The Sleeping City

by E.C. Tubb

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

From the opening reared a head, wide, flat, huge. Below it stretched a body beautiful with iridescent scales of gold edged with ruby. Nictitating membranes lifted over enormous eyes, deep, limpid pools of ancient wisdom, catching and reflecting the light of the miniature sun, turning the glowing orb into a scatter of stars shimmering in an ebon sea. From open jaws a forked tongue flickered with a soft susurration. Its scent was dry, acrid, tinged with that of living fur on a summer's day. The head rose higher, swaying over the three men on the ledge, the sinuous length of the body almost filling the passage through which it had come. From it radiated an impression of incredible age. "A serpent," whispered Thagamista. "A creature from the beginning of time. Somehow surviving to find this place and feast on those who well here. It was inevitable they should think it a god." THE SLEEPING CITY continues the dynamic saga of the Chronicles of Malkar, E.C. Tubb's newest fantasy hero!

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 129

Sample

Red against the floor of polished jet the lines of the pentagram glowed with all the wet richness of freshly spilled blood.
At each corner a thick candle made from the fat of murdered men threw a guttering light about the chamber, the walls of which
were thick with dancing shadows, the hint of watching eyes. Within the pentagram stood a brazier of hammered bronze, a thin
plume of smoke rising from its ruby embers. Beside it stood two men.


Shal Irdac was nervous, plucking constantly at his curled beard, gems on his plump fingers flashing like the eyes of waking
serpents as they reflected the light. He was a short, rotund man of middle-age, with the dark olive skin, hooked nose and
blue-black hair of the desert tribes. In his youth he had once killed a lion with his bare hands but now sweat beaded his
oily skin, the sharp reek of fear rising above the scent of the perfume he affected. Not even the shirt of mail hidden beneath
the silk of his burnous, the cap of tested steel beneath his jewelled turban, could ease his mounting dread. In this place
normal defences had little value.


“By Ergal,” he whispered through dry lips. “I like this not. Sorcerer, make haste.”

Imperiously his companion raised a hand for silence. Jahlath was an albino, tall, emaciated, bleached white skin taut over
prominent bone giving his face the appearance of a weathered skull. White hair streamed over the shoulders of a yellow robe
richly adorned with mystic symbols. Deep in their sockets red eyes glared with an insane light.


“Great magic is not accomplished without the exercise of patience,” he intoned sonorously. “Demons are not lured to grant
their aid by unversed beings. If you would leave go now. Delay and the powers which I summon will rend the ghost from your
body should you step beyond the protection of the pentagram.”


Shal Irdac swallowed, one hand falling to the gemmed hilt of the curved dagger that hung at his waist. “I stay,” he muttered.
“But hasten, I beg you.”


Smoke gushed from the brazier as Jahlath threw powder into the coals. It plumed in an aromatic cloud, swirling as it rose to the ceiling and drifted beyond the pentagram. The flames
of the corpse-candles flared with sudden brilliance then dimmed as the smoke took shape, condensing as if invisible beings
had seized it and were moulding it to their design. In the guttering light an amorphous something hovered in mid-air, genuflecting,
reaching with misty paws for a globe of coiling vapour.


Light sparkled and glowed within the shadowy sphere, a cloud of luminescence that spun then abruptly congealed into a recognisable
scene.


A city squatting between the soaring bulk of impassable mountains, walled and towered, a great trench dug deep into the rock
before the defences. Behind the walls ran streets, houses, markets, alleys, a great square faced by the looming bulk of a
palace and temple.


“Dashkit,” said the sorcerer. “The city you covet, Shal Irdac of Bedowin. From your dusty realm in the south you long to seize
the rich harvest of land and city. The trade, tribute and stored wealth. With my aid it can be done. All could be yours.”


The image changed. The city dissolved to be replaced by the interior of a chamber. Gold and onyx shone in the light of glazed
lanterns, swathes of colour reflected from the polished floor, the furnishings, the scatter of precious rugs. Small tables
bore vases, statuettes, things of price. Through an open door could be seen the loom of a bed, the crystal shimmer of a mirror.
A woman rose from before it and walked towards them.


She was tall, imperious, a waterfall of ebon hair cascading to her narrow waist. Her skin was flawless in its silken perfection,
the naked flesh of arms and rounded shoulders warm with reflected light, the deep cleavage between her breasts accentuating
their rich fullness. Beneath arched brows her eyes were wide, luminous, dark as her hair. Her lips were a sculptured delight.
She wore cloth of silver, the shimmering fabric moulding itself to the smoothly rounded contours beneath. It was slit to reveal
at each step the naked enticement of her tapered thighs. Silver sandals studded with gems graced her narrow feet.


Shal Irdac sucked in his breath. “Ishma! Never shall I forget her beauty. Once, when the old king lived, I offered a hundred
horses for her hand. I was laughed from the palace. Now I would give a hundred times as much to have her grovelling at my
feet.”


“She is a worthy prize,” admitted the sorcerer. “From her womb could spring a race of warrior-kings. Her flesh would provide
endless stimulation and mounting delight.” He added, dryly. “Ishma. A woman of unusual attributes. One who wrested the throne
of Dahlia from her brother then gave it and herself to an unknown mercenary. You have heard?”


“Aye. Merchants carried the tale of how it was done.”

Again the image changed. Now the glowing sphere showed a vast chamber lit by massed flambeaux. Weapons hung glinting on the
harsh stone of the walls and the flagged floor was bare. A table stood ringed with chairs, the surface heavy with maps, charts,
scrolls. A lone man studied them.


“Malkar,” whispered the sorcerer. “Once a mercenary now husband of Ishma and king of Dashkit. It was he who bested the power
of a god and, with the aid of sorcery, exorcised a vile and usurping ghost from the body and mind of the queen. Mark him well,
King of Benowin. He will prove no easy foe.”


In the globe the man turned, his eyes staring directly at the watchers. They were cold with winter-grey. Thick black hair
fell from a wide forehead, the lustrous mane held by a fillet of gold. A high-bridged nose hung over a firm mouth and a square
jaw, the whole adding to the ruthless determination of a face which was no stranger to death. He wore a tunic of crimson silk,
black breeks thrust into high boots polished to emulate liquid jet. A wide belt of gold studded with gems circled the narrow
waist.


“A strange man,” said the sorcerer quietly. “None can read the full line of his life. I sense within him the seeds of great
sorcery and, truly, some great magic must have aided him so that he was able to best a god.”


“He is but a man,” said Irdac thickly. “One with more luck than most.”

“A man,” Jahlath admitted, “But one surely blessed by the gods. To have gained so much so soon. A city and land won by the
sword together with a woman of ripe perfection with whom to while away the hours. To lie in the warm intimacy of her bed and
feast his eyes on her naked beauty. To hear her murmured words of love and adoration. She would guide –”


“Enough! He can die!”

“As he must if you are to gain what he now enjoys.” The sorcerer smiled, lips parting to reveal filed teeth, the serpent point
of a flickering tongue. “She could have had you. Instead she chose another. A bitter pill for a king to swallow.”


“Enough, I say!” The Benowinian snarled his anger. “For too long has she filled my dreams. The women of my seraglio are mindless
fools offering nothing but obedient compliance. With Ishma I would live in Paradise!” He dabbed at the sweat dewing, his forehead.
“By all the gods,” he swore. “I would lay the world in ruins to have her set my heel on her neck and call me ‘master’!”


“It can be done,” said Jahlath. “With my aid all you desire can come to pass.”

Shal Irdac hesitated, native caution warring with his inflamed desire. Greed and fear had driven him to the sorcerer; the
hot-blooded riders he ruled were becoming restless. Famine and poverty had weakened their loyalty and men spoke quietly in
dark corners as they thumbed the edges of their knives. Rebellion was in the air. Rival kings pressed close at his borders.
Unless he could provide the loot of a conquered city his days were numbered. Dashkit offered the highest reward.


Yet sorcerers did not offer their aid without cause. To trust such a one who dealt with demons and could summon djinn was
to give him a knife to hold to his throat. Better, perhaps, to fight in the normal manner with sword and bow, axe and armoured
men.


Jahlath read his indecision. Quietly he made a mystic gesture and, in the glowing sphere, the image altered to again depict
the walls of the city. But now they were thronged with men and stained with blood. Heaps of dead and injured almost filled
the deep trench and bedraggled pennants showed to which army they belonged.


The Benowinian made a strangled sound deep in his throat. “No more, sorcerer! Your price?”

Jahlath clapped his hands. Immediately the shimmering globe vanished, the amorphous being dissolving into drifting mist, which
rose and coiled against the ceiling before passing from sight. The guttering flames of the candles leapt as if from the touch
of wind though nothing disturbed the air within the chamber.


The albino’s eyes gleamed in the ghastly whiteness of his skull. “The price is your obedience in all things.”

Again the Benowinian hesitated, remembering whispered tales of those who had dealt with demons and the fate which had befallen
them. And surely the sorcerer must be of that nighted world – no mere human could look as he did.


Jahlath said, coldly, “You have seen Dashkit. You think to take those walls without the help of sorcery? Fool! Your men would
die like flies beneath the blades of the defenders. You think to win the woman without my aid? I tell you she would pierce
her heart with a dagger rather than succumb to your embrace. For the last time I offer you the land and city together with
its willing queen. For this I demand that you obey me to the full.”


“I admit I need your aid,” said Shal Irdac slowly. “But I am a king in my own land. I like not to put the heel of another
on my neck.”


“Did I ask that? To gain what I have promised will not be easy. Only by the use of great sorcery and the summoning of mighty
powers can it be done. And think you that I yearn for such petty baubles as you now possess? I despise such trinkets!” Jahlath’s
eyes glowed even brighter and he seemed to gain height so that he towered over the other man like a grim spirit of darkness.
“You may have the land, the city, the woman, the power of rule. All this I give freely as long as you obey me in its getting.
For the rest, when the city is taken and you are its king, I shall demand your aid. This you will give me to the full extent
of your power. Agree and you may count the days until you hold Ishma in your arms.”


The prospect was dazzling, yet still caution remained. Thrones were not won or held by trust. “This aid you demand. For what
purpose is it desired?”


“North of the city of Dashkit, past the mountains, deeply hidden in the lands beyond, is a place of which you may have heard.
It is called Gualek.”


“Gualek the Golden?” The Benowinian voiced his surprise. “But all men know this is a city of legend. A place of dreams and
fantasy. An expedition to find it would wander the world in aimless search.”


“Even so I would seek it out.”

Shal Irdac strained his eyes in the guttering light as he searched the pale whiteness of the skull-like face. “Is this all?
You will demand men to help you find a place of legend?” He laughed as the sorcerer nodded. “Then it is a bargain. In return
for what you promise I seal my aid to the full extent of my power. And now?”


Leaving the pentagram Jahlath crossed the chamber to where a chest of ancient wood carved with strange glyphs stood on the
polished floor. From it he took a gem as large as the clenched fist of a new-born child hanging from a pendant chain of gold.
Light splintered from the multitude of facets covering the jewel, shimmering with nacreous luminescence sparkling with flashes
of red and green, amber and blue, yellow, violet and orange. “You will give this to Ishma. Have it sent as a gift by the herald
who makes your formal plea for mutual friendship.”


“Friendship?”

“Wars are fought with other means than swords,” said Jahlath impatiently. “Think, man! Would she accept a gift from an enemy?”

The Benowinian shrugged as he took the proffered bauble. It lay cradled in the hollow of his hand, a thing to delight the
eye of any woman, glowing with an inner sheen, alive with reflected brilliance.


“Tell her that it holds beneficent powers,” said Jahlath. “That it came from the temple of Sheehar, the goddess of fertility,
and within it a woman can read the line of her life. Worn against the naked flesh it will show the likeness of her children-yet-to-be.
The future that is yet to come. Make sure that is what she believes.”


“My herald shall see to it.”

“Other plans we shall discuss at a later time after I have made . . .