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

by West, James A.

  Every step he took the more his guts roiled, as if sensing some foulness, a black poison. He was not sure if it was his mind playing tricks, or if it was some acquired instinct grown strong from his dealings with Varis, but he had little choice but to trust in those sensations. After some time spent creeping through the dark, Kian abruptly halted and raised the lamp.

  There before his face, set into the wall, was a small panel of wood with a delicate knob attached to its center. They had passed several of these peepholes along the way, but unlike all the others, this one had small hidden door that let into the room on the other side, the room, Kian’s instincts told him, was the heart of Aradan, the Golden Hall.

  He handed off the lamp with a quiet word to hood the light. Azuri used his cloak to do as bidden. Once darkness fell, Kian grasped the tiny wooden knob. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he gently eased the panel to one side along an age-worn track, revealing a pinprick of light that shone in the dark like a star hung in the heavens. Leaning close, Kian peered through and looked upon the Golden Hall, the throne room and seat of power of Aradan since the fall of the Suanahad Empire. Because of the hall’s renown, Kian had little trouble indentifying what he saw.

  Shadows dominated the hall for the most part, the only light coming from a few firemoss globes nested in golden tripod lamp stands. The Ivory Throne itself sat atop a high dais. Its sapphires and fire opals, set in the tusks and eye sockets of the strange beasts that made up the great chair, seemed to glint with menace. A massive table was centered in the hall, with what appeared to be a huge map covering its surface. Of Varis, he was surprised to see no immediate sign, but he sensed that the youth was near, perhaps just out of sight. In absolute silence, Kian waited, if only because he felt he should.

  But that was a lie. The real reason, which was hard to admit, was that he feared the disturbing sensations gripping his heart, and the very real threat and remembered pains of what Varis had recently ordered done to him. Looking back over the last season, he realized something had always been just out of sight, waiting, marking the perfect time to attack. Strangely, he did not feel that Varis was the source of that particular threat.

  Even as this thought passed through his consciousness, a door opened and closed, and a muffled greeting filled the hall. Then the newly arrived messenger began speaking. Kian pushed all other considerations aside and listened.

  “Lord Marshal Yagaal,” came Varis’s voice, “what word of my father’s attack?” There was more than a hint of annoyed boredom in the young king’s tone, as if the idea that his own father would seek to launch a strike against Ammathor, and by extension his own son, was but a trifling thing, a buzzing fly that needed shooing.

  Yagaal moved into view at the head of the great table. He swept back his flowing cloak of green and gold, knelt, and bowed his head. Varis seemed to materialize from nowhere, clad in scarlet robes, as he had been in the Gray Hall. “Enough groveling, Yagaal,” Varis snapped. “What word do you bring?”

  Yagaal stood, the planes of his face made stern by shadow. When he spoke, his tone was clipped, as if delivering a message that left a foul taste on his tongue. “The Chalice is burning, from one end to the other. The rabble have gone mad, razing and looting at will. Sometimes they attack our forces, other times Prince Sharaal’s, and more often than not, each other. So far, this chaos has stalled Sharaal’s advance. But, Sire, the Crimson Scorpions under his command are the finest legion ever fielded. It is only a matter of time before they put down the Chalice hordes and your forces, and begin driving against Ammathor and the palace. Those you command cannot hope to do more than delay your father’s march by perishing slowly.” This last seemed more a question than a statement, as if Yagaal wondered what, if anything, Varis had in mind for defense or counterattack. The king’s answer appeared not to please Yagaal.

  “So be it,” Varis said dismissively. “Let my rebellious father and his traitorous army come. What else have you?”

  Yagaal’s nostrils flared in anger, his whole body rigid. What he said next suggested a discontented anger had been building in him for some time. “Pardon, Sire, what else would you have of me? My men, who have been starving for weeks, despite your promise of bread, are being slaughtered by their brothers-in-arms as we speak—men I have trained, men I have fought beside against the kingdom’s enemies, men who believed and feared you … and here you sit, safe in the palace, commanding the hunt for a particular Izutarian, even as Ammathor falls down around your feet. I, and my men, were fools to trust your lies … kingslayer.”

  The last word hung in the air. Whispered though it had been, it served as a final, defiant cry to the rest. While Kian had never served Aradan or any other kingdom in the capacity of a sworn soldier, he understood all too well that men of such rank as lord marshal did not rise so far without a strong sense of discretion. The absence of such prudence in Yagaal surely meant that those under the lord marshal’s command had reached a point that they would no longer fight for their usurping king.

  Silence held, even as wrath twisted Varis’s features into a mask of contemptuous hatred so deep as to be felt. His eyes changed from dark to glowing white, and too his skin grew luminescent. Yagaal shifted his weight, made to back away, then went still. He looked determined, if trembling in fear, and his hand fell to his sword hilt. His was the face of a man who knew he was about to die, but who knew as well that his would be a righteous death.

  A sensation of power unleashed filled Kian, mingled with the icy calm that always overcame him in the face of coming battle. He could not know if he would survive the following moments, but that was insignificant in a mind bent on destroying his foe, the enemy of all the world.

  Without conscious thought, with no plan of action, he drew his sword, moved to the narrow door, and threw it open with a crash. He strode into the Golden Hall with Hazad, Azuri, and Ellonlef at his back—an ineffectual army to stand against a god made flesh.

  Chapter 50

  When Varis turned his fiery gaze toward Kian, the golden radiance of his face contorted with astonishment. “You!” he barked, his resonant voice thundering through the hall. In the same instant, a blast of indigo fire blossomed from thin air and streaked across the distance.

  Kian had no time to react. The growing mass struck him square, forcing him back a faltering step … then burst apart and dissipated into crackling streamers. Even as he recognized Varis’s failure, the sensation of power grew in Kian, seeking escape. By instinct alone, he held back that flood, letting it grow, become more vital, more potent. He would release it soon, but not yet.

  Yagaal had drawn his sword and spun at Kian’s unexpected entrance into the Golden Hall. Gaping now in confusion at what he had just seen, his sword clattered against the marble tiles. For a moment, he stood frozen. Then, without warning, he fell face down before Kian.

  “I give myself and my sword into your hand!” he cried. He inched forward on his belly, fingers grasping for Kian’s feet.

  Varis stared on the scene with his unnatural eyes. He made no move to punish his treacherous servant, or to attack Kian and his band. Neither did he seem to fear the approaching conflict. If anything, Kian sensed that he was restraining his power as well.

  With the tip of his sword, Azuri stopped the lord marshal short of touching Kian. “If you wish to live,” he said, “take word to those who will stand with the rightful king, Sharaal, and rid the palace of any who think to curry favor with this deceiver—” he shot a hard glance toward Varis “—this false god.”

  Dismissing Azuri and Yagaal, Kian locked gazes with Varis, his heart beating fast. The desire for justice rose up in him. Varis had had a direct hand in killing thousands, and his freeing of the mahk’lar had surely condemned many times more. That last, Kian knew, would trouble the world of men for generations, if not for eternity.

  Kian started forward, a stalking beast. He would not make the mistake of sparing Varis again. It nearly sickened him to imagine what he wanted to do to Vari
s, and at the same time, those lethal desires filled his heart with a sinister joy—

  Then Ellonlef was before him, her beauty and concern cracking his shell of mounting hatred. She said nothing, but mutely urged him to be vigilant. Despite the storm of vehemence rising from the hollows of his mind, another part of Kian wanted to caress her face, kiss her, to flee this vile place and seek a life of peace far, far away.

  A sudden clatter broke the spell between them, as Yagaal abruptly leapt to his feet. Before Azuri or Hazad could restrain the lord marshal, he charged Varis, sword raised high. Varis, who had been observing Kian and Ellonlef, turned his godly countenance upon Yagaal, teeth bared in a hideous grin.

  “He must die!” Yagaal cried, his sword descending toward Varis’s unshielded neck.

  The moment stretched out before Kian. He seemed frozen to the spot, a forced observer, yet all else was in motion.

  Yagaal’s sword flashed as it fell. At the same moment, a skein of ebon filaments, snapping with unimaginable energy, flew from Varis’s skin, waving threads finer than a spider’s weaving. Those deadly strings carved through the air and fell first on Yagaal, then Ellonlef, then Azuri and Hazad. Some few sought Kian, but the powers of creation raging within his own veins held them at bay. And still, Kian could not move.

  Ellonlef’s eyes widened as those filaments fell upon her and sank in, wasting her, devouring her from the inside out, despoiling once smooth skin, aging her beauty as with a terrible disease. Hazad, Azuri, and Yagaal fared no better.

  Kian began to move, but now all else was shifting and changing faster than thought. He seemed caught in a nightmare in which he was struggling through jelled air.

  As Ellonlef’s gaze flared wider, the whites of her eyes filled with black webs. She began to scream, a hoarse wail, as did Kian’s friends and Yagaal. Kian cried with them, his voice lost to his ears. He willed his limbs to move toward some action, no matter how futile. Ellonlef’s shrieks destroyed him where Varis’s atrocious powers could not, filled his soul with a mind-bending guilt that scoured away all thoughts of vengeance. The torture of his companions became his own, ravaging him.

  They fell, one by one. Yagaal reeled, gagging on a stream of boiling blood. When his hip struck the edge of the map-bearing table, he simply burst apart in a shower of disarticulated limbs and steaming liquid that splashed with a hiss over the floor. Hazad dropped to his knees, his huge size made small and insignificant by his terrible wasting. His hair and beard fell out in smoldering clumps, his thick bones shoved through yellowed parchment skin, covered all over in splitting lesions. His once great strength failed him and he toppled, a desiccated husk barely recognizable as a man. Azuri and Ellonlef both burst into flame, the chaotic fires of their burning the hue of a madman’s vision of a rainbow. Both fell dead and stiff as stone, thumping against the marble tiles like so much charred wood.

  Only then did Varis rein in his power, drawing back his appalling destruction into himself. He laughed, a deafening rumble that battered Kian to his knees. Seeing only what remained of Ellonlef, tears streaming from his eyes, Kian knelt there, hands reaching. A high keening noise filled his ears, resonating to the depths of his marrow. The sound came from him, the despairing cry of a small animal caught in a strangling snare, unable to escape the approaching hunter. He would perish. He saw no reason to resist, had no desire to stand against his enemy, not when he was dead in sprit already.

  Chapter 51

  From every door, soldiers burst into the Golden Hall, weapons poised for battle. Whatever they had expected, it was not what they saw. As one, they halted, mouths open, confusion written on their faces. Kian sensed their presence and dismissed them. Dismay and loss were at the center of his being, burrowing deeper into him as he knelt before the smirking hunter, the gleeful destroyer.

  But Kian paid no more heed to Varis than he did to the staring soldiers. In his mind’s eye he saw only an image of Ellonlef, as she had been. What she was now, a charred heap, did not exist. A voice raved in his head, telling him her death was a lie, a delusion. She was not dead, and neither were Hazad and Azuri. Kian’s mind rebelled, conjuring separate visions from his memories, creating something new and wonderful, a fiction he clung to and built up. Amid that created reality there came a peace.

  But that peace was born of a lie, a wishful illusion, and he knew it, deep down he knew it as he knew his own name. Varis had not just destroyed all that he loved, but had defiled it. As I draw breath, so I will remember them as they were, Kian thought, rousing himself. Self-deception had never been a refuge for him, and he could not afford to let it be now.

  His eyes rose and he found the stares of the gathered soldiers upon him. He gazed back, unflinching, searing tears coursing over his stubbled cheeks. A rising fury swarmed over his sorrow. Swiftly, all that was left of compassion in him froze solid, became like a lump of fire-blackened iron.

  “Kill him!” Varis ordered, glowing eyes narrowed with what could only be apprehension.

  Kian now focused on Varis, wondering at this change. Just moments before, Varis had seemed intent on crushing Kian himself, confident that he could destroy him, but now something was different. He senses the same powers in me that I sense in him, Kian understood, the building rage sweeping remorse from his mind, allowing a deadly clarity. Unlike Varis, Kian no longer feared for his life, because his existence was now without meaning. To perish was a blessing, to live without his companions, without Ellonlef, was a curse.

  “Kill me yourself, god king,” Kian said, his voice taunting. He stood up, his fist gripped the hilt of his sword, tightened until the knuckles turned white. He offered Varis a ruthless smile and strode toward him at a determined, deadly pace.”Destroy me with your own steel, usurper, kingslayer,” he invited.

  “Stop him!” Varis shrieked, inching away, his former confidence having fled.

  “Men of Aradan, you know this impostor is not your rightful king,” Kian said to the motionless soldiers. “Your sovereign is King Sharaal, who even now stands at the city gates, drawing those loyal to him … and destroying all traitors. Choose well where you place your loyalties. Choose fittingly and live, or side with this accursed, hell-spawned demon, and perish.”

  The soldiers looked uncertainly among themselves, weighing Kian’s words. In short order, one man moved to leave, then the others quickly followed. One by one, they backed away from defending Varis, moved beyond the Golden Hall.

  “Where are you going?” Varis howled, even as the doors boomed shut.

  Kian looked on Varis with open contempt. “You cannot best me with the powers of creation, so fill your hand with steel, that I might at least gain some honor in executing an armed man. Or not,” he added with a dismissive shrug. “But know that I intend to cut you down. Fighting or cowering, I will carve out whatever abominable life exists in you.”

  Varis, yet a godly figure shining as though the sun were alight within his flesh, considered this only a moment, then hastily took up Yagaal’s sword. With deadly steel in his hands, he seemed more confident.

  “You cannot win this, Izutarian,” Varis grated, even as he lunged.

  Kian caught Varis’s blade against his own, the steel ringing loudly. With an almost casual air, he slid his dagger into Varis’s ribs, twisted, and kicked him loose.

  Varis staggered back, looking with momentary shock at the black blood seeping from the wound. A heartbeat later, the wound began to knit itself together, and his astonishment gave way to an arrogant smirk. “And you thought this would be easy?” Varis laughed.

  The sight of such a dark miracle slid across Kian’s consciousness, but left him unruffled. If need be, he would hack Varis apart, piece by piece, and then take off his head. In the face of this consideration, Kian felt a strange stirring over his skin, as if invisible feathers made from frost were brushing over him. Beyond the Golden Hall, men began to cry out. Those wails grew weaker and more pained by the heartbeat, while others quickly receded, as if the crier had taken flight
. While he knew not the how of it, Kian reasoned that Varis’s strength lay in the stealing of another’s life. There was something of great importance to that, but all at once Varis attacked, stronger and more skilled than Kian would have believed.

  In three heartbeats, the battle degenerated into a wild flurry of slashing blades and ringing steel. The youth was not unskilled, but more than that, in his limbs he carried the unflagging strength of other men. Every advantage of size and skill and ruthlessness Kian possessed was easily matched by Varis, and more.

  As Kian’s potency began to wane, Varis seemed to grow even stronger. Then, after a blinding flurry of attacks and counterstrikes, Varis’s sword smashed into Kian’s, and the aged steel Hya had gifted to him proved no match against metal forged by the king’s smiths. Kian’s blade shattered like so much rotten ice, flying shards ringing dully against marble tiles. Kian hurled the useless hilt at Varis’s face. Varis contemptuously batted the projectile away and pressed ahead, unrelenting.

  Wielding only a dagger, Kian fell back, gasping, sensing the sands that measured his life were coming to a swift end. As he fought on, wrath continued to fill him, replacing his sense of weakness. He cared not for his own life, but only the desire to exact revenge and deliver justice on Varis for all the evil he had done.

  Kian’s fury proved impotent against Varis’s unrelenting onslaught. Moment by moment, Varis grew stronger, while Kian was left gasping, barely able to deflect Varis’s attacks.

  Then Kian missed a step and staggered, exposing himself to any number of killing blows. Varis hesitated just long enough to flash a triumphant smile. It was then that Kian struck, taking advantage of the his enemy’s arrogance. Without hesitation, Kian rammed the dagger into Varis’s groin, pulled back, then plunged the steel into his chest. His third attack came from a hooking fist delivered, with all his considerable weight and desperate strength, to Varis’s cheekbone.