The God King (Book 1) (Heirs of the Fallen)

by James A. West

  That’s but a fraction of what the Sister of Najihar saw, he thought, recalling her awe. While it might have served him to remain a being of golden radiance, he had decided for now it was better to look merely human.

  The shadow of the youth he had been was still visible, but now his strong features were those of a man ten years older. His top-lock was a blue-black cable of hair that hung to his belt. He smiled at himself, realizing that he could have passed for his father’s brother, rather than the man’s youngest son.

  Varis looked up at a pig’s grunt. Beyond its pen, goats peered at him with their strange eyes, chewing cud. A rooster crowed, urging the sun to rise faster.

  Eager to reach Ammathor, some few leagues distant, Varis hopped the split rail fence and made for the road. He pulled up the hood of his cloak against the chill air. Under the cloak he wore a soft woolen tunic and leggings, these last tucked into sturdy leather boots. He had created the clothes using the Powers of Creation. What wonders will I create after a year of practice, or ten?

  These feats of creation would not have been possible if Ellonlef had not revealed Peropis’s betrayal. In learning that, his fury had grown so bright and hot that he had forgotten her warnings. In an instant, he had absorbed the lives of ten thousand demonic souls, and something had changed inside him. Soon, he would plumb the depths of that change, and when he knew enough, he would bring war on Peropis, and the Thousand Hells would quake at his coming. As for Kian Valara, well, he was little more than a nuisance. If he refused Varis’s peace offering, then he would die as easily as a beetle under a boot heel.

  Varis had not quite reached the dirt road when he heard the rattle of a door’s bolt and the squeak of old hinges.

  “You there!” the crofter shouted gruffly.

  Varis thought about ignoring the man, but turned instead. The bandy-legged old man stood in the doorway waving a cudgel. Years of toil had creased the man’s face and bent his spine, but he appeared strong. Varis stared at the gawping fool, and as he did so, he allowed a small bit of his inner radiance to shine forth. That golden glow spread back the way he had come, washing over the crofter’s stunned features. He abruptly cried out and flung himself into the dust.

  Varis made his way to the road, a lightness in his stride. By nightfall, he would be King of Aradan.

  ~ ~ ~

  It took a good part of the morning to climb the strangely empty road up through the Pass of Trebuldar and reach Edaer’s Wall. When Varis halted a mile away, it had nothing to do with tiredness.

  Where the legendary wall had stood, a manmade cliff of sandstone a league wide and a hundred paces high, and caught between the rugged peaks of the Two Brothers, now only a rubble heap remained. Gone were the great barbican gates, the scores of turrets and dozens of towers. Second only to the Ivory Throne, Edaer’s Wall had been a symbol of Aradan’s power and glory for a thousand years.

  For the better part of a minute, Varis considered remaking it, right then and there, before deciding that the time for miracles must wait.

  He searched for a way through the destruction, and found a small breach in the rubble marked out by a lone banner of House Kilvar. Its golden sword and lance, crossed over a field of deep green, was snapping in the breeze. Under the banner he saw a small trickle of people leaving the hazed city beyond the wall. Hundreds more waited to get in. Most were turned away by a company of guardsmen.

  The departing folk joined those who were barred entry, and trudged across an open field to a chaotic tumble of rock that had fallen down the mountainside. When he saw the thousands of tents and wagons, Varis knew why the road had been empty. Everyone within a hundred leagues was seeking the refuge of Ammathor, but it appeared the King’s City had nothing to offer.

  Making a swift plan, Varis set out, angling away from the makeshift gate and avoiding refugees. An hour later, he had climbed up and over what remained of Edaer’s Wall, and stood on the outskirts of the city of his birth.

  The scene that greeted him was far worse than anything he could have imagined. Not one building in sight remained unscathed, and most had fallen in on themselves. The plastered walls of those still standing were blackened and cracked from fires that had swept through the entire district. Mounted patrols roamed debris-littered streets, but the soldiers paid little attention to the starving, hollow-eyed looters picking through the destruction. These people, he thought, are ripe for the plucking.

  As he pushed toward the palace, the suffering and destruction grew larger. Folk with skin hanging from fleshless bones wandered aimlessly in search of food, and anything to build a fire against the unnatural cold. Heaps of rotting dead choked every alley, and more than once Varis saw groups of men ravishing captured woman, indifferent to the stench of death nearby. Children ran in feral packs. One filthy group of urchins fell on a starving dog, bludgeoning it with sticks, and then ripping it apart with their bare hands to enjoy a hot, bloody meal.

  Yes, Varis thought, his hard grin turning all danger away from himself, they are ripe, and I will harvest their grief.

  In time Varis spotted the looming walls ringing the king’s palace. Cracks showed here and there, but for the most part the curtain wall stood intact. No doubt his grandfather had ensured quick repairs to any damage.

  As he came closer, the racket of thundering hooves drew Varis’s attention. A rawboned man, followed by twenty lancers, charged out of the palace’s barbican gate. At the last instant, the green-and-gold cloaked leader reined in, shock pulling his thin features tight. The last Varis had seen the man, he had been quite fat. Hunger had whittled him mercilessly.

  “Prince Sharaal?” General Igindu asked, peering under Varis’s hood. “Why are you here, and why are you alone?”

  “Your eyes deceive you, Igindu,” Varis said to the man who had taught him the sword. Behind the grizzled soldier, the lancers were staring. “It’s not the father who stands before you, but his youngest son.”

  “Prince Varis? Gods good and wise, you’ve grown into a man since you—” he cut off abruptly. “By the gods, where have you been? Your family has been mad with worry. King Simiis sent out four legions to search for you. Before all this happened,” he said, waving a hand over the city’s destruction, “King Simiis was preparing to march on Tureece, thinking you had been taken captive.”

  “The letter explaining my journey must have been misplaced,” Varis lied. Before Igindu could respond, he said, “If my father is not here, then where is he?"

  A flicker of mistrust flashed over Igindu’s eyes, then was gone. “Soon after the Three were destroyed, King Simiis received word from Lord Marshal Otaker of Krevar that a formidable army was soon to march on Ammathor.”

  “Otaker gave no other description?”

  Igindu spread his hands. “We could’ve hoped for more, but that was the extent of Otaker’s warning. We’ve heard nothing since, and feared Krevar had been defeated. That’s why King Simiis sent your father and mother into hiding, along with nine of Ammathor’s twelve legions. With Edaer’s Wall collapsed, and also the Dawn Wall to the east, your grandfather feared any army that could decimate Krevar could also crush Ammathor. He wanted to ensure that if such happened, your father would be able to assemble a counterstrike. When I mistook you for Prince Sharaal, I thought the worst was upon us.”

  “What of my brothers?”

  Igindu swallowed. “You Highness, your brothers perished while hunting in the mountains. I found them myself. When the skies burned and the world shook, there were many landslides. They....” his voiced dwindled to a grieved sigh, and he shook his head.

  Varis hid his smile. Ever had he despised his brothers. To the last, they had fancied themselves future warrior kings. At best, they had been warriors of silken sheets and fat pillows, given to making sport of bedding adventurous highborn ladies and their insipid daughters. And when not so engaged, they had idled away their miserable lives hunting the crags of the Two Brothers. Their distractions had saved him the need to slay them himself.


  “Rouse my grandfather and his councilors,” Varis commanded. “I have word of the advancing army.”

  Igindu blinked in surprise. “You knew of the army already? Who are they? Tureecian dogs? Falsethians?”

  “You will learn all you need to know soon enough, General. Tell King Simiis that I will await him in the Golden Hall.”

  Without another word, he brushed by Igindu and entered the palace grounds. Close as he was to his goal, it was easy to ignore the naked slaves shivering in the cold air, and the highborn who gave his attire offended looks, as well as all the finery and rich accommodations he would soon inherit.

  He halted before a pair of uneasy guards standing at attention. Behind them rose a set of doors as wide and tall as any stable’s, and covered in more wealth than a small kingdom held in its coffers.

  “Prince Varis,” one of the guards said with a rigid salute.

  Varis gave the barest nod of greeting, while the other guard hastened to push open the golden doors. Scores of nobles and the realm’s highest ranking officers waited within. While it was surprising that so many had been summoned so quickly, it pleased him. The more eyes that witnessed what was about to happen in this vaunted chamber, the beating heart of Aradan, the faster word would spread.

  At the end of the Golden Hall rose a stepped dais. Atop this sat the Ivory Throne, his prize. The great chair was built all of curving ivory tusks, every inch of their length swirled with silver and gold inlay, and studded with sapphires, opals, and diamonds. The throne was vacant now, but that would soon change.

  At the base of the dais sat a double row of white-kilted advisors and ministers, all speaking excitedly amongst each other. Varis knew these men were not traitorous to Aradan, but they were self-serving nearly to a traitorous degree.

  So far, no one within the Golden Hall had noticed his arrival. The herald’s booming voice changed that.

  “Prince Varis Kilvar, Heir to the Ivory Throne of Aradan, Keeper of the Kaliayth in the West, and Holder of the Golden Plain in the East!”

  Heads turned, and a collective gasp went through the assemblage. A low, uneasy muttering soon followed. Only the officers in the galleries above responded with proper decorum, each drawing his sword and pressing the hilt to heart, the tip pointed toward the mosaicked ceiling.

  King Simiis strode into the Golden Hall through a doorway reserved for him alone. The mutters cut off. Knees bent and heads bowed. Simiis, always a hard man, glanced toward his grandson with unreadable eyes as black as onyx.

  Varis, unbowed, waited in silence as the king slowly stalked toward him over alternating tiles of blue and white marble.

  Simiis, past sixty years, was still as straight and strong as a man thirty years his junior. Varis was now of a height with the king, but his grandfather was broader across the shoulders and deeper of chest. His top-lock hung thick and white as snow. Clad in a long crimson kilt slashed with white, he was as strong today as the younger man who had donned the crown over forty years ago.

  Forgoing any greeting, King Simiis said, “General Igindu informed me that you had word of the advancing army.”

  Varis nodded. “The army is me.”

  The king scowled. “What—”

  Varis slapped his palm against the king’s naked chest, cutting the question short. In a widening web, black threads spread from his fingertips through the king’s dark skin. Simiis’s eyes bulged and his jaw worked furiously, grinding his teeth through his tongue. Blood coursed over his chin. The king suddenly lurched away with a strangled cry.

  Varis slowly pushed back his hood, revealing eyes of burning pearl, and a face of burnished bronze. His radiance swelled until it filled the Golden Hall.

  Highborn, lords marshal, and advisors all howled in fright. As fright became panic, they bolted for the doors, pummeling and trampling their fellows in order to escape.

  Before anyone could flee, Varis covered the doors and windows in a skin of ice that was stronger than any iron ever forged. One undeterred councilor touched that barrier and his hands stuck fast. In seconds, feathers of hoarfrost had spread to his elbows. Then a seething mass of men and women buried him.

  Simiis had backed off, but now stood immobile. His features had gone to a sickly yellow, and on his chest was Varis’s blackened palm print. Steaming blood flowed from that wound, leaving a string of welts.

  “What are you!” Simiis shouted.

  Varis’s voice boomed. “I am the Destroyer of the Well of Creation and Geh’shinnom’atar. I am Emperor of the coming dawn. I am the God of men!”

  He caught his grandfather’s face in his blazing hands. Simiis’s screams became a single piercing note of agony. No matter how he struggled, he could not break free. The king’s cheeks sank inward, his once proud features contorting into a grotesque sneer.

  Varis shoved the wilted man away.

  Simiis raked his fingernails across his chest and belly, leaving smoking furrows. His mouth yawned wide, but boiling clots of black blood cut off his cry. His eyes rolled. One burst, then the other, leaving behind running sockets. His skin began to split, releasing small tongues of flame. In three heartbeats, the fires enveloped the king. Before he hit the floor, King Simiis had become a husk of smoldering ash.

  Where before mad panic had reigned those trapped in the Golden Hall, now silent shock held sway. A handful of the feeblest were sprawled across the floor.

  Varis subdued the raging Powers of Creation inside himself until he again resembled a mortal man. He gazed over his new subjects, and they hastily pressed their foreheads to the floor, weeping vows of fealty.

  Before he accepted their allegiance, he made his way down the length of the Golden Hall, climbed the dais, and sat on the Ivory Throne. He smiled down at the mewling wretches, and gave his first command. “Attend me.”

  PART III

  Shadow and Hate

  Chapter 23

  Many days after finding Ellonlef, Kian and the others rode over a bridge spanning the River Malistor. The river ran wide, deep, and was a reddish brown that matched the sky for ugliness.

  “All the world has gone to blood,” Azuri said, looking around with red-shot eyes at the silent, smoke-hazed landscape. Of late, his mood gone from its usual waspishness to relentlessly dour.

  “Oh, go wash yourself, you reeking pig,” Hazad said, snickering.

  Azuri said nothing, and made no attempt to brush the dirt and ash from the ratty blanket he wore like a cloak.

  Hazad fell to silently nursing the last of his jagdah.

  “Where are all the people?” Ellonlef wondered aloud. She had been a slender woman before, but her cheeks had sunk in, her eyes were wider than they should be, and had a slightly dazed light to them.

  Kian supposed they all looked about the same. They had eaten a charred snake a couple of days ago, and nothing since. And the water they found, usually by digging in dry washes, had a bitter taste that took a long time to go away.

  Kian shook his head at her question. “If I were them, I’d be holed up somewhere safe and warm.”

  “Perhaps,” Ellonlef said. “But even after all that’s happened, there should be peddlers and crofters bringing wares to Ammathor. There should be barges and trade ships running the river. But there’s nothing. It’s as if the entire world has perished.”

  As he had thought the same himself, Kian didn’t know what to say that would help, so he kept his mouth shut. He called a halt and scanned the road ahead. It led up into the Pass of Trebuldar and to Edaer’s Wall. Beyond that waited Ammathor.

  “Varis will expect us to come this way,” he said.

  Azuri said, “Doubtless he’ll have sentries waiting to cut out our beating hearts along every road into the city.”

  “Gods good and wise,” Hazad growled. “Maybe you ought to dump yourself in the river and just get it over with.”

  Azuri snatched the big man’s skin of jagdah and emptied it. “Maybe we all should. I’m sure drowning would be more pleasant than any
thing Varis has in store for us.”

  Kian didn’t bother reminding the man that he had played a part in leading them down this road, but only because what they had said to convince him still held true. Varis would not stop at taking the Ivory Throne.

  “There are other ways into Ammathor,” Ellonlef offered. “Ways not often taken by honest folk.”

  “You mean the smuggler trails?” Hazad said.

  Kian appraised her. “What would you know of such paths?”

  “To know a kingdom’s strengths, you must also know a kingdom’s weaknesses,” Ellonlef said.

  “You Sisters of Najihar really are spies,” Hazad said in appreciation.

  When she smiled, too many of her teeth showed and her eyes went glassy, making her look insane. Kian wondered if they ought to go ahead and eat one of their horses. His belly rumbled at the thought, but they were down to the four they were riding. And besides, the damned beasts had more ribs showing than their riders.

  “If we can sneak in from the south, I know someone who lives in the Chalice who can help.”

  “Does this someone have food?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Ellonlef said in a rapturous voice.

  “Good enough,” Hazad announced, idly wiping the sheen of drool from his bottom lip.

  Azuri, slouching in the saddle, flicked a hand toward the mountains ahead. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

  “We’re in your hands, Sister,” Kian said, bowing in the saddle. He bent a little too far, and had to grab the pommel to keep from losing his seat. Everyone noticed, but no one had the energy to mention it.

  ~ ~ ~