Seven Sorcerers: 3 (Books of the Shaper) - Softcover

Fultz, John R

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0316187852 ISBN 13: 9780316187855

Publisher: Orbit, 2013

Synopsis

The stunning conclusion to the Books of the Shaper series that began with Seven Princes and Seven Kings. . .

The Almighty Zyung drives his massive armies across the world to invade the Land of the Five Cities. So begins the final struggle between freedom and tyranny.

The Southern Kings D'zan and Undutu lead a fleet of warships to meet Zyung's aerial armada. Vireon the Slayer and Tyro the Sword King lead Men and Giants to defend the free world. So begins the great slaughter of the age. . .

lardu the Shaper and Sharadza Vodsdaughter must awaken the Old Breed to face Zyung's legion of sorcerers. So begins a desperate quest beyond the material world into strange realms of magic and mystery.

Yet already it may be too late. . .

About this title

About the Author

John R. Fultz lives in the Bay Area, California, but is originally from Kentucky. His fiction has appeared in Black Gate, Weird Tales, Space & Time, Lightspeed, Way of the Wizard, and Cthulhu's Reign. His comic book work includes Primordia, Zombie Tales, and Cthulhu Tales. John's literary heroes include Tanith Lee, Thomas Ligotti, Clark Ashton Smith, Lord Dunsany, William Gibson, Robert Silverberg, and Darrell Schweitzer, not to mention Howard, Poe, and Shakespeare. When not writing novels, stories, or comics, John teaches English Literature at the high school level and plays a mean guitar.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Seven Sorcerers

By John R. Fultz

Orbit

Copyright © 2013 John R. Fultz
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-316-18785-5

CHAPTER 1

Those Who Listen

Beneath an arbor of fig trees they lay at sundown, discreet as any other pair oflovers. Above their tender exertions starlight kissed leaf and blossom. Theinterplay of lean arms and legs mimicked the woven branches of the trees. Anage-old dance of heat and flame, stoked by the friction of supple bodies.

How many eons had passed since they learned the glorious secret ofjoining without subsiding, giving without loss, sharingwithout weakening? Nations had risen and fallen and risen again since thegaining of that mortal skill. A savage continent had grown into a bright empiresince that primeval day when they took on fleshly bodies and learned to sharethem.

Only the stars themselves were more ancient, blinking above the gnarledbranches, casting no judgments on the lovers. During such rare moments theyrecalled for a time the ancient truth of those stars and the freedom of the darkgulfs between them.

Sungui had taken her female aspect this evening, knowing that Mahaavar scornedits opposite. From lips to breasts to hips, even to the tips of her toes, hepraised her womanhood with kisses and soft caresses. As a male she could onlyhave been his comrade, a fellow philosopher, and perhaps a drinking companion.There were many who felt a keen desire for Sungui's male aspect; yet themasculine form did not lend itself to intimacy in the same way.

So many of the Seraphim did not understand this: To assume any form wasto endure its intrinsic vitality, to the point where form and purpose might beblended beyond all hope of separation.

So had the Old Breed been Diminished.

The lure of the world was strong. The temptation to join the realm of flesh andstone and soil was what had brought them here so long ago. It drew themdownward, welcoming them into its deep folds and valleys, the churning depths ofits seas, the rolling emerald of its forests, the pristine wastes of its desertlands. The beauty and power of the world itself had Diminished them all.

Zyung the Almighty had not been mastered by the earth. Instead, he had masteredit. Or so most of her kind believed, and his Living Empire proved it. Thegreatest among them had avoided the snare of the earth and its wonders. Zyungdid not assimilate, he conquered.

Yet the empire that he built–that all of them helped him tobuild–even now drew him into itself, calcifying his existence, his veryidentity, like nothing else ever could.

Zyung was his empire; the Living Empire was Zyung. On the altar of his supremacyshe had found the black shard of hope that was her deadliest weapon. She kept ithidden for generations, like a dagger tucked into the robe of a patient yetambitious slave. No one else had seen the dark glimmer of its blade.

Soon she would show it to them.

The Garden of Twenty-Seven Delights lay in an obscure corner of the temple-palace complex, a labyrinth of trellised walls, sculpted avenues, and fountainedwalks. Orchards, arboretums, vineyards, and cloistered parks surrounded thegarden. A white tower of five sides rose above the sparkling domes to block theview of the temple-palace proper.

The Holy Mountain, the faithful called it. Yet the citadel was not carved fromany existing mountain; it was built by the hands of Men to stand as high andmagnificent as any natural peak. The work of a million slaves, their tiny,broken lives scattered across the centuries. The stones of the soaring wallswere mortared with their blood and bones.

Sungui recalled them swarming like ants across the unfinished ramparts of theflat-topped pyramid, swinging like a clutch of spiders from ropes as theysculpted the gargantuan face of Zyung on its southernmost façade. The last stonehad been set, the last chisel laid down, more than five hundred years ago, yetthe vision lived as clearly in her mind as if seen only yesterday. She avoidedlooking at that titanic face, both in the light of day and in the silver gloomof night.

In the same way that she avoided the carven face, she had learned to avoid thetrue face of the Almighty when it suited her purposes. The trick was to focushis attention elsewhere, as it had been for centuries now. The Almighty dreamedof the ripe, untamed lands beyond the Outer Sea. His growing obsession with theexpansion of the Living Empire gave her the opportunity she had awaited sincethe City of Celestial Truth had been a mud-walled village alongside a stinkingriver.

Sungui arose from a carpet of grass and petals, donning a robe of iridescentsilver. Mahaavar did the same, brushing purple blossoms from his shoulders. Hisshimmering vestment was identical in every way to her own. There were nodistinctions among the High Seraphim. Another way in which Zyung reinforcedtheir Diminishing: Making them equal.

All save himself.

None were equal to the Almighty.

She smirked at the moon, which the earth's shadow had divided precisely in half.Could there be an omen in that particular astronomic event? She had notconsulted the moon charts when planning tonight's gathering.

They did not need to speak, Mahaavar and she. Their bodies had expressedeverything in the ciphers of touch and sensation. The earthly manifestations oftheir eternal spirits. The complimentary nature of their bodies was their mosteffective communication. Mahaavar kissed her lips once again before leaving thegarden; his were still hot and tasted of cinnamon.

Along the Path of Contemplation they walked, two silver-robes strolling in theunhurried way common to those in power. Slaves tending the nightflowers scurriedfrom the path, prostrating themselves; the clacking of shears resumed as theypassed. Guards in hawk-faced visors stiffened as the two High Seraphim walked bytheir stations upon garden walls and bridges. A nightingale sang sweetly amongthe clustered vines that hemmed the pathway. Sungui's bare feet on the polishedmarble made no sound; Mahaavar moved as quietly as she.

They passed through an arch of jade carved into a parade of winged children, andso came into the Grotto of Sighing Flowers. A breeze stirred the hems of theirgarments, the naked breath of great, pulsing blossoms. At the nearest of theInner Walls, they paused while an alabaster gate rose to admit them. Theyentered the courtyard of the Thirty-Ninth Tower and crossed a lawn where white-barked trees harbored flocks of nesting doves. Only here, away from the ears ofpassing slaves and functionaries, did Mahaavar speak to her.

"How many do you expect?" he whispered.

"It does not matter," she said.

"Will they listen?"

"They have always listened," she said.

He said nothing, stifling his confusion.

"Yet they never—"

"Not yet," she said. "Such things take time. Longer than you could guess." Shestopped in the middle of the courtyard, where the sound of cooing birds filledthe branches. "Do you even remember how long it took to build the Holy Mountain?Do you remember–truly remember–how old you are?"

Mahaavar looked at the shadows swimming about the tree roots. A holy vipercrawled through the grass, its white scales speckled with a pattern of scarletdiamonds.

"Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes I recall ... another life ... or lives."

She smiled and caressed his cheek. "They were all you, Beautiful Mahaavar."

Sungui turned and the pace resumed. Through a second gate of whitewashed oak andiron they entered a narrow corridor with recessed candles lining the walls. Aslave carrying a bundle of cloth paused before them, lying flat upon the floorso that they might walk upon his back. Sungui and Mahaavar stepped across theman's bony frame one at a time. He neither groaned nor complained, although shedid hear the complaint of his brittle bones. As they proceeded down thecorridor, the slave was up again and carrying his burden in the direction fromwhich they had come.

"Why here, in this mean place crawling with slaves?" Mahaavar asked. "It stinksof sweat and fear."

She breathed deeply the close air of the Slave Quarters. She smelled only sweat,soap, and the exhalations of simple cuisine. Slaves' cooking. Mahaavar was herspoiled lover, unaccustomed to walking in the lower precincts of the HolyMountain. He was much like a boy, and she loved him for that as much as fortheir ancient and bloodless kinship. She allowed herself a lingering glance athis handsome face: high-set cheekbones, ebony hair, eyes blue as sapphire, thepetulant mouth of a princeling. A lost and doddering God of the ancient worldmight look as fetching, were there ever any such beings. Adoring the beauty ofhis face, recalling the hot embrace of his body, she could understand why humanshad created this notion of Gods.

Yet that was long ago, and all those imaginary deities had been slain,forgotten, or suffused into the essence of the High Lord Celestial himself.Zyung was their only God now. The one God they could believe in because hewalked among them working miracles, casting dooms, spreading his gifts of painand death. For thousands of years it had been so. And it might be so forthousands more.

Might be.

"Relax, my love," she told Mahaavar as they descended granite stairs. "Do youpredict the Almighty's eyes will turn from dreams of western conquest to searchout the catacombs where his slaves dwell?"

Mahaavar grinned. "Your cleverness amuses me. His Holiness would never expect tofind a single one of his High Seraphim in such a place." Sungui nodded, strandsof her dark hair whispering against the flared shoulders of her vestment.

Curtains of steam wafted in the damp air. A corridor of unadorned stone led theminto an underground gallery dominated by a great, square pool of murky water.Young slaves tended two hearths where flames licked about hot stones. As the twoHigh Seraphim entered, a terrified boy dropped a burning rock he was liftingwith a pair of iron tongs. It fell steaming to the floor between his feet,glowing like a miniature red sun.

Several adult slaves were bathing in the pool. Their faces lit with surprise,then abject fear. They rushed up out of the pool, grabbing towels to wrapthemselves and shuffling the bath-tenders out of the chamber with a series ofbows, prostrations, and nervous words. In a few seconds the chamber stood emptybut for the two High Seraphim in their glittering robes, perspiring in thesteam.

Sungui raised a finger to her lips, ensuring Mahaavar's silence. They did nothave long to wait. Four dark archways glimmered silver as ten more High Seraphimentered the chamber to stand about the abandoned pool.

Sungui's eyes greeted each of them in turn. Damodar with his shaven skull andlarge ears, nose pierced by a hoop of sacred platinum. Eshad, whose impressivephysique shamed even that of Mahaavar, cords of muscle coiled beneath the brightskin of his robes. Myrinhama, whose golden hair fell to her waist, and whosealmond eyes were golden as well. Gulzarr and Darisha, who had been lovers forcenturies, ageless and inscrutable behind faces of serene beauty. Durangshara,portly as any spoiled merchant, who took his joy from the fruits of the earthand his pleasure from the howls of slaves. Johaar and Mezviit and Aldreka, whocould be triplets they were so alike in form, taste, and bearing. And finallyLavanyia, whose hair was a mound of sable silk piled atop her lovely head. Shereminded Sungui of the great lionesses that roamed the Weary Plains to thesouth. She could also be as dangerous, as bloodthirsty, and as unforgiving asone of those proud beasts.

Of them all, Lavanyia would be the hardest to convince.

They used to be so much more. So much greater. Some of them remembered this.Others Sungui had to remind. A single decade or less was all it took for theworld's allure to smother and calcify these spirits who lingered in its fertilebosom. Yet Sungui had long ago found an advantage over her fellow Seraphim. Eachof them had chosen a gender long ago and embraced it. She refused to do so. Theflux of her aspects and the shifting of her form was her last defense againstthe tide of earthly influences that threatened to rob her of her true self.

"Brothers and Sisters," Sungui began. "The time has come to remember." Shenearly sang the words, so soft and melodious was her tone. She had learned howto charm them, imitating the ways of comely humans. It was partly why they allloved her. She catered to their whims, their secret delights, their hiddennatures. She knew them better than they knew themselves. They knew her as twobeings, twin aspects, and so she carried mystery and beauty with her likeprecious stones.

She raised her hands as if to embrace them all. They took graceful steps aboutthe edge of the pool, gathering into a close circle. Mahaavar stood at Sungui'sleft hand, staring at the faces of the conspiracy he would join.

Sungui sensed his eagerness. Mahaavar did not understand that there was no realsedition yet. No blasphemy. There was only this small group. Those Who Listen.There were only her words and these listeners' undeniable need to hear what shewould say. They had not gathered like this in several years. Yet years passedlike days for their kind. There were a thousand more High Seraphim across theLiving Empire who knew nothing of these assemblies. Yet an idea must take rootin the minds of the few. Later it might spread like wild vines across the ranksof the Celestial Ones, and they might finally awaken from this worldly dream.

These listeners were enough for now. The early seeds of a future forest.

The contracted circle gleamed with curious eyes. A ripple of light flashedacross the silvery robes. Sungui bowed her head.

"In the time before time's advent, we moved between the stars," she said. "Theywere our mothers and fathers, our blazing progenitors. We sailed the vast etherand swam the oceans of eternity. Now we gather once more to recall the truth ofwhat we are. We look back. We look inward. We listen once more to the music ofour ancient selves, that it may remind us, reshape us, restore us."

"Hold," said a liquid voice. Sungui raised her eyes to the leonine face ofLavanyia. Never before had a listener interrupted her guided meditation. Thelioness stared at Sungui, as did the rest of the circle. Even Mahaavar's eyeswere upon her now. A chill crept up Sungui's spine.

"There is an Ear among us," said Lavanyia. Her onyx eyes did not leave Sungui'sown. The eyes of the others darted nervously from face to face, peering into theshadows for any slaves that might be eavesdropping. There were none.

Sungui sighed.

"I am aware of this," she said.

"Then speak not another word until it has been removed," said Lavanyia. Sunguistood transfixed by her imperious beauty. She longed to turn her back on themall and so reassert her dominance of the gathering. Yet she only stared atLavanyia and blinked.

"Now is not the time," she said.

Durangshara chuckled, his loose jowls quivering. "Shall we wait until HisHoliness hears of this and annihilates us one by one?"

Mahaavar laid his hand upon Sungui's shoulder. His touch was firm yet gentle, ashis lovemaking had been earlier. "A spy among us?" Mahaavar asked. "Let me killhim, Sungui. To prove my loyalty."

Sungui ignored the tightening of her stomach, the quickening of her pulse. Shedid not want this. Not tonight. She had hoped this ceremony would turn the Earto her own purposes. Yet she knew the danger of such a gamble. The Almighty sawall there was to see in his realm, and the only way to avoid his gaze was tohide in the lowest of places, nooks and crannies that were beneath hisattention. Hence the Slave Bath, where her listeners stood at odds in the fadingsteam.

Her eyes narrowed as she leaned toward Lavanyia. An unspoken challenge beamed inthe eyes of the lioness. Lavanyia would take control of this revolution beforeit ever grew to fruition, if only she could recall the truth as well as Sungui.Yet Lavanyia could not. How she must envy Sungui's retention of identity whileall those around her continued to Diminish. Perhaps Lavanyia even suspected thatit was Sungui's double aspect which made her less susceptible to the Almighty'sdominance. The lioness could not control the listeners, so she sought instead tocontrol the speaker.

The moment of challenge seemed endless. Sungui might have turned away, but shedid not. Her upper lip curled. A ripple ran across her body beneath the brightvestment. A familiar passion rose from her groin into her stomach, nearly burstfrom her throat. Her jaw-line shifted, her nose grew hawkish, her shouldersexpanded, and the muscles of her arms, legs, and chest swelled. Manhood roselike a granite obelisk, rushing through flesh like angry blood, and she grewsomewhat taller. At the same time she drew from the left sleeve of her robe adagger of black metal, hilt crusted with rubies, blade etched with dread sigils.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Seven Sorcerers by John R. Fultz. Copyright © 2013 John R. Fultz. Excerpted by permission of Orbit.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Orbit
• Publication date: 2013
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0316187852
• ISBN 13: 9780316187855
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 448