Wizard of the Winds (The Timura Trilogy , No 1) - Softcover

Cole, Allan

9780345401779: Wizard of the Winds (The Timura Trilogy , No 1)

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0345401778 ISBN 13: 9780345401779

Verlag: Ballantine Books, 1998

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In the first installment of a fantasy series by the author of The Warrior Returns, a powerful young sorcerer, Safar Timura, and a would-be king, Iraj Protarus, begin their dangerous adventures. Reprint.

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�ber die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Allan Cole is the co-author (with Chris Bunch) of The Far Kingdoms, The Warrior's Tale, Kingdoms of the Night, and the bestselling Sten science fiction series. He lives in Elephant Butte, New Mexico.

Aus dem Klappentext

KING OF KINGS, LORD OVER MEN AND DEMONS ALIKE

Only one ruler had ever held that title, and now Iraj Protarus, an orphaned prince exiled to a small village high in the Valley of the Clouds, dreamed of being the next great conqueror. The key to his destiny would be Safar Timura, a youth with an awesome gift for sorcery, whose visions foretold Iraj's rise to power. And in those visions, Safar stood at Iraj's side, his soul-blasting spells enabling his friend to attain his dreams.

But Safar had other visions with darker portents, and his spellbound knowledge raised secrets better left buried. The road the two men followed would be rich in titles and fortunes, but it would also be rich in death and disaster, in intrigue--and in unforgivable betrayal . . .

Let the Wizard of the Winds sweep you away with a tale of such power and passion that you will forget every other fantasy you've ever read. Enter a world where humans and demons are deadly enemies, where the destiny of entire dynasties is buffeted mercilessly by the stormy winds of sorcery powerful beyond imagination. Like the masters who have come before him, Allan Cole has created a haunting and unique world peopled with characters you will hate to love and love to hate . . . a unique world whose siren song will be irresistible to fantasy lovers everywhere . . .

From the Trade Paperback edition.

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Chapter One: Valley of the Clouds

It was a time when the world has large and dreams were small. Few ships strayed from the four great turtles who bore the mountains and plains across the seas. Humankind and demonkind alike brooded under the faded banners of kings who'd ruled too long. Borders were no more distant than a fast march could secure. All who dwelt beyond huddled in armed settlements to keep thieves and beasts at bay.

It was an uneasy time, a time crying out for change. Royal wizards studied the stars for signs to reassure their masters. Subjects gathered in secret to implore the gods to rid them of those same masters.

But the gods gave no clue of their intentions. The starry wheel where the gods slept in their ten holy realms churned onward year after year, heedless to all pleas.

Then the portent came. It was not from the slumbering gods but from the molten depths of the world itself. And it was a boy, not a master wizard, who first marked the sign.

That boy was Safar Timura.

He lived in the land known as Esmir, the Turtle of the Middle Seas. It was a land where demons faced humans across the Forbidden Desert. Only an ancient curse and constant internal warfare kept those ancestral enemies from overrunning and slaughtering each other.

In the demon city of Zanzair, however, King Manacia and his sorcerers plotted and waited for the right moment. Although humans were greater in number, Manacia knew their magic was weak and their leaders cowardly. And he yearned for the day when he'd make their corpses a staircase to a grander throne.

To achieve his dreams he pored over ancient maps and tomes and consulted many oracles. Then he created the greatest oracle of all, sacrificing five thousand human slaves in the process.

The human head was mounted on a metal post in the center of Manacia's courtroom. The eyes were closed. The mouth slack. The skin ghastly.

Manacia cast his most powerful spell and then commanded: "Speak, O Brother of the Shades. What is the key to my heart's desire? What road do I take, what passage do I seek, to win the throne of the King of Kings?"

The head's eyes came open, blazing in hate and agony. Stiff lips formed a word:

"Kyrania," the head croaked, sounding like an old raven with its mouth full of gore.

"What place is that?" the King demanded.

"Kyrania," the head croaked again.

The whole court looked on, demon jaws parting in anticipation, as the King jabbed a long sharp talon at an ancient wall map of the human lands.

"Where do I find this ... Kyrania?" he asked.

"The Valley of the Clouds," the head answered. And then its eyes dulled and its mouth sagged back into death.

"Speak!" the King ordered, casting another mighty spell. But was no use. The oracle was emptied of its power.

The Demon King turned to his assembled wizards and advisors. "Find me this place," he thundered. "Find me this Kyrania! ...

"...This Valley of the Clouds!"

A thousand miles distant, Safar Timura and his people toiled the land and tended their flocks in relative peace. They lived high above thtroubles of the world and had grown to think they were of small concern.

Their valley was so remote it appeared on few maps. And those were jealously held by the merchant princes who transported their goods across the Gods' Divide, which separated the ancient human kingdoms of Walaria and Caspan.

The valley was known as Kyrania--meaning, in the language of Safar's people, "Valley of the Clouds."

It was a bountiful place, and each spring and summer the valley became a bowl of blossoms and fruit cradled high in the craggy range they called the Bride and Six Maids. The name came from seven graceful peaks shaped like slender young women. From the south they appeared to march in an eternal procession. The tallest and most graceful promontory was in the lead, and to all Kyranians this peak was the Bride because she was always covered with snow and veiled in lacy clouds. Although the valley was so high that strangers sometimes found it difficult to draw enough breath, it was sheltered by the maidenly peaks and the weather was nearly always mild.

Filling half the valley was the holy lake of Our Lady Felakia, and sometimes pilgrims traveled with the caravans to pay homage to that goddess of purity and health and to drink from the curative waters. They gathered to be blessed at the ancient temple, set on the eastern shore and so small and unimportant it was attended by only one old priest. Twice a year flocks of birds stopped at the lake to rest on their seasonal journeys. No one knew where they came from or where they went, but they were always welcome visitors--filling the air with their song and the cooking hearths with their roasted flesh.

The people of Kyrania grew barley and corn and beans, irrigating the fields with water from the lake. Olive and fruit orchards also abounded, but the growing season was short, so the Kyranians placed great valueon their goat herds. In the spring and summer, Safar and the boys would lead them into the mountains to graze on tender shoots. When winter came the goats huddled in stables beneath the people's homes, eating stored grain and keeping the families warm with the heat of their bodies.

All those things, which might seem trivial and even dull to city dwellers, were of prime importance to Safar and his people. They made up their talk, their dreams, and all the rhythms of life.

In his own way--the way of Kyrania--Safar was royally born. He was the son of a potter, and in Kyrania such men as his father were second only to the village priest in importance. His father's father had been a potter as well, and his father before him. It had always been so for the Timura
clan, and many generations of Kyranian women had balanced Timura water jugs on their heads as they made the hip-swaying journey to the lake and back. All food in the village was cooked in Timura pots or stored in Timura jars, which were sealed with clay and buried in the ground for winter. Spirits were fermented in Timura jugs and bottled in Timura vessels, and it was said all drink tasted best when sipped from Timura cups and bowls. When the caravans arrived, Timura pottery was more sought-after than even the few fresh camels and llamas the villagers kept to resupply the merchant masters.

When the troubles came, Safar was being trained to succeed his father as a practitioner of that once most sacred of all the arts. To accomplish this was Safar's sole ambition. But as a wise one once said, "If you want to make the gods laugh ... tell them your plans."

The day that marked the end of those youthful ambitions began well before first light, as did all days in Kyrania. It was early spring and the mornings were still cold and one of his sisters had to bang on his sleeping platform with a broom handle to rouse him from his warm feather mattress.

He grumbled as he broke away from a dream of swimming in warm lake waters with nubile maidens. He was just seventeen summers--an age when such dreams are remarkably vivid and nearly as frequent as the grumblings at the unfairness of life.

Then he heard Naya, the family's best milking goat, complaining in the stable below. She was the sweetest of animals and he hated to think of her suffering. Safar leaped from the platform onto the polished planks that made the floor of the main living area. He dragged out the trunk where he kept his belongings and hastily pulled on clothes--baggy leather trousers, pullover shirt, and heavy work boots. His mother was already at the hearth stirring handfuls of dried apple into the savory barley porridge that would make his breakfast.

She clucked...