days. The God-King’s forces are near.

  Damodar’s power was undeniable. He could have stayed and fought Khama to a standstill. Perhaps he would have even won. Yet he fled instead back to Zyung to fulfill his mission and report Zharua’s answer. The Jade King’s decision had been made for him.

  There are hundreds of us…

  Khama soared above the Jade Palace as the islanders pointed and stared against the sun to catch a glimpse of him. He swerved and spiraled for a few moments below the heavy clouds that marred the blue sky, then sank head first toward the hole he had made in the Jade King’s roof.

  In the throne room the soldiers had sheathed their weapons. Undutu and D’zan stood close to Zharua’s throne. They spoke in tones of assurance and comforted the Jade King with statements of bravado. Great Zharua wept on his green seat, nodding his head at the words of his allies. He seemed relieved that the weight of an impossible choice had been removed from his shoulders. Yet now he must face the consequences of rejecting Damodar’s terms.

  Khama sank to the floor on a soft current of wind and resumed his manly shape. His cloak of crimson feathers had been altered; it now bore all the motley shades of his serpentine plumage. Singed feathers and shards of glass littered the carpets and pillows.

  The faces of all three Kings turned to hear Khama’s next words.

  “Zyung is coming.”

  5

  Daystar

  In the dreadnought’s heart chamber Sungui tended the Ethus Tree with thought and sickle. The tree’s bark was the color of burnished gold and smooth as a shark’s skin. Sungui floated among its maze of branches, wrapped in the earthy smell of the amber leaves. Its trunk was as wide as a merchant tower, its branches thick as arching bridges. The gleaming roots coiled seamlessly, like the branches, into the chamber’s floor and walls. The difference between branch and root was found only in the clusters of foliage growing from the former. Over the course of decades the tree had grown this ovoid chamber to cocoon itself, as it had grown the keel, hull, decks, and masts of the airship that was its extended body.

  Sungui had fostered this particular tree himself, from seedling to fully formed dreadnought. He felt strangely secure nestled inside its network of yellow limbs. His heartbeat and the tree’s own pulsing essence achieved a synchronicity similar to that of a mother tending a child. Yet, dwarfed by the tree’s colossal stature, Sungui felt more the child than the caregiver. In the presence of the Almighty he often felt this way, yet Zyung’s presence was a paternal force; the Ethus Tree seemed more like a silent mother. Sungui did not remember having any true parents.

  New sprigs constantly sprouted from the interlinking branches. If left to its own free will the Ethus would continue to manifest larger and more complex structures. The carefully sculpted shapes of dreadnoughts were guided by the thoughtforms of tree-bonded High Seraphim. Many of Sungui’s kind had bonded with two or three different Ethus Trees, yet he had refused to weaken his union with the Daystar by adding another ship to his heart-mind. This was the flagship of the Almighty himself. Sungui’s charge was to ensure that it kept a form and substance that outshone the rest of the Holy Armada.

  He raised the silver sickle and sliced a three-foot sprig from a vertical roof branch. Sap like honey dripped along the blade and pattered upon the curled roots below. A twinge of pain shuddered through the tree and along Sungui’s fingers; a momentary sensation of discomfort, soon replaced by numbness. The amber leaves rustled.

  “Be still,” Sungui whispered, as one might speak to a horse being fitted for shoes. “A few more, my darling. We are almost finished.”

  The tree responded with a silent rush of understanding. Sungui regretted the small pains that pruning caused the Ethus, but it was necessary to maintain the Daystar’s physical perfection.

  The dilemma of preserving the Ethus Tree, the Almighty had told Sungui, is the dilemma of preserving the Living Empire. Sometimes one must remove a limb in order to preserve the integrity of the body. When we destroy a rebellious city or depopulate a riotous province, the process is much like pruning the unwanted branches of the Ethus. A moment of quick pain leads to years of peace and order.

  Sungui placed the severed branch, still leaking its golden lifeblood, into the basket in his left hand. Several more branches lay there, results of his morning’s work. The tree seemed to understand the need for these moments of pain, though it could not prevent itself from sprouting more needless sprigs and stems. Its very nature was to grow beyond all orderly shape, so the High Seraphim worked constantly to preserve the shapes of the Holy Dreadnoughts.

  In his most private moments, Sungui wondered if the same was true of mankind. Perhaps mortal beings could not help but erupt in sedition and treason every
once in a while. This must be their nature, as the Ethus Tree’s nature was to grow into a glorious yet chaotic tangle of woodflesh. Without Seraphim to tend and prune the Living Empire, it would grow into chaos, and nature would inevitably destroy it.

  Sungui dismissed this line of thought as something his female aspect might ponder more readily. Duty was the soul of his male aspect. Questions about the worthiness of his position among the Seraphim sank like heavy stones into the black depths of his subconscious. He knew they would emerge to trouble him once more as soon as his aspect changed. This did not worry him, as so many other qualities changed when that metamorphosis occurred. He had accepted that, as the Ethus Tree had accepted the need for its weekly pruning.

  “There,” he said, tucking the final cutting into his basket. “All finished.” He placed a slim hand upon the golden trunk. Warmth radiated from the bright bark, and a shudder of contentment rattled the leaves about him. Sungui closed his eyes and reached out to the rest of the ship through its living core.

  Winds rushed across the curved hull, sliced by the bladed keel. The massive hold lay silent and stuffed full of provisions. Above it sixty slaves pulled upon oars to flap the two sets of canvas wings extending from the sides of the ship. The snores of another hundred and twenty slaves rattled the sleeping chamber on the same deck. At midnight the oarsmen would change shifts. The power of the Ethus Tree itself levitated the dreadnought vertically, but it took the beating of these wings and the sweat of slaves to drive it forward through the air. Conjured winds in the sails added speed, but the true mobility of the armada rested on the backs of these honored slaves. Such oarsmen were pampered and well fed, almost a separate class of slave royalty. Their strength was augmented by alchemic elixirs brewed for this purpose.