Inhaltsangabe
In the sequel to Wizard of the Winds, wizard Safar Timura must lead the people of Esmir to safety while being hunted by a nameless evil and the risen-from-the-dead Iraj Protarus who is seeking revenge. Reprint.
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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor
Allan Cole is a bestselling author, screenwriter, and former prize-winning newsman who brings a rich background in travel and personal experience to his imaginative work. Raised in Europe and the Far East, Cole attended thirty-two schools and visited or lived in as many countries. He's written fifteen novels, many of which have become international bestsellers, as well as numerous screen and television dramas. He currently lives on a ranch in Elephant Butte, New Mexico, with Kathryn, his strongest supporter; Squeak, the cat who rules writer elves; and Acme, a roadrunner who kibitzes at his office window.
Readers who want to correspond with Allan directly can reach him at his home page--http://www.acole.com--or via e-mail at 75130.2761@compuserve.com
Aus dem Klappentext
vil stalks the land, preying on all that lives, human and demon alike. Only one man has the power to stem the ravening tide: Safar Timura, the greatest wizard of the age, whose matchless magic once raised Iraj Protarus to the throne of all Esmir--and then, when the king turned tyrant, destroyed him.
Now Safar is done with the deadly intrigues of courts and kings. But when a brutal murder smashes the solitude of his mountain hideaway, Safar must lead his people on a desperate trek to safety--a perilous journey to fabled, far-off Syrapis, guided only by a magical vision and the words of a sorcerer long dead. And close at their heels evil follows like a rapacious wolf: Iraj Protarus. For the King of Kings has returned from the dead, hideously transformed--and thirsting for Safar's blood . . .
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Up, up in the mountains.
Up where Winter reigns eternal and her warriors bully earth and sky.
Then higher still. Climb to the reaches where even eagles are wary.
Where the winds cut sharp, paring old snowfields of their surface to get
at the black rock below. Where moody skies brood over a stark domain.
Yes, up. Up to the seven mountain peaks that make the Bride and Six
Maids. And higher ... still higher ... to the highest point of all: the
Bride's snowy crown where the High Caravans climb to meet clear
horizons. Where the Demon Moon waits, filling the northern heavens
with its bloody shimmer.
It was the cusp of a new day: the sun rising against the Demon Moon's
assault, the True Moon giving up the fight and fading into nothingness. It
was spring struggling with late winter. A time of desperation. A time of
hunger.
Just below the Bride's crown a patch of green glowed in defiance of
all that misery. The green was a trick of nature, a meadow blossoming from
a bowl of granite and ice. The winds sheared off the bowl's peculiar
formation, making a small, warm safe harbor for life.
But safety is in the eye of the beholder. Safety is the false
sanctuary of innocent imagination.
And in that time, the time that came to be known as the Age of the
Wolf, safety was not to be trusted.
Three forces converged on that meadow.
And only one was innocent.
* * * * *
The wolf pack took him while he slept.
He was only a boy, a goatherd too young to be alone in the mountains.
He'd spent a sleepless night huddled over a small fire, fearful of every
sound and shadow. Exhausted, he'd fallen asleep at first light and was now
helpless in his little rock shelter, oblivious to the hungry gray shapes
ghosting across the meadow and the panicked bleating of his goats.
Then he jolted awake, sudden dread a cold knife in his bowels.
The pack leader hurtled forward, eyes burning, jaws reaching for his
throat.
The boy screamed and threw up his hands.
But the ravaging shock never came, and he suddenly found himself
sitting bolt upright in his bedroll, striking at nothingness.
He gaped at the idyllic scene before him--the meadow glistening with
dew under the early morning sun, his goats munching peacefully on tender
shoots. Not a wolf in sight.
The boy laughed in huge relief. "It was only a dream!" he chortled.
"What a stupid you are, Tio."
But speaking the words aloud did not entirely still Tio's thundering
heart. Nor did it lessen his sense of dread. He stared about, searching
for the smallest sign of danger. Finally his eyes lifted to the heights
surrounding the small meadow. All he could see was icy rock glittering
beneath cheery blue skies.
The boy laughed again, and this time the laughter rang true. "You see,
Tio," he said, seizing comfort from the sound of his own voice. "There's
nothing to harm you. No wolves. No bears. No lions. Don't be such a child!"
Tio and his older brother, Renor--a big strapping lad who was almost a
man and therefore, Tio believed, feared nothing--had brought the goats up
from Kyrania a few days before. Then one of the animals had been badly
injured and Renor had left the herd with Tio while he hurried down the
mountainside for help with the goat strapped to his back.
"You only have to spend the one night alone," Renor had reassured him.
"I'll be back by morning. You won't be afraid, will you?"
Tio's pride had been wounded by the question. "Don't be stupid. Of
course I won't," he'd said. "What! Do you think I'm still a child?"
Tio's boldness had departed with his brother. Soon he was agonizing
over the slightest unfamiliar stir. Then at dusk he'd had the sudden
feeling he was being watched. His imagination had conjured all sorts of
monsters intent on making a meal of a lonely boy. He knew this was
foolish. Kyranian boys had been guiding the herds up into the Gods' Divide
for centuries. The only harm any had ever suffered was from a bad fall,
and that occurred so rarely it wasn't worth thinking about. As for
voracious animals--there weren't any. At least none who lusted for human
flesh. So there was nothing at all to fear.
Tio had repeated these things to himself many times during the night,
as if chanting a prayer in the warm company of his friends and family in
the little temple by the holy lake of Felakia. It did no good. If
anything, the dreadful feeling of being watched only intensified. Now,
however, with the sun climbing above the peaks and flooding the meadow
with light, Tio's boldness returned.
"Such a child," he said again, shaking his head and making his voice
low in imitation of his brother's manly tones. "Didn't I say there was
nothing to be afraid of? What did you think, stupid one? That the demons
would come and get you?" He snorted. "As if Lord Timura would allow such a
thing! Why, if a demon ever showed his ugly face in Kyrania, Lord Timura
would snap his fingers and turn his nose into a ... a ... a turnip! Yes,
that's what he'd do. Make his nose look like a turnip!"
He giggled, imagining the poor demon's plight. He held his own nose,
making stuffed sinus noises: "Snark! Snark!" More giggling followed. "The
demon couldn't even breathe! Snark! Snark!"
Then he had a sudden thought, and his laughter broke off. Tio
remembered his dream hadn't been about demons, but wolves. He glanced
nervously about the meadow again, but smiled when he saw it was peaceful
as ever.
"Wolves don't eat people," he reassured himself. "Just goats. Sick
goats. Or little goats. But never people." He picked up the thick cudgel
by his side and shook it in his most threatening manner. "Wolves are
afraid of this!" he said bravely. "Everybody says so."
Satisfied, he munched a little bread and cheese, then settled back on
his bedroll to await his brother's return, the stout cudgel gripped in his
small fists.
A few moments later exhaustion took him once again. He fell into a
deep sleep, and the stick fell from his hands and rolled onto the grass.
Graymuzzle was anxious for her cubs. Her teats were aching and swollen
with milk, and she knew her pups would be whining for her in their cold
den. Graymuzzle's hollow belly rumbled, and it wasn't only in sympathy for
her young. Weeks had passed since the pack had made a decent kill.
It had been a hard winter, the hardest and longest in Graymuzzle's
memory. First disease and then fierce storms had wiped out the herds in
her old hunting grounds. The wolf pack, with Graymuzzle leading them, had
ranged for miles searching for food. They'd been reduced to digging deep
into the snow to claw up maggoty roots. When winter had finally ended,
spring brought scant relief. The weather remained treacherous, going from
calm to storm with no warning. Vegetation was sparse, and there was little
meat on the bones of the few deer and goats they'd found.
Graymuzzle used all her skills, won over many hunting seasons, to feed
her pack. She took them high into the mountains, looking for meadows with
sweet grass and fat herds. None of her old tricks worked, and by the time
her cubs were born the pack had been reduced to six wolves so scrawny
their faces seemed to consist entirely of muzzles and teeth. The rest had
died on the trail--her mate of many years among them. Still, she'd managed
to eat enough to make milk...
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Wolves of the Gods: The Timura Trilogy: Book II (Tales of the Timuras, Book 2)
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