Seven Sorcerers

Book 3: Books of the Shaper

by John R. Fultz

Genres: Action & Adventure; Epic Fantasy; Historical Fantasy

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. . .

Release date: December 10, 2013

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 448

Sample

The two brothers met high above the world on the peak of a black mountain.

They were not true brothers as Men understand the term.

Nor were they true Men, or anything like them. Not yet. They were more like two great winds that sculpt the faces of mountains and stir the seas to wave and tempest.

This world was not their home, for they were born of distant stars. Yet their kind had lingered here since the continents were mounds of cooling magma between boiling oceans. The world had cooled now, and the brothers had risen above the others of their kind. They had replaced the towering chaos of the previous age with a kind of stillness and order.

Now they looked upon the green and fertile lands of the great continent below. Their eyes roamed beyond the purple horizons, past the golden deserts, across the vast swamplands, and even to the shores of the Cryptic Sea that divides the earth. They gazed into the low places and the high, observing the tiny things that climbed in the great forests and came down to wander the emerald plains.

“See how these brave little creatures take to the land,” said the elder brother. “They have learned the secrets of fire and carving stone.”

“They are clever indeed,” said the younger brother. “I have watched them for a long while now. They are unlike the many species our kind has created, for the earth itself has made them. Yet I cannot say for what reason.”

“Our own creations were made only to amuse or serve us,” said the elder. “Yet these Earthborn seem to have their own sense of purpose. They are driven to master the land and they commune with its essence. Perhaps they know secrets that even we do not guess.”

“Yet see how they gather in distinct bands and make war upon each other. They build and grow strong, only to destroy and become weak again. The cycle continues and they are unable to break it. They have great potential, yet they remain blind to it. There is no unity among them, therefore they may never achieve the greatness that is their inheritance.”

“We must give them aid,” said the elder. “With our guidance they will grow wise and their numbers will flourish. If we teach them to overcome their own base nature, they may one day reach the destiny for which they were born. On that day we will know the answer to this mystery, brother.”

“I have reached the same conclusion,” said the younger brother, watching two tribes of Earthborn slaughter one another over a narrow strip of hunting ground. “We must take their form and walk among them. We shall be sages, oracles, and voices of wisdom, shaping them gradually into something greater. Urging them with kindness toward their distant fate.”

The elder brother’s breath was like thunder falling from the mountain. “No,” he said. “This is not the way. They are violent predators by nature; they will not understand our advice. We must take the shape of their Gods, conquer them, and force them to live according to the dictates of order. This is the only way to ensure lasting peace among the Earthborn.”

The younger threw up his arms like flames dancing upon the mountaintop. “You are wrong, brother. If you do this you will crush the spirit that makes them unique. They must remain free to find their own way. You cannot force them to enlightenment, you must lead them. A mountain is not made in an instant; it is sculpted by the elements over the course of many ages.”

“These creatures will battle one another to extinction long before they gain the wisdom of which you speak,” said the elder. “As the younger, you must follow my words.”

“I will not do it,” said the younger. “You would trample the garden that you seek to grow. Can you not see the flaw in your vision?”

“I will trample only those weeds that would spoil and choke the garden of peace. Otherwise the kindest blossoms will never bloom.”

“Then we must part ways,” said the younger brother. “Go you into the west and build your garden as you will. I will travel east and begin my shaping of the Earthborn into something greater than their origins. Let us meet here again after an agreed period of time and compare the works we have accomplished. In this way we will discover whose philosophy is the wiser.”

“Let it be done,” said the elder brother.

And this period of time they agreed upon was five hundred years as Men reckon it.

Five centuries later the two brothers met once more upon the mountain’s summit, and now they each wore the shapes of Men. The eyes of the elder brother were twin stars, and the skin of the younger brother was the color of burnished gold.

“I united six great warring tribes,” said the younger, the winds of the upper earth tearing at his silver beard. “With my guidance and their own adroit skills they constructed three fine cities of granite and marble. I have achieved much by offering insight without conquest.”

“So there is peace among your peoples?” asked the elder.

The younger frowned, and a gray rain fell upon the pinnacle. “For a while there was,” he said. “Until two of these cities joined forces and destroyed the third, enslaving the survivors. Later these two cities warred upon each other as well, until only one was left. Yet it is a fine, tall, and proud city. There are philosophers, poets, dreamers, sages, and minstrels among the warriors and builders.”

“So there is still war in the west?”

“Sadly, there is.”

“I unified eight mighty eastern tribes,” said the elder, “by killing their chieftains, casting down their temples, and making myself their only God. They have built a city of white towers and a temple-palace that bears my visage. In my name the people of the white city conquered ten more tribes in the surrounding lands. Now there are two cities that worship me. I have also enlisted a great number of our own kind to serve my endeavors. In doing so, they serve the destiny of the Earthborn. I ask now that you join us, brother.”

“So there is peace among your peoples?” asked the younger.

The elder smiled and the rain turned to sleet, crowning the mountaintop with ice. “Not yet,” he said. “For my holy armies march to conquer all the tribes of the world. They pursue a dream of grand unity that will result in ultimate peace and order.”

“So there is still war in the east?”

“Yes, along the growing frontier of the Holy Empire. But peace is our aim.”

“Then we are both closer to our goal,” said the younger brother. “However, neither of us has yet achieved it.”

“My philosophy of unity through conquest is superior to your gradual reshaping,” said the elder. “For my people possess three great cities unified by a single cause. Your people possess only one city, and they have no greater purpose.”

“It seems to me that these three great cities truly belong to you, brother,” said the younger, “instead of to the Earthborn who built them. My people’s city belongs wholly to them, and each one of them is free to find his own purpose. Your people possess neither peace nor freedom.”

“Still we cannot agree,” said the elder. “We must go back into the world below and continue our work. Let us meet here one more time, when another five hundred of Men’s years are passed. Then we will see once and for all whose philosophy is the wiser.”

“Let it be done,” said the younger.

And they soared upon stormwinds into the realms east and west.

One last time the brothers met upon the frozen summit of the mountain. The world below had greatly changed in the second five hundred years. The Earthborn now inhabited every climate and domain of the great continent. Their villages and temples sprouted from plain, riverbank, mountainside, desert, forest, and seaside. They plied the deep waters with nautical vessels that harnessed the wind, and they tamed the beasts of earth and sky.

“See here,” said the younger brother, who was a bright flame upon the mountain’s summit. “I have fostered eight more cities among the Earthborn, built by their own hands and belonging wholly to them. For a while they warred upon each other, but now these nine proud capitals have signed peace treaties, uniting distant lands by the words and deeds of their wise Kings. They have mastered the metals of the deep earth, harnessed the land to feed their masses, and developed written languages capable of profound expression. There is beauty and wisdom in their songs and their creations, despite their adherence to the ancient ways.”

“So there is peace among your peoples?” asked the elder brother.

“To a point,” said the younger. “The nine Kings still make war upon the barbarian tribes of the north and south, seeking to force the worship of their own Gods upon the heathens. Yet the cities have achieved peace between themselves. The Earthborn have grown as a species and will continue to evolve toward unity and peace for all Men.”

“So there is still war in the east?”

“Yes, along the borders of north and south.”

“I rule over twenty united cities who call me their God and Master,” said the elder. “A thousand of our own kind serve my vision now, delivering my justice and decrees through their formidable power. My empire is strong, and it has grown to encompass all the lands of the west. My generals look to the east, north, and south, where they see the strange Gods worshipped by your people. Soon we will move eastward and bring order to the rest of the great continent.”

“So there is peace among your peoples?” asked the younger.

“There is,” said the elder. “For I have given them no other choice.”

“Yet the west will make war upon the east in the name of peace.”

“Yes, for ultimate peace can only come with ultimate conquest. When all cities and peoples are united under my name, the Earthborn will be freed from their predatory origins. Even your eastern barbarians will be part of this great dream I have fostered. As you can see, brother, my philosophy has proven the greater. I ask you again to join us, for my Earthborn realm will soon swallow your own.”

The younger brother rose up like a whirlwind of light and fury. He smote the elder and cast him from the mountaintop, which crumbled beneath them and released its inner fires. The blazing blood of the mountain poured along its sides, melting its icy crown. The elder brother cast the starlight of his eyes like arrows into the flesh of the younger, burning him terribly. Then he cast the younger into the molten center of the mountain and shouted these words after him:

“You may sleep in the depths of the earth if you wish while I go to conquer the lands your shaping has failed. Or you may rise up and serve me as do the others of our kind. If you still wish to aid the Earthborn and one day discover their destiny, there can be no other way. Confront me not again, or I will devour you as the stars devour dying worlds.”

The elder brother departed the broken mountain and returned to his empire.

After a while the younger brother crawled from the flaming pit and walked toward the nearest of his eastern cities. There he saw the western armies swarming across the plains and casting boulders at the marble walls. The city burned like the broken mountain, and its people refused to surrender, so they died in great numbers.

The younger brother unleashed his wrath upon the invading horde, but an endless succession of conquering legions came over the horizon. A storm of death and destruction fell upon the peaceful eastern city, wiping it from the earth.

The younger brother would not give up his dream of reshaping the Earthborn into something greater by preserving their free will. Their wild spirits must evolve according to nature and time, not be forced into false progress. He had seen Men steal the spirits of proud stallions by breaking them, and he loved his people too well to let this be their fate. Men were not beasts to be corralled and enslaved. They were the Children of Earth, and their descendants would be its inheritors.

They called him the Shaper, and they knew well that he was no God, for the Gods remained deaf to their pleas while the conquering hordes marched on. An Age of Blood and Fire had begun, and the Gods of Men neither noticed nor cared.

The Shaper gathered about him all those who would listen. He spoke of the false God that was coming to break and enslave them, the mighty numbers of the Conqueror’s armies, and the terrible powers at the Conqueror’s command. Running always just ahead of war’s red tide, the Shaper led his followers to the next eastern city, and the next, until he had assembled a multitude of families from each of the nine eastern realms. Yet there were multitudes who refused to flee, choosing instead to stay and defend their lands against the advancing western empire.

The Shaper led his people to the sea, where a fleet of vessels was constructed from the wood of an ancient forest. They sailed across the arc of the world, leaving the great continent to the mercies of the western hordes.

It is not known how long the People of the Shaper lingered upon the Cryptic Sea, or how many of them died in the perilous crossing. Yet with the Shaper’s constant guidance, and a deep patience born of wisdom, they came at last to a new continent on the far side of the world.

This was the Land of Serpents, and life there was not easy.

Eventually the Stoneborn, who were called Giants, rose up to cleanse this land of its monsters, driving the People of the Shaper south and claiming the north as their own. There was no place for Men in the Giantlands, yet mankind thrived south of the Grim Mountains.

Still there were wars among Men, yet five great cities rose proud and shining.

The Shaper’s dream endured, although at times even he needed to be reminded of it.

Nor was he the last of the Old Breed to foster a kingdom in the Land of the Five Cities.

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

How many eons had passed since they learned the glorious secret of joining without subsiding, giving without loss, sharing without weakening? Nations had risen and fallen and risen again since the gaining of that mortal skill. A savage continent had grown into a bright empire since that primeval day when they took on fleshly bodies and learned to share them.

Only the stars themselves were more ancient, blinking above the gnarled branches, casting no judgments on the lovers. During such rare moments they recalled for a time the ancient truth of those stars and the freedom of the dark gulfs between them.

Sungui had taken her female aspect this evening, knowing that Mahaavar scorned its opposite. From lips to breasts to hips, even to the tips of her toes, he praised her womanhood with kisses and soft caresses. As a male she could only have 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 the masculine form did not lend itself to intimacy in the same way.

So many of the Seraphim did not understand this: To assume any form was to endure its intrinsic vitality, to the point where form and purpose might be blended 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 and stone and soil was what had brought them here so long ago. It drew them downward, welcoming them into its deep folds and valleys, the churning depths of its seas, the rolling emerald of its forests, the pristine wastes of its desert lands. 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 mastered it. Or so most of her kind believed, and his Living Empire proved it. The greatest among them had avoided the snare of the earth and its wonders. Zyung did not assimilate, he conquered.

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

Zyung was his empire; the Living Empire was Zyung. On the altar of his supremacy she had found the black shard of hope that was her deadliest weapon. She kept it hidden for generations, like a dagger tucked into the robe of a patient yet ambitious 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 fountained walks. Orchards, arboretums, vineyards, and cloistered parks surrounded the garden. A white tower of five sides rose above the sparkling domes to block the view of the temple-palace proper.

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

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

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

Sungui arose from a carpet of grass and petals, donning a robe of iridescent silver. Mahaavar did the same, brushing purple blossoms from his shoulders. His shimmering vestment was identical in every way to her own. There were no distinctions among the High Seraphim. Another way in which Zyung reinforced their 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 not consulted the moon charts when planning tonight’s gathering.

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

Along the Path of Contemplation they walked, two silver-robes strolling in the unhurried way common to those in power. Slaves tending the nightflowers scurried from the path, prostrating themselves; the clacking of shears resumed as they passed. Guards in hawk-faced visors stiffened as the two High Seraphim walked by their stations upon garden walls and bridges. A nightingale sang sweetly among the clustered vines that hemmed the pathway. Sungui’s bare feet on the polished marble made no sound; Mahaavar moved as quietly as she.

They passed through an arch of jade carved into a parade of winged children, and so came into the Grotto of Sighing Flowers. A breeze stirred the hems of their garments, the naked breath of great, pulsing blossoms. At the nearest of the Inner Walls, they paused while an alabaster gate rose to admit them. They entered 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 of passing 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.” She stopped in the middle of the courtyard, where the sound of cooing birds filled the 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 viper crawled through the grass, its white scales speckled with a pattern of scarlet diamonds.

“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 and iron they entered a narrow corridor with recessed candles lining the walls. A slave carrying a bundle of cloth paused before them, lying flat upon the floor so that they might walk upon his back. Sungui and Mahaavar stepped across the man’s bony frame one at a time. He neither groaned nor complained, although she did hear the complaint of his brittle bones. As they proceeded down the corridor, the slave was up again and carrying his burden in the direction from which they had come.

“Why here, in this mean place crawling with slaves?” Mahaavar asked. “It stinks of 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 her spoiled lover, unaccustomed to walking in the lower precincts of the Holy Mountain. He was much like a boy, and she loved him for that as much as for their ancient and bloodless kinship. She allowed herself a lingering glance at his handsome face: high-set cheekbones, ebony hair, eyes blue as sapphire, the petulant mouth of a princeling. A lost and doddering God of the ancient world might look as fetching, were there ever any such beings. Adoring the beauty of his face, recalling the hot embrace of his body, she could understand why humans had 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 he walked among them working miracles, casting dooms, spreading his gifts of pain and death. For thousands of years it had been so. And it might be so for thousands more.

Might be.

“Relax, my love,” she told Mahaavar as they descended granite stairs. “Do you predict the Almighty’s eyes will turn from dreams of western conquest to search out the catacombs where his slaves dwell?”

Mahaavar grinned. “Your cleverness amuses me. His Holiness would never expect to find a single one of his High Seraphim in such a place.” Sungui nodded, strands of 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 them into 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 two High Seraphim entered, a terrified boy dropped a burning rock he was lifting with 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 wrap themselves and shuffling the bath-tenders out of the chamber with a series of bows, prostrations, and nervous words. In a few seconds the chamber stood empty but for the two High Seraphim in their glittering robes, perspiring in the steam.

Sungui raised a finger to her lips, ensuring Mahaavar’s silence. They did not have long to wait. Four dark archways glimmered silver as ten more High Seraphim entered the chamber to stand about the abandoned pool.

Sungui’s eyes greeted each of them in turn. Damodar with his shaven skull and large ears, nose pierced by a hoop of sacred platinum. Eshad, whose impressive physique shamed even that of Mahaavar, cords of muscle coiled beneath the bright skin of his robes. Myrinhama, whose golden hair fell to her waist, and whose almond eyes were golden as well. Gulzarr and Darisha, who had been lovers for centuries, ageless and inscrutable behind faces of serene beauty. Durangshara, portly as any spoiled merchant, who took his joy from the fruits of the earth and his pleasure from the howls of slaves. Johaar and Mezviit and Aldreka, who could be triplets they were so alike in form, taste, and bearing. And finally Lavanyia, whose hair was a mound of sable silk piled atop her lovely head. She reminded Sungui of the great lionesses that roamed the Weary Plains to the south. She could also be as dangerous, as bloodthirsty, and as unforgiving as one 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 the world’s allure to smother and calcify these spirits who lingered in its fertile bosom. Yet Sungui had long ago found an advantage over her fellow Seraphim. Each of them had chosen a gender long ago and embraced it. She refused to do so. The flux of her aspects and the shifting of her form was her last defense against the tide of earthly influences that threatened to rob her of her true self.

“Brothers and Sisters,” Sungui began. “The time has come to remember.” She nearly sang the words, so soft and melodious was her tone. She had learned how to charm them, imitating the ways of comely humans. It was partly why they all loved her. She catered to their whims, their secret delights, their hidden natures. She knew them better than they knew themselves. They knew her as two beings, twin aspects, and so she carried mystery and beauty with her like precious stones.

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

Sungui sensed his eagerness. Mahaavar did not understand that there was no real sedition 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 she would say. They had not gathered like this in several years. Yet years passed like days for their kind. There were a thousand more High Seraphim across the Living Empire who knew nothing of these assemblies. Yet an idea must take root in the minds of the few. Later it might spread like wild vines across the ranks of 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 flashed across the silvery robes. Sungui bowed her head.

“In the time before time’s advent, we moved between the stars,” she said. “They were our mothers and fathers, our blazing progenitors. We sailed the vast ether and swam the oceans of eternity. Now we gather once more to recall the truth of what we are. We look back. We look inward. We listen once more to the music of our ancient selves, that it may remind us, reshape us, restore us.”

“Hold,” said a liquid voice. Sungui raised her eyes to the leonine face of Lavanyia. Never before had a listener interrupted her guided meditation. The lioness stared at Sungui, as did the rest of the circle. Even Mahaavar’s eyes were 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’s own. The eyes of the others darted nervously from face to face, peering into the shadows 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. Sungui stood transfixed by her imperious beauty. She longed to turn her back on them all and so reassert her dominance of the gathering. Yet she only stared at Lavanyia and blinked.

“Now is not the time,” she said.

Durangshara chuckled, his loose jowls quivering. “Shall we wait until His Holiness hears of this and annihilates us one by one?”

Mahaavar laid his hand upon Sungui’s shoulder. His touch was firm yet gentle, as his lovemaking had been earlier. “A spy among us?” Mahaavar asked. “Let me kill him, Sungui. To prove my loyalty.”

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