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

by West, James A.

  “I faced certain capture by the Bashye,” she said slowly and precisely, speaking as if to a lackwit. “I would rather have died in battle than become their slave—a concept I should not have to explain to an Izutarian, if I rightly understand your people.”

  “She has you there,” Azuri said, coming near with Hazad at his side.

  Kian looked between the two men, fully aware that he had spoken before thinking, which was not his habit. He was starting to wish he had never laid eyes on this Sister Ellonlef. Yet he had, and the question of her sanity or unflinching bravery aside, the accusation she had leveled at him was, without question, unacceptable. The last kingdom he would want—if ever he sought a kingdom—was Aradan, a realm filled with all manner of debauched and lazy highborn, men and women so long from true struggles that they had to invent problems over which to be angry or concerned. To be sure, the kingdom contended with the Bashye, as well as Tureecian raiders, but to these threats the Ivory Throne conscripted vast armies and paid hordes of mercenaries to keep safe Aradan’s great cities and holdings, ensuring the highborn had all the more time to invent depraved entertainments in which to wallow.

  Before he could respond to her outlandish statement, Azuri bowed at the waist and introduced himself, followed by Hazad, whose movements were far more crude.

  “If you need anything, Sister,” Azuri said, “you have only to ask. Hazad may be as ugly as Kian, but he is usually far more pleasant.” He finished with a wink that brought a sudden and delighted grin to Ellonlef’s lips.

  Kian glared at his friends. They had openly betrayed him, all for a pretty woman. It was simply disgusting.

  Ellonlef’s grin became a captivating smile that momentarily set Kian back on his heels. “Thank you,” she said.

  Kian forcefully regained his wits and demanded, “I would know why you accused me of seeking to depose King Simiis.”

  Ellonlef’s smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. “I am not your accuser, rather the messenger.”

  “Then who is my accuser?” he asked, anger rising. Such a slight could not go unanswered.

  Ellonlef appraised him, as if trying to determine his worthiness. Finally she answered. “Your former charge, as it happens, Prince Varis Kilvar.”

  “Varis!” Azuri hissed, voicing the surprise of all three.

  “He arrived in Krevar several days ago—exactly how many, I cannot be sure, as I have been riding hard and sleeping little since Lord Marshal Otaker sent me north. And, so you know exactly what you face, Varis’s followers now call him the Life Giver.”

  “ ‘You seek to supplant the master of the mahk’lar, the Life Giver,’ “ Hazad muttered. “Lord Marshal Bresado said that, or something very close, right before he—”

  Kian cut the big man off with a sharp look. He wanted Ellonlef to tell all that she knew before he shared anything in return. As far as he knew, she might be in the service of Varis. Yet, by the look on her face, eyes wide with shock, mouth slightly agape, what Hazad had said obviously disturbed her greatly. Too greatly, Kian silently conceded, for a woman of her stripe. A Sister of Najihar, it was said, was never out of countenance. That Ellonlef so obviously was, suggested she could not be in league with Varis … unless her emotions were a ploy.

  “You are sure,” she asked, “that Lord Marshal Bresado spoke those words, named Varis so?”

  “No question at all,” Hazad said. “Though I would like to, I will never forget Bresado—or whatever he was—as we last saw him.”

  Azuri confirmed the big man’s statement with a nod.

  Ellonlef bowed her head in thought. When she looked up again, her eyes glinted with unshed tears, and Kian felt something inside himself soften, just a little. He had never seen eyes more ill-suited for tears.

  “If …” Ellonlef trailed off, voice cracking. Visibly composing herself, she said, “If you speak true, then Lord Marshal Otaker Racote is dead … or changed.”

  Kian did not like the way she said that last. With all that he had recently seen of demons, changed was not a word he wanted to apply to a man.

  “Last night you claimed,” Kian said, “that all the people between Yuzzika and Oratz have been slaughtered.”

  “I made no claims,” Ellonlef retorted. “I saw the dead—hundreds, thousands. Most were too far gone to guess what had killed them. In Oratz, however, it was obvious that something had … had torn out their throats before they died.”

  Creatures of shadow and hate, Bresado’s voice rose up from deep within Kian’s mind, glutted themselves on the blood of the dying.

  Kian lost the opportunity for the secrecy he needed to glean all that Ellonlef knew or suspected when Hazad spoke aloud the words in his mind, and naming Bresado as the speaker. Kian wanted to shout at the man, but held his tongue. The nervousness that had greeted him upon waking reared up again, larger than ever. A storm, of sorts, was coming. There could be no question that sharing details with the Sister of Najihar was hastening its approach. Bowing to fear was not in Kian’s nature, but more than ever he wanted to run far and fast, before the first stroke of lightning fell from the envisioned storm, before the first drop of poisoned rain touched his brow.

  Azuri began speaking next, telling her what had happened at the temple, about Varis creating fire from thin air, of the battle with the diabolical root-serpent. Then he moved on to the demon that had taken Fenahk’s flesh for its own, and how Kian had miraculously defeated it. Hazad took up where Azuri left off, recounting in a hollow voice about the many dead at El’hadar, as well as the demons seemingly under Bresado’s command, creatures only Kian could easily kill.

  After they finished, Ellonlef mulled their words, then said, “These demons are, in truth, the Fallen. Lady Danara, whom Varis brought back from death, told that she had been to Geh’shinnom’atar, and that she had seen the Fallen freed.”

  “Why is it that you believe Lord Marshal Otaker is dead?” Kian asked.

  “The message Otaker intended to send to Bresado, and all the lords marshal along Aradan’s borders, as well as the king, was a warning about the danger facing the kingdom at Varis’s hands, not a warning about a mercenary vying for the Ivory Throne—that was the story Varis told Otaker and myself. The only way Bresado could have suspected you might be coming is if Varis told him as much … or Otaker, though not the Otaker I left behind.”

  Azuri looked about at his companions, then faced Ellonlef. “Doubtless Otaker the man is dead, for it was not Bresado who was waiting for us, anymore than it was Fenahk who attacked us in the swamp. It might have been them in appearance, but demons had taken control of their flesh.”

  While Kian did not personally know Lord Marshal Otaker, it was said that he was one of the last true Aradaners, cast from the mold of the kingdom’s forefathers. The idea of him becoming a creature like Bresado was disheartening. Even if true, he had larger questions that needed answering.

  “I still do not understand why Varis would claim I intend to usurp the Ivory Throne.”

  Ellonlef gathered her thoughts. “The short of it is this: I believe that Varis fears you. As such, he desires your death … but your death is seemingly the one thing he cannot bring about by his own hands. He claimed that you stole the powers of creation, long ago hidden by the Three within something he named the Well of Creation. He said that some part of those powers were released into the world and, consequently, into himself.

  “Given his actions at Krevar—slaughtering, I believe, the people of Krevar with a strange plague and then bringing those dead back to life in order to convince all others that you are after the Ivory Throne, and are in turn supported by a cohort of corrupt highborn—it seemed more likely that the situation was reversed. Seeing you now before me, and having witnessed the very natural means by which you fought last night, I believe even more strongly that Varis is the one who stole the powers of creation for himself, and that he intends to take the Ivory Throne, as well.” She held his gaze until he grew uncomfortable, then added, “Howe
ver, from your friends’ account, it must also be true that some part of the powers of creation are inside you, Kian Valara.”

  Kian gazed at Ellonlef, wanting to deny her words, but unable to.

  Azuri nodded to himself. “At the temple, just before Varis came out, you were struck down—”

  “The same would have happened to any man unexpectedly knocked to his backside by a blast of strong wind,” Kian argued weakly.

  “It was no wind that bowled you over, my friend, but a strand of blue fire. As well,” he went on, “only you, among all the others of the company, survived the direct touch of the unnatural fires Varis created. And not only did you survive, but those flames did very little to the area around you. Those same fires turned to ash anyone else they fell upon.”

  “And let’s not forget that root-serpent,” Hazad said. “It had you cornered. Yet when it tried to tear you apart, it died at your touch. The same power in Varis must also lie in you,” Hazad finished in a whisper, looking distinctly ill at ease.

  Before Hazad could add what Kian knew was coming next, Azuri said, “And the demon in Fenahk … only your steel was able to cause true harm. Yet, even then, it was not your sword that destroyed the creature, but your voice. And if you had not been with us in the Black Keep, Bresado’s minions would have torn Hazad and me to pieces.”

  “This cannot be so,” Kian said, feeling trapped. He had been able to accept that he might have had some protection from Varis, inexplicable as it was, but that he shared something with that vile princeling revolted him. The imagined storm he had sensed before was closing, and he hastened to ward against it, futile as those efforts were. “Your steel worked as well as—”

  Kian stopped before the statement was finished. The truth was clear and undeniable in his mind. To continue on, as if he were the same man he had always been, was to mark himself a fool.

  “Even if true,” Kian said, abruptly changing course, “it matters nothing. With Oratz destroyed, along with any chance of refitting or giving warning that demons now haunt Aradan, I will make for Izutar. Anyone who wants to join me, can.”

  “Is your heart so callous,” Ellonlef said then, “or is it fear that drives you?”

  “Fear lives in all men,” Kian growled, “but I have never let it rule me. As to a callous heart, I owe nothing to this wretched kingdom. I have given them a sword and blood when needed, and they have returned that service with gold. There is no outstanding debt.”

  “Perhaps not,” Ellonlef answered, “but with the gift you have received—an ability to resist Varis, and all the powers he wields—does that not obligate you to help as you can?”

  “No,” Kian said promptly. He did not like the way she was looking at him, as if he were some heartless beast. Neither did he enjoy the way a part of his own mind suggested to him that he was being both a coward and a fool, and indeed, a heartless beast.

  “Very well,” Ellonlef said slowly, “but know this: Varis will not stop at the Ivory Throne. In due course, Izutar will fall as well.”

  “How can you know that?” Kian demanded. Some part of him knew she had the way of it, but another, more stubborn part of him, refused to accept defeat.

  Ellonlef’s tone grew hard. “As with all of Varis’s lies, when he claimed that you would seek to rule all nations, doubtless he gave away his own intentions. This is not Aradan’s problem alone, but the problem of all kingdoms … all the world. Some of those kingdoms might well be Izutar’s enemies, and their falling would, for a time, even benefit Izutar. But in the end, with the power Varis has displayed, friend and foe will be subjugated together.”

  “If so,” Kian said, grasping for any conceivable argument, no matter how weak, “then those kingdoms will stand together against him.”

  “Alliances between friend and foe might arise against Varis, but it is unlikely they will bury old hatreds in time to save themselves.” At this she gave him a pointed, accusing look. “Varis is moving too quickly. He must never be allowed to grow his forces strong enough to attack other kingdoms, let alone the Ivory Throne. He must be stopped—and you Kian, by my estimation and the testimony of your companions, for good or ill, are the only man with even a chance to stand against him. So, while you may not owe Aradan loyalty, can you say the same for your own homelands and people?”

  Kian scowled at the woman before him. “Why are you here, so far from Krevar, if you yourself did not flee a fight you wanted nothing to do with?” It was a weak, petty accusation, and he knew it straight away. More troubling still, was that he was willfully denying many truths about himself, and the world in which he lived. He had never been one to shirk responsibility, and he had never turned his back on his honor, but some unknown force within himself kept driving him to do just that.

  She did not so much as flinch at his charge. “Otaker commanded me to travel north, all the way to Izutar, if that was where I would find you,” Ellonlef said flatly. “We both concluded that you may hold the key to Aradan’s survival, and the power to stand and defeat Varis.”

  “And what were you to do if I denied your request for aid?”

  Ellonlef looked at her hands clasped in her lap. “That possibility never entered our minds.”

  “It should have,” Kian said harshly, hating himself for speaking words that seemed to pierce her heart. “I am a mercenary, after all.”

  “Indeed,” Ellonlef said with no small measure of disgust in her voice, and tossed aside her blankets. Despite her wounds, she managed to get to her feet with no help. Without another word, she hobbled to the picketed horses.

  “What are you doing” Kian demanded, “running off to find some other witless champion? Save yourself the effort, for there are few enough of those in Aradan.”

  Ellonlef turned slowly. While her eyes were not made for tears, they apparently had no trouble holding the fires of wrath in their dark depths. “As you say, there are few enough champions in Aradan, witless or otherwise. As such, I must count myself among their limited number, and go alone to Ammathor. If you will not burden yourself with at least warning the Ivory Throne of the danger Aradan faces, which in turn may be able to protect countless innocents, then I will go—alone.”

  “We will accompany you,” Azuri and Hazad said in unison. For once, they did not fall to throwing snide comments back and forth, but merely shared a determined look and nodded to each other.

  Kian felt like a mule had kicked him in the groin at his companions’ words, for they signified the breaking of the imaginary storm above him. But that selfish, little-known part of him still struggled, sought to turn them from this senseless endeavor.

  “You would throw away your lives for a pack of highborn, Aradaner fools?” he said with as much scorn as he could muster.

  “I have no love for the highborn of Aradan,” Azuri said calmly, “save for the false affections they purchase from my sword. I do not go because of them, I go for the small folk of Aradan, who are like small folk of all realms, men and women who simply want to live their lives in what peace can be found. I cannot believe that you, a man close to me as a brother, would condemn a people simply because of the foolish wretchedness of their rulers.”

  Kian bit back an oath, but said nothing. Azuri went on.

  “Varis has proven he is a demon—if not in truth, then in his heart. Like the Falsethian invaders that ravaged our homelands, he will destroy peace where he finds it. I do not want to find myself in Izutar one day soon, watching his conquering armies burning and cleaving their way through the forests of our homelands, and know that I had thrown aside the once chance to stop him.”

  “And if you fail and die, instead of him?”

  “Then the spirits of our fathers will be pleased that we died choosing of our own freewill to stand against a tyrant and a monster, instead of selling our honor for the price of our lives,” Hazad answered stoically.

  “To speak of danger and death, honor and duty,” Kian said, each word icier than the last, “is easy enough when you ar
e safe. But you were both there when Varis called forth fires that turned men to ash in a blink. You have heard the sister tell how he killed the people of Krevar from afar, then raised them back from the very bowels of the Thousand Hells. This is no man you would have us face, but a creature with the power of gods.

  “She claims I have some measure of that same power, and perhaps this is true, but I have no understanding of its use. If we stand against Varis, doubtless none of us will long survive. Our deaths will earn honor that no one will ever sing of. Is this what you want?” Even as Kian spoke, he wondered if he were chiding his companions, or himself.

  “Death after a life lived good and well,” Azuri said, “is never a vain life. Even if we only please Pa’amadin, and any other watching gods with our actions, then that is enough.” Before Kian could say more, Azuri held up a hand. “All that aside, my friend, you have not considered a key point.”

  “What is that?” Kian asked dismissively. While he loathed standing against doing what was right, no matter how unpalatable that choice, he remained steadfast. This was no small decision, but one of life and death on a scale he could scarcely imagine.

  “The demon within Fenahk called you by name,” Azuri said. “As well, the demon within Bresado was expecting your arrival to El’hadar. Perhaps you can explain that away, but I believe that Varis has already sent his hounds after you. It is only a matter of time before they find you, no matter where you go. You either face him and risk your life, or be hunted until you are found.”

  Kian’s mouth went dry, his doggedness broken. He tried to deny what his friend had said, but had he not sensed that he was hunted, even marked out, almost from the moment Varis strode out of the temple like a risen corpse? That feeling, coupled with what Ellonlef had revealed, assured him that Varis wanted him dead. Even should he run, there would never be a safe place to rest his head.

  After a moment of reflection, he realized his choice was that he had no choice, save to decide when he would face Varis, and on whose terms. Hazad was right, as well, and Kian wanted to choose of his own freewill to stand against Varis, and not sell his honor for the price of his life.