The God King hotf-1

by James A. West

  After Uzzret bowed his way out of the room, Varis turned on the still kneeling people before him. They stared at him with blank eyes, and to his sight, their auras seemed not to burn with the normal brilliance of life that he had come to expect from the living. He tried to recall if that glow had been so weak and pallid before. It was as if they were only half alive. Or are they half dead? he thought distractedly, wondering if there was a difference.

  To satisfy what he already suspected, he asked, “Why did you attack Lord Marshal Otaker without my leave?”

  They stared at him, expressionless.

  “Lady Danara,” he said, irritated than no one offered an explanation, “why did you attack your husband without my leave to do so?”

  She was a handsome woman of middle years with only a few threads of silver in her black hair. Her dark eyes lost some of that emptiness and regarded him with something unreadable, as if she held a secret within her. “Life Giver,” she said, her voice a grating sigh, “you did give us leave. It was in your heart that we should destroy him.”

  Varis turned away from her, excited. Somehow, he shared a deep bond between the people that he had delivered from death. They had read the desires of his consciousness, then acted on those emotions. The why and how of it did not matter to Varis, but-

  I must guard my mind, he thought suddenly, lest his followers take action on his behalf when he did not necessarily want them to. Half dead or half alive, he saw straight away that his Chosen could be used as the perfect weapons and tools to further his dominance. Unlike a sword, they were living extensions of himself. With a mere thought, he could send them against an enemy, or bring them to his side should he face danger.

  He smiled as plans and future campaigns formed in his mind. Soon, Aradan would be his, and after, the world.

  Chapter 18

  Under the pall of dense smoke, breathing was difficult. Overhead, the sun shone an angry red. Kian halted his diminished company some distance from the dilapidated walls of Fortress El’hadar, sitting atop a low hill. Of all the western border fortresses, it was the closest to the Qaharadin Marshes, and the denizens had need to constantly trim back and burn the surrounding lands in order to keep the vegetation from overrunning the walls. By the looks of it, Lord Marshal Bresado Rengar had failed in overseeing the execution of that chore for several years.

  Daubing sweat from his brow, Kian supposed he could not blame the man for that. Given a choice, he would have burned the fortress to the ground, rather than tend it. Men have tried before and failed to raze the fortress, he thought nervously, considering the many stories he had heard of this accursed place.

  In truth, El’hadar was little more than an outpost, with its rickety timber palisade surrounding a disproportionately large keep of ancient black stone. It was a place of dark mystery and strange, disturbing tales. When men spoke of Fortress El’hadar, they did so in uneasy whispers. A thousand years gone, the Suanahad Empire sent an expeditionary force across the Sea of Drakarra to explore the virgin territories of what would become Tureece in the south and Aradan to the north. Those legions pushed deep into the uncharted wilds searching for anything of value, from gold to silver to arable lands. They found all those things and more. As well, they discovered the Black Keep.

  At that time, the only inhabitants of the nearby lands were the pale-skinned nomads of the Grendahl clans-Kian’s own ancestors. Even then, his forbearers had been more eager to fight than talk of treaties. What was readily apparent at the time to the Suanahad explorers was that instead of occupying the keep, the clans shunned it, naming it a place of death to be avoided.

  But the Aradaners had not avoided it, Kian mused, looking over its sad state of disrepair. A place better suited for nightmares than habitation, it was said that no matter what work was done to its grounds and walls, Fortress El’hadar always looked unkempt. Tales told that stone and mortar crumbled and wood rotted, all too fast. And yet the Black Keep itself stood resolute, an undying blight upon the land. It had never shone forth in glory, yet it seemed that neither would it ever decay to ruin.

  “I can see why Aradaner kings have always sent irredeemable rabble to fill El’hadar’s barracks,” Azuri said, his nose wrinkled in distaste.

  The Asra a’Shah looked about with tired expressions, perhaps feeling as Kian did, that it was simply a relief to see something made by the hands of men.

  The dirty haze hugged the wilted crops below the fortress, smelling strongly of burning green wood and leaves. The night before, after they had finally broken free of the clinging grasp of the marshes, they had ridden as hard as their horses could manage, before setting up camp some leagues from anything that resembled a bog. When they looked back the way they had come, a dull orange glow stretched across the western horizon, indicating the heart of a great fire.

  Kian could only guess that the inferno in the marshes had something to do with the streaks of flame that raced across the heavens by night. But all of that paled in comparison to his first glimpse of a night sky lacking two of its three moons, and the third moon, a waning crescent though it was, looking as if it had been cast into a raging fire and burned to ash. Two of the Three, Attandaeus and Memokk, had perished, while Hiphkos had been scorched unto death. Kian, like most northern-born peoples, followed the Silent One, the Creator of All, Pa’amadin, but he could not dismiss the death of the Three. No good, he was sure, would come of their demise.

  “You would think someone would have hailed us by now,” Hazad said, scratching at his unruly beard braids.

  Kian nodded in agreement, looking for but not finding any indication of activity. The fortress had the aspect of long abandonment. A trio of vultures perched on the eastern wall, while at the base of the same wall others vultures had gathered around and were fighting over something under a bush.

  “What is that there, on the ground?” Azuri said, pointing to something just outside the gates. There was no agitation in his voice, but his eyes were hard and searching. Though it had taken a full fortnight longer and countless leagues farther than Kian had expected to get out of the marshes, Azuri alone, as usual, had somehow managed to stay relatively clean.

  “Let’s find out,” Kian said, fighting the urge to kick his horse into a northward gallop. Izutar called him home like never before. Nothing in all of Aradan seemed right, and he did not feel up to stumbling across more of the kingdom’s troubles. Ever since Prince Varis had come out of that damnable temple, Kian and his company had been surrounded by difficulty. While no one had spoken of it since, battling the demon that had taken Fenahk’s body for its own seemed to only be the beginning. The beginning of what, however, left Kian guessing, and he hated uncertainties.

  A few moments later, sitting astride his horse with Azuri and Hazad on either side of him, and close to twenty Asra a’Shah arrayed to their rear, Kian knew he should have listened to his instinct to forsake anything of Aradan and headed north.

  “How long do you suppose he has been dead?” Hazad said, holding the back of his hand to his nose to ward against the sickly reek of decaying flesh.

  “First off,” Kian said, “it is impossible to say if this was a man or a woman.” All that remained of the corpse was a skeleton loosely cloaked in tatters of skin and maggots, a roiling mass of them deep in the chest cavity. “As to how long, I would lay gold that they died soon after Varis stepped out of that temple.”

  Unperturbed, Azuri leaned over and studied the remains and the nearby ground. “Whoever they were, they tried to flee from the fortress … apparently without a stitch of clothing on their back.”

  “I do not see any reason we should refit here,” Hazad said abruptly, taking a long drink of jagdah. “The sooner we depart, the sooner we reach Izutar. Cut these Geldainians loose, and let’s be on our way.”

  At the sound of retreating hooves, Kian turned. Ba’Sel, the man who had stepped into the Ishin’s role as leader of the Asra a’Shah, had moved his men a safe distance off.

  “Did you
see something?” Kian demanded.

  “No,” Ba’Sel said.

  “Then what is it?”

  Ba’Sel looked around at his men, receiving nods from each. He faced Kian again. “This is a place of the dead … a tomb. To enter is to invite a curse upon the blood of the living.”

  “As you will,” Kian said dismissively. He dismounted and moved to the gate, skirting the ragged skeleton.

  “By the gods good and wise, what are you doing?” Hazad asked.

  “If everyone here is dead, there may be gold within, and it would not hurt to make up for what we will not receive from Varis,” Kian said, though in his heart he cared nothing for gold. Answers of any sort, no matter how flimsy, were more precious to him at the moment.

  Kian heaved against the sally port gate, expecting it to be locked from within, or at the least to offer some resistance. Instead, it swung inward with a screech. As soon as the gate was fully extended, the rusted hinges gave way. Kian leapt out of the way as it came crashing down.

  “We are going with you,” Azuri said.

  Hazad scowled. “Speak for yourself. You heard them,” he said, jabbing a finger at the Asra a’Shah, “this place is an accursed tomb. That is all I need to know to decide there is no reason to enter.”

  “If the promise of gold is not enough, are you not even a little curious about what might have happened here?” Azuri asked, having the same inquisitiveness as Kian.

  Kian smiled up at the big man. “I promise not to let any spirits get you.” He left it unspoken that he wanted both Azuri and Hazad at his back. The two made a formidable team, and given the unknowns of what lay ahead, he would rather not trust his sword alone.

  “So be it,” Hazad said, throwing up his hands up in surrender. He glanced at Ba’Sel. “When the screaming starts, just ride away.”

  Ba’Sel gave him a bemused look, but nodded anyway.

  After remounting, Kian led the way through the sally port and into a charnel house.

  The dead lay everywhere, some alone, others piled high, all rotting. To the last, the corpses had been torn apart, the pieces scattered. There was no way to tell for sure whether that savagery had caused the deaths, or happened afterward. Something about the scene, beyond the sheer enormity of death, struck Kian as odd, though he could not say what tickled his mind. The stench was nearly unbearable, and flies clouded the air. Huge rats scrabbled about, boldly fighting vultures for scraps.

  “Who could have done this?” Hazad gasped.

  Azuri gave him a speculative look. “I would say what did this.”

  “Another demon,” Kian answered flatly.

  Azuri, who looked to be thinking the same thing, said, “There can be no doubt that Varis parted the veil of Geh’shinnom’atar, freeing the evil of that place upon the world.”

  “I have seen enough,” Hazad said. “Gold and curiosity be damned.”

  Before the big man could turn his mount, Kian raised a hand. “Wait.”

  Azuri followed his gaze to the outbuilding built hard against the base of the keep. “Did you see that?” he gasped.

  “What?” Hazad demanded, jerking his sword free of the scabbard.

  Kian felt eyes on him, but saw nothing. He had been in enough battles to sense danger before it struck, but that did not fit with what he thought he had seen.

  Hazad grabbed his arm. “What was it?”

  “A child, I think,” Kian said slowly.

  Hazad released Kian and looked around the body-strewn courtyard. “Come out,” he called, “and we will see you safe from here.” His shout did not echo off the palisade or the keep’s walls as it should have, but fell flat.

  A vulture screeched, flies droned, and a thousand rats ran hither and yon, but for a long time there were no other sounds. The Black Keep loomed over them, its dark and blocky walls spotted with pale lichen. The tall, narrow windows and arrow loops were as dark as the rest of the keep’s stonework. Higher up, a square corner tower squatted on the battlements, and from its crenulated peak a tattered banner flitted in the wind, revealing the ebon boar of House Rengar charging across a crimson field.

  “I think your eyes betrayed you,” Hazad said. “There is nothing here, save ghosts and vermin.”

  “I’m here,” a phlegmy, croaking voice called from somewhere near the keep.

  Kian tried to pinpoint the speaker, who sounded young despite the sickly tenor of their voice. Shadows lay deep and heavy around the outbuildings, so the child could have been anywhere. “Show yourself, and we will help you.”

  Thick, tittering laughter rose up, then drifted away, the sound leaving Kian’s skin crawling. After a long moment, the child-a boy-said, “I do not need help.”

  “I don’t like this,” Hazad muttered.

  “Should I fetch your mother?” Azuri said, trying for a mocking quirk of his lips that fell short.

  “If you are so brave,” Hazad said, “then you go find the boy.”

  “Damn me!” Kian snapped. “Can you two cease your bickering, even for a moment?”

  Chastened, both nodded in acquiescence, but Kian had already dismissed them and climbed out of the saddle. Azuri sighed and Hazad grumbled, but both climbed down. Together, the trio moved toward the keep, alert for any hidden danger.

  When the boy showed himself, stepping out from between a pair of barrels set against what appeared to be the kitchens, all three halted. Hazad gasped, not doing half so well at hiding his revulsion as Kian and Azuri.

  The scrawny boy’s cracked lips parted to show crooked yellow teeth in what Kian told himself was a smile instead of a hungry leer. His unkempt black hair stuck out at all angles, and his filthy tunic was coated in straw and dung. Every inch of his exposed skin was just as filthy, and covered in running sores besides.

  “Have rats been at you, boy?” Hazad asked sharply.

  “A leper,” Azuri said, swiftly dancing back a few paces, rubbing vigorously at his arms.

  Kian gave him a quizzical look before understanding dawned. To Azuri, the boy must represent all that he hoped to avoid from the touch of filth.

  “Can’t be a leper,” Hazad said. “He’s got all his bits.”

  “Where are the others, your parents, the soldiers, Lord Marshal Bresado?” Kian asked, wanting to find out what was wrong with El’hadar. “Was there an attack?”

  “My master wishes to see you,” the boy said, as if he had not heard a word from any of them.

  “Lord Marshal Bresado?” Kian asked uneasily.

  The boy nodded. “Yes. My master. He has been waiting for you.”

  Obviously expecting to be followed, the boy turned and strode on scrawny legs and bare feet through the keep’s main doors.

  “Tell me you are not going to follow after him,” Azuri pleaded, looking truly out of sorts for the first time Kian could ever recall.

  “Should I fetch your mother?” Hazad mocked, sniggering to himself.

  At any other time, Kian would have laughed with the big man at Azuri’s expense, but not now. “With or without you two, I am going after that boy. My guess is that he has lost his wits, but he may lead us to Bresado’s corpse … and the lord marshal’s coffers. If nothing else, perhaps we can learn what happened here.” It troubled him that the boy was still alive, surrounded by so much death, but then, everything about El’hadar was troubling.

  “Then let’s be about it,” Hazad said with false enthusiasm.

  “I’ll go,” Azuri said, “but when your ‘bits’ start falling off, do not say I did not warn you it would happen.”

  Kian trotted after the urchin, calling for him to slow down. They had to stop at the huge double doors, through which the child had entered the keep, and force them farther open. Beyond lay a long corridor, lightless save for a flickering bubble of luminescence cast by the candle now held in the boy’s hand. Even this near the Qaharadin, firemoss was hard-earned, and cost too much for most border lords to use lavishly. To Kian’s mind, it was no loss. Stark light would only show
how rotted was El’hadar’s heart and the rotting dead, which were just as plentiful inside the keep as outside.

  “Come,” the boy urged, waving them forward in a slow and exaggerated manner. When the trio obeyed, he trotted ahead of them, as indifferent to the corpses as he was to the feasting rats.

  Each new turn led into another corridor smelling more strongly of rank meat than the last, and every set of stairs led downward. The continual descent and absence of any outward-facing windows told Kian they were moving deeper into the Black Keep.

  The final corridor, low and sloping sharply downward, was free of death, but the reek of slime and mold was nearly suffocating. When Hazad, who was taller than either Kian or Azuri, smacked his skull against a support beam, they all hunched over as a precaution. In short order, the corridor ended at a broad, circular landing. To one side a heavy door stood open. Faintly, Kian could make out a steep stairway falling into utter darkness.

  The boy gazed at them. Up close, his eyes seemed devoid of not just emotion, but of any hint of life. He placed the candle on the floor, then turned and shambled back the way they had come. Before he vanished into gloom, he called over his shoulder, “Follow the stairs. My master is waiting.”

  The trio stared after him, none willing to take the first step.

  Visibly shaken by the degree of grime and corruption all around them, Azuri said, “This is madness. Why would Bresado be down there?”

  “I have heard it told that Bresado favors tormenting captured Bashye in the bowels of the keep,” Hazad offered with a shrug.

  “So you think,” Azuri said sarcastically, “that while the fortress was being assaulted by gods know what, Bresado would have retired to the cellar to persecute prisoners, instead of defending his people?”

  “From what I’ve heard of the man,” Kian said, “I can believe it.”

  “See there?” Hazad said accusingly.

  Azuri’s eyes narrowed at Hazad. “You are nothing but a great, hairy child.”