Allan Cole - The Gods Awaken

Blue spears of light shot from her hooves, driving the flames back. And opening a passage through the boiling red sea.

Then the Spirit Rider whirled her mount about, shouting once again for them to follow, and charged out of sight.

Khysmet surged forward and there came a crack! crack! crack! A series of explosions so loud Safar felt like the bones of his shared body were about to burst.

And then everything became hazy. And everything became quite still.

And the only sounds were the boom of a slow, gentle surf, the rhythmic throbbing of sweet harvest drums, and a thousand glad voices lifted in song:

"…Lady, oh Lady, surrender.

Surrender. Surrender…"

The haze lifted and Safar found himself striding across warm sands. Khysmet was no longer with him, nor was the Spirit Rider.

In the distance he could clearly see the handsome dancing people of Hadinland. And there was their fabulous queen, bronzed hips and breasts heaving in the harvest dance.

Above the whole scene loomed the volcano. Beckoning and threatening at the same time.

Safar felt suffused with renewed hope and energy. His sight had returned and he was once again in full control of his body.

He felt so strong he barely noticed his armor. If the fates decreed his death, he thought, this was how he wanted to meet it.

"Welcome back, brother!" came a familiar voice.

And Safar looked to his left and saw Iraj striding beside him. Bedecked in burnished, kingly mail, Protarus was as young and handsome as when he'd first taken to the conqueror's road. His golden hair and beard glistened in the bright, tropical sun. And his smile was glad and innocent, as if he'd been washed of all his sins.

"The question is," Iraj said, "after all that has happened between us, are we still truly brothers?"

Safar wasn't sure how to answer. Wasn't clear in his feelings. And even if he had been capable of such clarity at this particular fates-colliding moment, he wasn't sure he ought to answer.

And then:

"I'm here, father," came another voice.

Safar looked to his right and saw Palimak, tall and slender, with shoulders as wide as the spreading branches of a new oak tree. His eyes glowed with demon fires and his claws were ten glistening daggers.

Palimak smiled, exposing long, double-rowed demon teeth. And even as Safar looked he saw his son's face transform, the forehead bulging, the demon horn bursting through. And his skin toughened and deepened in color until it was an emerald green.

The boy sadly flicked out his long demon tongue and asked, "Do you still love me, father?"

Again, Safar was confounded. But for an entirely different reason. How could Palimak ever doubt he loved him? Had he been such an unfeeling father that his own son-never mind he was adopted-doubted his love? Under any circumstances? Demon or human, or half-way in between, what did it matter?

Palimak was just Palimak.

Then it came to him-the same was true of Iraj!

And Leiria, oh, yes, Leiria; he loved her too.

Safar said: "All my words are poor. You ask if I love you, son. Of course I do. I always have and always will. And you, Iraj. You ask if I am your friend. And my answer is the same. Even in my hate I loved you."

Then he pointed at the glowering, fire-spitting volcano.

"There is the doomspell that has driven us all these years. And if we manage to destroy it we'll awaken the gods.

"But I must warn you both it's unlikely that the gods will thank us. I think they'll curse us instead and make us suffer for what we've done."

Iraj said, "Be damned to them, brother! What can they possibly do to me that I haven't already done to myself?"

Palimak snorted agreement. "I don't care what the gods think. They may have created this world but we're the ones who must make a life here the best we can!"

Safar laughed. "Very well, then," he said. "Let's have at it!"

Iraj slapped him on the back. "Good, it's settled. Now, brother, let's hear your plan."

He gestured at the dancing people. Just beyond them, standing behind Queen Yorlain, was the bulky figure of King Rhodes, leaning easily against his sword.

"What's the best way," he asked, "to make these fools beg for mercy?"

Safar grinned ruefully. "Actually," he said, "I don't have a plan. Nor do I have any magical tricks up my sleeve. Just my sword to put with yours."

"And mine," Palimak whispered, drawing his weapon.

Iraj roared laughter. "Then be damned to us all!" he shouted.

And with that he charged the dancing people, bounding across the rolling sand dunes on his way to meet whatever the fates had in store for him.

Feeling as foolish and frightened as he had years before when he charged after Iraj down the snowy passes of the Godsa€™ Divide, Safar ran after him.

He heard Palimak shout something, but he couldn't make out the words. And a moment later his demon son was sprinting past him, closing on Iraj.

Safar put on speed to catch up, leaping over dunes and showering sand in his wake as he raced onward.

Soon he was up with them, Iraj and Palimak only a few steps ahead.

But then he smelled the thick, rusty scent of blood. And he knew it to be his blood and Iraj's blood and Palimak's blood.

The scent was delicious-soul-satisfying. And then he realized he was smelling their scent through the hungry senses of others.

Then the dancers all turned to confront the three charging warriors.

They smiled, exposing long canine teeth. And they shouted in glee as their prey ran into their arms.

And Safar finally realized who the dancers really were: emotional and physical vampires, who sucked out a man's soul along with his blood.

And they sang:

"Surrender … surrender…"

And all his will left him. To be replaced by a fabulous narcotic-like joy. He wanted to be with them again.

He wanted to be ruled again.

Oh, how he ached to dance.

Dance, dance, dance.

Dance to the beat of their hungry hearts…

And more than anything else he desired to expose his throat, his wrists, his every blood-pumping, pulsating vein and artery to their fangs.

Just beyond them, Queen Yorlain danced, thrusting her hips, harder, harder. Making him lust for surrender all the more.

But then he saw Rhodes, leaning on his sword and laughing through his thick beard.

Damn you! Safar thought. Damn you!

And he was released from the death spell that bound him and he started dealing out death of his own.

Beautiful people, ugly-spirited people, all dying under his sword.

Evil as they were-long teeth reaching to suck the life from him-Safar cried out in agony with each killing sword stroke. As if each mortally wounding blow were struck at himself, instead of his enemies.

Yet, to his wonder, it was his enemies who died, not Safar Timura.

And they died so easily. Their flesh was soft, their defenses weak.

And they fell away, fell away, with each stroke of his sword.

And blood-so much blood-was released by his blade.

The dancers didn't shout or scream, but only chanted his name as he killed each one of them.

"Safar, Safar, Safar. Safar, Safar…"

On and on, dying and spouting his name along with their blood.

Then he was stumbling over the bodies Iraj and Palimak had left in their wake. And mortally wounded men and women-so beautifully formed one and all that it made their wounds and impending deaths seem especially abhorrent.

And they all moaned: "Safar, Safar, Safar. Please, Safar!" Until it drove him mad.

What did they want of him? They were his enemies. They were monsters and vampires and all the evil things a mortal could imagine.