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

by James A. West

  A sudden turn took them out of the palace again, and onto a wide path paved in sandstone. They came to a pair of black obelisks covered with glyphs representing ancient gods, their faces turned up toward reliefs of the Three.

  Ahead, Kian knew from stories, waited the Path of Kings. The guards led him between the obelisks and the sandstone paving stones gave way to bone-white alabaster. Black granite walls rose on either side, forcing the chill gusts into a steady wind that froze the sweat on his brow—sweat he hadn’t known was there.

  Sculptures of past Aradaner kings flanked the path, and though he was no Aradaner, he knew each. The First King, Edaer Kilvar, his marble face worn by centuries, rode a ferocious steed. King Thirod, who had delivered several crushing defeats to the Tureecians throughout his short reign, held aloft a curved scimitar. King Uddhan had been a grossly fat sovereign and was accurately depicted lounging on his side eating grapes, but he had also been a famed builder of monuments to Aradan’s greatness.

  After passing the last stone king, they came to another pair of obelisks, and the guards halted.

  “The king waits in the Garden of Dawn,” one guardsman said.

  The other glanced at Kian’s sword. “Orders are to let you keep your weapons. But if you draw steel, we got twenty arrows ready to skewer your ice-born arse.”

  So Varis does fear me, at least some. “No need for arrows, lads. I’m just here for a bit of friendly conversation.”

  He left them blinking stupidly, and strode into the Garden of Dawn. Dozens of blazing firepots lit sprawling paths and fruit trees. The unnatural cold had wilted the greenery, darkening it toward black. Pillowed sandstone benches sat around frozen ponds. Kian could only imagine what the place must look like during a bright summer day. A sight better than now, he thought.

  “Kian Valara!” Varis called with far more friendly cheer than he had ever shown while traipsing across the Kaliayth. He came around a bower, trailing a hand through withered grapes. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

  “Makes two of us,” Kian said. The boy looked a man, now, but there was something else. Something godlike, Kian hated to admit.

  Smirking, Varis halted near a firepot. “Truth told, I didn’t expect to ever see you again. My mistake in thinking you had more sense than that great, bumbling oaf Hazad—I presume he must’ve wrapped his lips around the first skin of jagdah he could find in Ammathor, eh?”

  “You know him well,” Kian agreed, matching the smirk.

  “And Azuri, how is he?”

  “Fine as you would imagine, considering. Hasn’t had a proper bath in a month.”

  Varis pursed his lips and tapped his chin, just like all the greatest thinkers the world over. “He seemed a poor fit for such a pack of louts. Likely, he has some highborn blood in his veins.”

  “Likely,” Kian said with an agreeable smile. He was thinking about drawing steel and ramming it into the sneering little shit’s throat. If there was any justice in the world, he’d only need the one thrust, and he was pretty sure he could get it done before the hidden archers filled him with arrows. Problem was, it seemed like justice had run dry, of late.

  “And what of Ellonlef?” Varis asked musingly.

  Kian went very still, watching Varis toy with his black top-lock, just as a woman might twirl her hair. His ankle-length kilt was of the purest white trimmed in blue, the hem brushing the finest sandals a king could desire. On each upper arm he wore golden armlets fashioned after cobras with ruby eyes. Surely he didn’t dress up for a fight.

  “I expect Ellonlef is getting on,” Kian said slowly, feeling very, very stupid. The best he could’ve done was to say his friends were dead. But he’d gotten brash, reckless. By what he had said, now Varis knew they were alive and in Ammathor. Knowing he was wasting his breath, he added, “You know how those Sisters of Najihar are, always looking for something new to study. I suppose she’s well on her way to Rida by now.”

  “Of course she is,” Varis said slyly.

  It was past time to have a go at killing this whelp.

  “Be that as is it may,” Kian said, a familiar chill settling into his heart, “I’ve come to collect my due.”

  “Your due?” Varis chuckled.

  “You paid me but half of what was promised. And with all the extra trouble you’ve caused my company, seems like you might owe a bit more than we agreed upon.”

  “You came here for gold?” Varis said, incredulous.

  “Gold speaks with a powerful voice, boy. Best get used to that.”

  Varis struck without warning.

  A wall of flame washed over Kian, knocking him flat. He curled into a defensive ball, squinting against a swirling mass of gold and azure flames. His skin tingled, and he felt more alive than he ever had, but no heat touched him.

  Kian rolled to his feet and drew his sword. No arrows fell, but then he was all but invisible within a cocoon of flame. Varis was a wavering blur before him, the picture of a god with pearlescent eyes and skin glowing like burnished bronze.

  He stepped against the flames, and it was like walking into a strong wind. Another step. Another. The closer he came, the harder the roaring flames pushed against him. Around his feet alabaster cobblestones began to blacken and blister, then to melt like wax.

  When Kian was an arm’s length from Varis, he saw a ripple of uncertainty pass over the sneering boy-god’s face. Kian bared his teeth in a wolfish grin, almost tasting the fear coming off him.

  Kian lunged with a shout, slashing his sword in from the side. The fires died as Varis lurched backward, lost his footing, and plopped down on his backside. Breathing hard, Kian poked the tip of his sword against the boy’s neck. A scared boy, by the look of it, and not a god at all. He’s neither a boy nor a god, but a monster.

  Kian glanced around, mocking eyes wide and questioning. “Where are your archers? Where are all those who love you so much?”

  Varis glared silently, and Kian jabbed the tip of his sword into the hollow of his neck, producing a tiny drop of dark blood. That was what he had hoped for, the biggest gamble he’d taken in all his years. Varis could wield the power of gods, but his flesh was as weak as any man’s. “I pity you, boy, I truly do. Would that it hadn’t come to this.”

  Varis’s smirk reemerged. “Come to what, I wonder?”

  Kian tensed to thrust the sword, but he heard the faintest scrape of a boot over stone. Varis bellowed, and Kian fell into a spinning crouch. A soldier was coming, spear held low, the burnished tip glittering. As Kian pivoted, he heard a sound from the other direction. Something hard slammed against the back of his head.

  His sword flew from his hand, his cheek slapped against scorched cobbles, but he felt no heat. All he felt was cold. The soldier who’d hit him from behind circled around before his eyes, bearing a cudgel. The man was a slow-moving blur, fading in and out of focus.

  Kian blinked, clearing his vision, then shoved his hands under his chest and fought regain his feet. A steady ringing filled his ears. Muted voices seemed to come from afar. He had to get to his feet. Get up! Get up! He would not die like a whimpering puppy. He had to—

  The cudgel fell again, and all went black. Black and cold as the grave.

  Chapter 27

  Kian’s eyes fluttered open, but he could only see out of one of them. He had been in enough fights to know the other was swollen shut. Most of what he could see was dark and smoky.

  The rest of his face was also swollen, and his skull felt cracked. Most of his bones felt cracked. But not his arms. They felt funny, like he didn’t have arms at all. He looked side to side, slowly because his neck hurt as bad as his head. His arms were there, just numb from being stretched up over his head and tied to a beam.

  He hung there, wondering what had happened. Piece by piece, enough came back for him to wish he’d never woken up.

  “He’s coming around,” came a deep voice.

  Kian raised his head. In a half circle before him, backlit by guttering torches,
four men clad in crimson robes tossed herbs on top of a smoldering brazier. Sweetly fragrant smoke hung heavy in the dark hall.

  Kian knew they were priests of the Order of Attandaeus, the Watcher Who Judges. His heart sank. Doubtless, he was in the Gray Hall, where Aradaner kings judged the worst enemies of the realm.

  The high priest, marked out by the golden threadwork trimming the hem and cuffs of his robe, approached. His face was hidden in the shadow of his hood. Where his features were cloaked, his eyes reflected the torchlight.

  “Do you wish to beg atonement for your sins against King Varis Kilvar, the realm, and the gods?”

  “Aradan is lost and the Three are dead,” Kian countered, voice thick with blood. “And your precious king is a murdering usurper."

  The priest’s stare went white around the edges. “Your pain will be exquisite, dog, and your blood will sanctify this most blessed place in Aradan. Your blood, Izutarian, will mark the dawning of a new age of righteousness.”

  Kian chuckled, gagged, spat. “Varis destroys life wherever he finds it. You think you and your fellows will fare any better, should you misstep?”

  “Let the Watcher Who Judges reveal this man’s sins, and let the Life Giver’s judgment be fulfilled!” the priest cried.

  A hundred agonies rippled through Kian when he laughed. “Is it life you’re about to give me?”

  The priest just stared.

  “One moment,” Varis said. Clad now in crimson robes, he moved before Kian.

  Kian’s laughter dried up as he took in the face below him. “You’ve donned the mantle of king and priest? Seems you can’t decide who you are.”

  “This is no game, Izutarian,” Varis said tightly. “As a god among men, I am everything to all people.”

  “You are nothing to me,” Kian said, wishing he still had his sword in hand.

  “Oh, but I am something to you, Kian Valara.”

  Kian closed his eyes, weary of the game. “You are a fool.”

  “We shall see.”

  At Varis’s gesture, the priests vanished into a pool of deep shadow. After a moment the clank of iron and the rattle of chains filled the hall, joined by the ponderous racket of heavy wheels grinding dust into the floor tiles.

  Kian swallowed the bile and blood on his tongue, watching as the straining priests wheeled a brutal-looking device out of the gloom.

  It was some kind of chair, he saw, but nothing built for leisure. Stubby spikes jutted from every inch of the headrest, back, and seat. Wheels, pulleys, levers, and coarse leather straps with studded buckles were affixed to every piece of the wooden frame. Holes had been bored into each arm, and a few held steel spikes, their heads hammered smooth and round.

  “Do you like it?” Varis asked, now behind Kian, as if he wanted to see the appalling machine from Kian’s point of view. “It hasn’t been used in my lifetime. My grandfather said it was too cruel. I’m of another mind.”

  “Are you too weak to face me with your own strength?” Kian taunted, knowing it was far too late for swords. It was too late for anything. He had lost the gamble after all.

  Varis came in front of Kian and leaned in close. “You’re little more than a worm, Izutarian, but it seems you can resist the Powers of Creation. Your flesh, now, that’s as weak as any man’s.”

  “As is your own?” Kian growled.

  “Only for a short time,” Varis said, moving back an inch, as if fearing Kian might bite him. “Soon I’ll be invulnerable.”

  Kian let his head sag. “Well, if you want me dead, why not a headsman? That way everyone gets to see your authority and mercy, all at once.” And a headsman would mean a quick and painless death, if his aim was true.

  Varis’s eyes blazed. “I’m not interested in proving anything. Nor does mercy concern me.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t at that. But you’re afraid, boy. Afraid of what you cannot control, afraid to admit that you might not be the stronger of us. That doubt will never leave you, no matter what you do to me. No matter how far you rise, you will always wonder if I could’ve destroyed you, given half a chance. Fear and doubt will hound you all your days, and you’ll die bitter and spent. And on that day, those forced to worship you at the edge of a sword, they’ll rise up and tear down all your glorious monuments, sing thanks to whatever gods remain, and wipe your memory from their minds.”

  “I am immortal,” Varis insisted, but there was uncertainty in his voice.

  Kian smiled darkly. “The fate of all men is to wither and die. You may run from the grave for a while, but death will find you.” He hoped for the world’s sake that this was true.

  Varis abruptly stood away. “Lash him into the chair!”

  The priests cut Kian down, stripped off his clothes, and threw him into the chair. Blunt spikes gouged him, and he ground his teeth together against fresh pain.

  Then the priests fastened straps tight about his ankles and wrists. Kian remained still, but that didn’t keep the chair’s steel teeth from biting deeper.

  I am an Izutarian. I am a son of the frozen north.

  Two priests produced scourges with leather tongues that glinted with sharp bits of metal.

  I will not beg.

  The first scourge fell with an insignificant crack, parting his skin, bringing blood. A hissing gust of breath rushed past Kian’s teeth. Leather and steel barbs tasted him again, but this time he made no sound.

  “Make him beg,” Varis ordered.

  “I am an Izutarian. I’ll never—”

  The priests went at him in a frenzy. Scourges snapped and tore, flaying skin, exposing muscle and lurid glimpses of bone.

  Kian chewed his tongue, feeling washed in fire. He bucked against the restraints, but refused to cry out.

  The flogging went on, marking off endless seconds. Blood spattered and ran. The flames of agony rose higher and higher, until he thought he would go mad. His jaws ached to hold back his howls.

  “Harder, you fools!” Varis screamed, pacing back and forth. “Hold nothing back!”

  Kian answered with crazed, blubbering laughter.

  The priests answered with pain.

  Scourges hissed and cracked, and blood fell from Kian like rain. Only when steel barbs got hung in his ribs did the priests stop. When they began to dig those cruel bits of steel free with their daggers, Kian’s will shattered with a wordless scream. When his breath was spent, he slumped in the chair, gasping, shaking.

  The priests looked to Varis, and Kian thought sure it was over. The boy had gotten what he wanted.

  “Turn him,” Varis commanded softly.

  The priests looked amongst each other.

  “Do as I say!”

  The two priests unbound Kian and lifted him, their fingers slipping through his blood. A third moved forward to crank a wheel, transforming the chair into a flat rack. The High Priest stood by with his hands tucked up his sleeves, making sure all went well. Unlike before, the priests laid Kian facedown, almost gently. He groaned, but had no strength to resist.

  “Begin,” Varis said.

  The flogging began again. Although the abuses seemed less enthusiastic than before, the scourges still did their nasty work, leaving Kian to scream until darkness fell over him.

  When next he grew aware, he heard a gasping priest say, “He is near death. Shall we bind his wounds?”

  Kian floated in delirium. The blood that had flowed so freely before had slowed to sluggish trickles.

  “Spike him,” Varis ordered. “Hammer the steel deep. Ruin him.”

  Kian heard the whisper of steel sliding free of wood, felt a sharp point dig into the back of his forearm. At the thump of a mallet ramming the first spike through his flesh, a rushing sound filled Kian’s head and carried him away to a place filled with blue fire.

  Chapter 28

  Ellonlef came awake and sat bolt upright. A thin, cool light was filtering through cracks in the walls. No one was in the cold room with her but Hya. The old woman still sat in her chair, as
if she hadn’t moved.

  “Where are the others?”

  Hya snugged her blankets tighter, her rheumy eyes fixed on Ellonlef. “Kian left soon after midnight. The other two went after him at dawn.”

  “Left for where?”

  “Why, to face Varis, of course. Kian bid me tell you and the others not to come after him. Those two Izutarians dismissed me out of hand. I expect more respect from you.”

  Ellonlef threw off her blankets and scrambled up. “I cannot—I will not—abandon him!”

  Hya proved more nimble that she appeared. In a blink she stood at the younger woman’s side, her grip strong on Ellonlef’s arm. “You will heed me, child, at least until we know if he has succeeded or not. Sit, break your fast, and wait until Azuri and Hazad bring word.”

  Ellonlef reluctantly sat down on a rickety stool. Hya pushed a crust of bread into her chilled hands. She nibbled it, but it tasted like dust on her tongue. The wait was long in coming.

  An hour after the day had given up its light, Hazad entered the shop, followed by Azuri. The sun-browned faces of both men had a pinkish cast from the bitter wind. It was not their colored cheeks that drew Ellonlef’s gaze, rather the haunted look in their eyes. She wanted to question them, but the words wouldn’t come.

  “Well,” Hya said, not so reluctant, “what’ve you oafs learned?”

  “Varis tortured Kian near to death,” Hazad said hollowly.

  “We have little time,” Azuri added.

  “Where is he?” Ellonlef heard herself ask.

  “The Pit,” Azuri said, after Hazad made the attempt and choked on the words. “We heard rumors that a few Priests of Attandaeus loaded him into a cart just before dawn, and delivered him to the Pit. It took us the rest of the day to make sure, and then to find anyone willing to help.”

  “Gods good and wise,” Hya rasped.

  Ellonlef’s blood went to ice. “We must free him before—” She cut off, unable to say what all knew, that few men survived long in that dread place.