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Overview
The wicked city of Xennidhum has fallen—and now Simon Wargallow believes his world is saved. But a new evil has risen to threaten the beleaguered land of mystery and miracle. For out of the wastes of ice comes dire news of a powerful sorcerer king who will unleash the forces of chaos on the unstable empire. And one man, the son Omara’s doomed lord, must shed his disguise and regain his rightful throne before humanity’s final cry.
Don’t miss the entire quartet: A Place Among the Fallen, Throne of Fools, The King of Light and Shadows, and The Gods in Anger.
“Remarkably fine fantasy . . . Adrian Cole has a magic touch.” —Roger Zelazny
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497621848 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2014 |
| Series: | Omaran Saga , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 372 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Throne of Fools
The Omaran Saga: Book Two
By Adrian Cole
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1987 Adrian ColeAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-2184-8
CHAPTER 1
Snow Hunt
Guamok felt as if he'd been out in the ice-fields for weeks, though in effect the young lad had been here little more than a day and a night. It had been too easy to boast to the other ice-village youths yet to be blooded that his first killing hunt would be easy, especially with a tough old hunter like Inguk to act as his seeker. The reality was different. The two of them had huddled together in a snow den for the bitter night, assaulted by a lacerating wind; it was so very different from the village, and even that was a grim place when the wind sharpened its cutting edge. At first it had been a relief to get up and creep out into the long, slow dawn behind Inguk, but after a two hour trudge through the white nothingness, featureless as oblivion, Guamok's confidence was numbed. Let the snow-seals appear soon, he whispered to the empty ice.
Visibility was not good, the light poor, and although the wind had dropped, a swirl of powdery snow danced about them. Some of the villagers would have taunted Guamok: "It is all sent to make your test worthy, Guamok. It is not just a snow-seal you are trying to best. A quick kill would mean nothing, eh?" They had made it sound easy, taking a snow- seal, but Guamok had heard from others who had made the step to manhood that it was never easy: the snow-seals were killers and they knew Guamok's people of old. If they found them, they were as ruthless as the men. Inguk was renowned for his skill, but he was an old man, Guamok had thought many times during the night. His strength must be limited.
As though he had heard the critical thoughts of his ward, Inguk stopped, head down. Slowly he swung to and fro like an ice-wolf; Guamok wished they had been allowed even one of those beasts for the hunt, but the law permitted one seeker only, and even he was not allowed to use a weapon unless an emergency arose. Inguk had not, blessedly, been listening to Guamok's mind. What then, snow-seals?
"You hear it, boy?" he grunted, his eyes fixed on the ice as if he could already see the prey.
"I hear the whisper of snow, Inguk," replied Guamok.
Inguk remained very still for a few more moments, then shook his head. Guamok moved beside him and for once the old man was content to let the boy walk with him. Usually, when out hunting, the old man was lost in the work, hardly speaking, but otherwise his tongue was as energetic as that of any other of his people.
"Did you sleep?" he suddenly said, his face wrinkling into a thousand miniature crevasses.
He's laughing at me, Guamok thought. "Unexpectedly well, Inguk."
Inguk laughed, but softly, for he was too wary of his surroundings to disadvantage himself in any way. "You must learn to lie better when you are a man."
Guamok wanted to retort, to cover his flush of shame, but Inguk stiffened, listening. "Snow-seals?" the boy breathed.
Inguk shook his head. "We'll see none this day."
The words didn't come as relief to Guamok. He wanted this over. Another day? "Where are they?"
"They've been here," Inguk sniffed. "They left quickly."
"Was it our coming?"
Inguk chuckled, but there was no scorn. Patience was his strength. Age must bring that, thought the boy.
"Snow-seals do not fear men," said Inguk. "You have been told that. You must hold on to what you are told. It is not always repeated. Snow-seals kill. Few things frighten them, especially when they are in a pack." He was still again, listening.
"What do you hear?"
"Your ears are younger than mine, Guamok. What do you hear?"
Guamok tried to stretch his ears, his hearing. He could hear the wind, channelled by the chunks of ice that now thrust up like snapped bone. There was something else, quickly, then gone. The boy's eyes betrayed that he had heard the odd sound.
"Ah," nodded Inguk. "I thought I had not imagined it."
"What was it?"
"It does not belong here." Inguk's smile was gone. Now he looked slightly puzzled. There could be fewer more experienced men of the ice, Guamok knew, and yet here he was, unsure of himself. He must be very old, Guamok concluded. Does he hear as well as he once did?
Gesturing almost irritably, Inguk led them on. They moved in silence for almost an hour, but the strange sound they had heard did not come again in that time. Guamok told himself it had been the wind, which varied its voice among the scattered shapes of the ice-fields. But he thought of the snow-seals, which Inguk had said had been frightened away, or so he had implied. Then again, perhaps this is the old man's way of adding to my test. Yes! That must be it. To teach me true fear, and how to overcome it. He smiled to himself, taking a little comfort from the thought, trying to keep faith with it.
It seemed a long time later that they dug themselves an ice-pit and burned a piece of oil-soaked munna wood, brought by the traders from the warmer northlands. With it they were able partially to cook slices of their meat ration. While chewing on it, Inguk became a little more like the imp of the village, expansive and full of tales of his past life, though had they all been true they would have filled a dozen lives.
"What was your first hunt like?" Guamok asked him.
The boy had touched a nerve: Inguk liked nothing better than to elaborate on this. "Not planned," he grinned. "Not like you young men today. No seeker for me to guide my steps. No! Life was harder, you see. Fewer of us. Lived by the spear, slept with it in your hand."
"That must have been hard for the love-making," Guamok laughed.
Inguk looked angry for only a second, then guffawed. "What do you know about such things?"
"Only what I've heard," Guamok said hastily, anxious to atone for what was obviously a mistake.
"I should hope so! Time enough for all that when you get back from the hunt, provided all goes well. Then I daresay all the girls will want to share your furs."
"You think so?"
"Be careful, Guamok! Remember to choose your mate, otherwise one will choose you, and you may come to regret that." Inguk laughed openly, so much so that he didn't hear the sound that came quickly overhead, then was gone. But Guamok heard it, and his spear lifted instinctively into a defensive position, ready in an instant to strike.
Inguk's face fell and he groped for his own weapon. For a moment he looked old, defenseless. Then he had recovered himself, but the anger made him scowl. "What was it?" he snapped.
Guamok was as alert as an ice-wolf, but he shook his head. "Gone again."
"Well?"
"It was in the air, Inguk," said the boy, struggling to form an image. "Like a bird passing. Did you hear it?"
"I should lie to you and say I did," said Inguk. "But this is a hunt. Your hunt, Guamok. Only the truth will keep us alive. I missed it. You see how easily one becomes foolish? I did not hear it. But I will not fail you again."
"No bird could be that large," said Guamok, ignoring the old man's embarrassment; there was no time for such things.
"Sounds distort, you know that, Guamok. The snow is closing; it made a wall for the sound to build from."
"What bird would fly in this?"
Inguk did not answer. Instead he drove the point of his spear into the smoldering munna wood and raised it like a torch. The hunt was to go on. Guamok knew that they could survive many days in the ice-fields, for Inguk would see to that, and he had the extraordinary gift of his people for finding his direction no matter how bad the weather. When it was time to go back, he would find the village without effort. In time, so they had told Guamok, he would also develop this skill. It was the inheritance of his people.
Silence closed around them now, the good mood of the fireside meal gone. Whether it was fear of what he had been told, or fear at having been caught unprepared, Inguk was sullen, a rare mood indeed for him. He walked ahead as if banishing his ward to his place, and Guamok was even more determined to stay alert. Anger would not refine his awareness. I must concentrate!
When the sound came from above again, they were both ready. Something beat at the air, huge wings, and there came a strangled cry, one of pain, though that was all they could recognize in it. Inguk dropped to his knees, waving for Guamok to do the same, but the boy had already done so. A shadow passed over them, the sound rushed by, then out in the grayness they heard another cry. They remained like sculptured ice for long minutes.
"Is it seeking us?" Guamok whispered.
Inguk shook his head. He seemed, if anything, relieved. "I may be wrong, but there is distress in that cry."
They could hear now the distinct beating of wings, a thumping of the snow, still beyond vision. Inguk's spear was pointed sharply ahead, clear notice that he was prepared to use it: Guamok was not to be left to face this alone, blooding or not. Cautiously they stole across the snow like thieves, toward the sound of floundering wings. Another cry, more of a deep croak, drifted to them, much closer. In a moment the veil of snow thinned so that they could see, and both of them, even experienced Inguk, had to stifle gasps. Beyond them was a creature they had never before seen and of which no legend spoke. It was a huge bird, or so they assumed at first, for it had very long, leathery wings, one of which was crumpled up beneath it, clearly broken and the cause of its agony. Its head was elongated, and instead of the hooked beak of a scavenging gull, it had a long, pointed beak, serrated with teeth. It flung up its head, oblivious of the watchers, of everything but its pain, and a fine spray of blood drifted down about it; the snow around it was crimson. It had been in some terrible battle.
Neither man spoke, but both held their spears ready for a kill. They both studied the creature as a hunter should, wondering if it could be eaten, for here was meat that would serve the village for long days if edible. The thing thrashed about, lizard-like, growing visibly weaker. It had no feathers, its dark hide scaled, its feet not webbed like the sea birds here, but curved into sharp talons, not made for ice-fields. Inguk had heard of meat eaters in the warmer northern lands, and of how they plucked their living prey from the land. This must be one such bird, though no tale he had ever heard spoke of such a creature as this.
He motioned Guamok in. "Now, boy. Take great care. If you make the killing strike, your blooding will surpass that of all those that have gone before you."
Guamok's fear vied with his pride, but as he moved in, he thought of Inguk, the renowned hunter. He could not have many years left, but this should be his final glory. "This is an honor that I cannot deny you," he told him.
Inguk's eyes were on him for only a second before turning back to the prey. The boy means it! he thought. He does this out of respect and not fear. Inguk grinned. "The beast is yours, Guamok. But I will mark your words. You'll be a man yet."
Guamok was about to step forward and try for the exposed neck of the dying bird-creature, but as he did so it reared up, exposing its pale chest. Guamok looked, spear arm drawn back, and he could see what must be the heart, beating beneath the scales. How it throbbed! That is my target, he shouted within, releasing his weapon with all the strength he could get from his wiry body. The spear blurred as it went through the air, the point striking the center of the chest, the weapon sinking, sinking. The bird let out a scream of pain, wings buckling back, eyes glazing. Then its chest tore apart like fabric, as though the point of the spear had severed the last tendons that held it together, and blood gushed from the huge tear.
Inguk dragged the startled boy back, both amazed by the effect of the throw. This flood of matter should have been impossible, too extreme a result. There was worse to come, for something tumbled out of the frightful wound, as though the very organs of the beast had ripped from their beds and slithered on to the bloodied snow. The beast toppled to one side, its last breath gasping from its open beak. Spasms of movement shook it, and Inguk recognized them as the after-death twitches of a slain beast. He had seen enough killed prey to know that much. Even so, neither he nor the boy wanted to approach.
Long minutes after the beast had ceased all movement, they still waited. "There!" Inguk pointed. In the fallen entrails, something stirred. Inguk lifted his spear, not wanting to use it, to spoil the boy's victory, but knowing he may have to.
Guamok thought he must be losing his mind. It was a man! Now on its knees, now standing, a figure rose, steam curling from it like smoke, as though it had got up from its own funeral pyre. Inguk made a choking sound, his spear wavering. Guamok pulled the weapon from loose fingers, but it was not so that he could cast it. They watched as the figure lurched forward, a step, two, two more, then, barely clear of the thick lake of blood, it fell into the white embrace of the snow. It remained as motionless as the dead bird.
Neither Guamok nor Inguk trusted himself to speak. That man had been inside the bird. Inside it? It was not possible. And yet, there he lay. They had seen—but what had they seen? It had been a bloody death, and one that easily confused the eye. But both men had decided on a single truth.
"How can this be?" said Guamok at last. Being a youth, his mind could more easily accept the new. Inguk, with most of his life and his experience behind him, could hardly digest the horror. He merely stared. Watching became insufficient for Guamok, who stepped forward. Inguk would have stayed him, but this was the boy's kill, his blooding. Let him act.
Guamok stood above the fallen man. He heard the gentle snow whisper around him, already filming both man and dead beast in a cloak of powder. The body before him was too filthy to be clearly recognized, but Guamok, still holding Inguk's spear, bent down. He put his free hand to the man's arm. There was a little warmth, and it was not the blood of the beast. Guamok touched the neck, feeling by instinct for the pulse. He found it.
"Alive!" he called to Inguk, who now shambled forward. For the first time, Guamok saw the old hunter as ancient, the years bowing him. He had carried his responsibilities for long enough. Now Guamok must shoulder his own, whatever the weight.
"Better come away," said Inguk dazedly, keeping his distance.
"No." Guamok was emphatic and the old man knew it. "We must help him."
"Such a vile birth," muttered Inguk. "He can only have been sent by evil."
"If he had been sent," argued Guamok, "he would not have been dropped at our feet. See, one thrust would end him." He held the point of the spear at the fallen man's neck. He had no intention of killing him, and Inguk nodded.
"We must make a snow den at once. Light the munna wood. I will begin cleaning him," Guamok went on, and now the command was his. Inguk would not argue.
Later, walled in by ice in their snow den, heated by glowing munna wood, they studied the man they had saved. He was tall, well muscled, his head shaven, his features not those of a man of the ice-fields. Inguk's people had very little geography: the man could have been from anywhere on Omara. In spite of his extraordinary arrival, he was, it seemed, in superb physical condition. They could not wake him, for he seemed to be in either a deep sleep or a coma. Inguk had seen this before, and it led, he said, to a gradual wasting and death. Guamok clung tenaciously to the belief that the man would survive, would come to eventually.
By his harness, now cleaned by the youth, Inguk declared the man to be a warrior. He had no weapons, though strapped to his belt was a long metal rod. Guamok had touched it, but it was cold, a length of metal that could be of no discernible use, except to beat at an opponent, or perhaps to kill a snow-seal or whatever prey the warrior would hunt.
"How far are we from the village?" Guamok asked Inguk.
"The snows are easing. Two days if we move quickly."
"And if we take him?"
Inguk shook his head, not so much in disapproval as in doubt. "He cannot walk. Like that, carried? A week."
The man's eyes fluttered open, which had the effect of startling both watchers into tumbling back. The head lifted, but the eyes were vacant, seeing nothing. In a moment the man had subsided. His lips were trying to form words. Guamok leaned over him, but whatever he said was foreign, unintelligible.
"We cannot stay here long," said Inguk. "The snow-seal packs will be back, now that you have slain that beast. And it is us who will become the hunted."
"Yes, I have thought of that. You must go back to the village. Bring help."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Throne of Fools by Adrian Cole. Copyright © 1987 Adrian Cole. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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