The God King hotf-1

by James A. West

  The God King

  ( Heirs of the fallen - 1 )

  James A. West

  James A. West

  The God King

  Chapter 1

  With a crackle of thunder, a nacreous veil flashed into existence over the large granite basin, casting the chamber in a cold dead light. Prince Varis Kilvar stifled a fearful shout as the rumbling peal faded, replaced by demonic howls that burst through the luminous shroud and soared into the murky heights of the ancient temple’s domed ceiling. A shiver crept over his shaven scalp, rippled the muscles of his lithe figure, as those perverse cries slithered and crept over rotten stone with mindful purpose. Only a deep and abiding hunger rooted him to the spot, that which had first compelled him to journey to this wretched place. Fighting waves of dread, he waited and watched.

  Rising from pale, dripping slime that covered the floor and walls, the moist reek of ancient death permeated the stuffy air. The gloomy vault of decayed stone was no place for the living. He glanced fully at the basin, which an ancient tome named the Well of Creation. The tattered book claimed that within the basin’s depths, waiting eons for someone to claim it, lay a source of power greater than any mankind had ever imagined … a power never meant for mortal hands. Old books said many things, some false, some not, but the woman of spirit, her voice heard clearly within his mind, had affirmed the tome’s claims.

  Ignoring the unclean noises still eddying through the stagnant air, Varis edged closer to the Well of Creation. Long had he waited and planned for this moment. Moreover, he had driven cold steel into the beating hearts of more than one magus in order to safeguard his secret ambition. All the while, he had mistakenly believed the nameless temple and its lost treasure would be a thing of beauty, majesty. Instead, he found darkness and decay. No matter. He would not flee. He would take what he had come for, what was his.

  A figure shifted under the veil, a vague outline of some … thing.

  Varis swallowed nervously, unable to keep his hand from reaching out. His fingertips came within a hair’s breadth of brushing across the malformed face pressing up against the underside of the iridescent shroud. The lumpen features turned, slowly, drawn to the living warmth of his flesh. The creature’s toothless maw gaped wide and, at the last possible moment, just as those misshapen jaws abruptly snapped shut, Varis jerked back, lips curled in disgust.

  Frantically scrubbing his hands together, it crossed his mind that the tome had not mentioned anything other than the Well of Creation resting within the lost temple, certainly nothing about a shimmering veil, or a demonic host lurking beneath it. But then, neither had that ratty volume mentioned the woman of spirit, she who had filled his head with grand visions of what he would become.

  As if drawn by his thought, the woman’s voice filled the temple. “You stand at the threshold between two worlds, where no man ever has before.”

  Varis flinched, eyes wild and searching, but finding nothing he had not already discovered. He had not heard the woman since he departed Ammathor. Yet, like a barbed hook gouged into the ethereal flesh of his spirit, her promises had pressed him into the company of uncouth warriors, dragged him across countless and searing leagues of desert, deep into a vast swamp, and finally here, to this place, this temple that held within its befouled core the key to his destiny.

  “You stand within arm’s reach of all you desire,” she went on, as always her tone enticing beyond all reason, “yet you hesitate. Have you reconsidered my offer, Prince of Aradan?”

  Prince of Aradan. Coming from her that title sounded more like a mockery than an honorific. Varis continued to search the shadows. Besides himself and a rat sharing a corner with a great spider on its web, there was nothing living within the temple. He could not see her now, and never had, but her presence pressed hard against his being, more so than at any other time since she had first spoken to him in the deepest subterranean reaches of the Hall of Wisdom.

  “I assure you,” the spirit woman added in a low purr, “if you take what I freely give, you will gain boons greater than any man has ever imagined for himself.”

  “Is your gift a blessing … or a curse?” Varis asked the spectral voice.

  He had thought long and hard on the journey about just what she promised: power unchecked, absolute domination of friend and foe … immortality. Yet he was no fool. Niggling doubts remained. If her gift was a blessing then why had no others ever taken it in hand? Why had the knowledge of the Well of Creation been hidden away until it was forgotten and lost, save a single shred of evidence that he had chanced upon in an obscure book? What dangers awaited him, should he take what she offered?

  Another face bulged under the veil, this one of angular features and long, ragged fangs. A fresh chorus of malevolent cries filled the dim chamber. Like wet tongues, those voices crawled through the shadowed temple, eagerly wriggled over Varis, seeming to savor the taste of his skin.

  She spoke again. “If you were but a crofter who preferred grubbing in the muck to sustain your existence, then my gift would be wasted on you, a bitter curse. Yet your beating heart sings to me the song of unquenchable desire, a longing for supremacy. For you, Prince of Aradan, what I offer is the highest blessing you will ever receive. Freely accept what I give … and the power of gods will flow through your veins.”

  Varis’s pulse quickened, but he tempered his eagerness. Life at the king’s palace had taught him that free gifts were often rife with hidden dangers and strings.

  “These tortured creatures,” he said, sweeping his palm over a crablike shape, “were they once men who learned too late their folly of trusting a … a voice in the night?”

  Cool feminine laughter raised a rash of gooseflesh over his skin. “Do these abominations look like men? No,” she answered for him, “of course not. These were never human. They are the Fallen, the mahk’lar, the children of the Three. They are, Prince of Aradan, what men name demons. I admit, the meaning of that word is fitting.”

  Varis’s stomach clenched violently at her revelation, despite that she had spoken casually of the Fallen, as if such were of no matter. While the knowledge of the existence of the Well of Creation might have been all but lost, the Fallen were a source of nightmares and countless dark tales.

  “Why are they here?” Varis asked, unable to hide the quaver in his voice. “It is taught that the Three imprisoned their first children in Geh’shinnom’atar, the Thousand Hells.”

  “So they did.”

  “But if this is the Well of Creation, then….” Varis’s unspoken question dwindled away.

  Her silence lingered, weighing on him, before she finally spoke.

  “When the Three learned that the evil of their children was growing too great to control, they destroyed them and imprisoned their spirits within the Thousand Hells. As a penance to their own creator, Pa’amadin, the Three made a race of gentler beings-mortal men-who are but weak creatures forced to rely upon their limited wit and the pathetic strength that rests in their limbs.

  “As a final act of contrition, the Three devised the Well of Creation and forsook their own power-a choice that ultimately led to their demise. The veil you see before you is the manifestation of that collected power, all that remains of the Three. Since that time, those energies have served as the capstone to Geh’shinnom’atar, ensuring that the Fallen remain imprisoned.”

  The Three are dead? Other than ceremonial acts, Varis had never been overly pious, but the idea that the Three, who were worshipped in Aradan and most southern realms as living gods, were in truth dead, shook him to his core. It took no imagination to understand that the unveiling of a secret such as that would destroy much, from the halls of power down to the common man.

  His mind awhirl, Varis cau
tiously asked, “And who are you?”

  Her rising laughter filled the chamber, even as the cries of the demonic spirits abruptly grew still. “I am the Precious One of the Three, Prince of Aradan, their very first and greatest creation. I am a being of spirit, made wholly in their image. In the beginning, I was free to explore the mysteries of the universe, but after my creators made Geh’shinnom’atar and destroyed the flesh of the Fallen, Pa’amadin created a means to cleanse the taint of sin from the wretched souls of men-this, so that he might enjoy their pure and childlike presence in Paradise. He forced that task of refinement upon me, and bound my spirit to the Thousand Hells. Only the smallest ways can I reach beyond my realm.”

  She paused, letting her words wash over Varis, then went on.

  “Men, in time, with all their emerging wisdom,” she said in a sardonic tone, “deduced my purpose and named me Peropis, Eater of the Damned. As the sins of men are my meat and wine, my title is accurate. Pa’amadin’s curse-an unrighteous punishment contrived simply because I was the first and strongest creation of his own wayward children-is that I must sup upon the poison of men’s souls before they join him. In his twisted judgment it is better that I, alone, though innocent, should be condemned for the sanctification of many.”

  The hatred in her words seared Varis, but his dismay had nothing to do with her ire. That he stood in the presence of the Fallen horrified him, but having Peropis in his mind was another trouble entirely.

  The temple walls seemed to be closing in, and the scant light was fading, wrapping him about like the bindings of a death shroud. He struggled for breath, began backing away. All thoughts of ruling an empire fled his heart, and the glory that awaited the one who wielded the power of gods was but a pathetic dream in the face of dealing with a being steeped for eons in the essence of absolute evil.

  Before he could flee, Peropis spoke in calming tones. “No matter that children’s tales claim I ride the winds of midnight storms in search of innocent flesh to devour, I cannot don the mantel of my own living flesh, for I am and have ever been a being of spirit. Geh’shinnom’atar is my home, and the world of the living is denied me by the power of Pa’amadin. Rest easy, Prince of Aradan, for terrorizing mortals has never been my desire.”

  After a few more halting steps, Varis drew up short. Peropis, by her own admission, would never trouble him, nor desired to.

  “If I accept your offer,” Varis asked, “will I become as a god?”

  “Indeed,” Peropis answered without hesitation.

  “And what do you gain?”

  “Vengeance,” Peropis growled.

  “Against whom?”

  “Pa’amadin.”

  Varis mulled that for a time, then decided that a war between gods was nothing to him.

  “Tell me what I must do,” he said, failing to hide his eagerness.

  “You must prove yourself. Your worth must be tested, Prince of Aradan. And, too, your strength. The human weakness of your spirit and mortal flesh must be stripped away. You must come to me-into Geh’shinnom’atar. I will devour your failings, replace them with an indomitable spirit and incorruptible flesh. I will make you immortal.”

  “And if I should fail this test?” Varis asked, cautious again.

  “If you were so weak,” she declared, “I would not have drawn you to me.”

  Drawn you to me? Varis bit back an acerbic response. Without her, he had found the ancient tome, with its secrets about the Well of Creation. Without her, he had gleaned from its ancient writing what holding such power would mean for him. Only after he had found the tome, and murdered the few doddering fools who had unknowingly guarded that secret knowledge, had Peropis made herself known to him. In truth, she had come to him like a beggar hoping for a morsel?

  Or has she controlled my actions from my very birth? a speculative voice asked.

  “I grow impatient,” Peropis warned. “For long ages have I waited for the birth of one as strong as you, a man after mine own heart … someone on whom I can bestow the powers of gods. Come to me, now, and take what I have held safe.”

  I will be as a god, Varis thought again. His heart fluttered with anticipation. As if from a dream, a few words written in the tome drifted to the forefront of his mind, words meant as a warning, but were to him a promise: Within the Well of Creation are hidden powers to remake a man into a creator and a destroyer, the ruler of all.

  Varis edged closer to the crumbling granite vessel, halting when his thighs pressed against the cool, rough surface. Distantly, he noted that the temple floor shifted with the sound of cracking stone. It was nothing to him, a trifle far, far away. He glided his palms over the rim, careful to keep from dragging his fingers across the shimmering membrane that held in check the creatures below it-the Fallen, the mahk’lar.

  “Come to me,” Peropis urged. “Pass through the veil, my prince. This day, gods will die in men’s hearts, and another will rise. Come to me.”

  Pushing aside all his inborn caution, Varis plunged his hands into the undulating shroud of silvery, blue-white radiance. His eyes widened as the fluidic barrier between two worlds closed over his wrists with an icy grip. The veil grew brighter with every beat of his thudding heart, bathing his stunned features in a frosty glow. The demonic howls climbed to a fever pitch. At the same instant, a column of blue fire burst from the Well of Creation, melting the flesh from his bones. Before his smoking corpse could fall, misshapen hands caught hold of his charred skeleton, and dragged it into Geh’shinnom’atar.

  Chapter 2

  With an irritated growl, mercenary Kian Valara hurled his dagger at a mossy tree several paces away. The blade flashed end for end and struck the trunk with a loud thud. On either side of the quivering blade hung two halves of the same leaf. The satisfaction of a fine throw did not lessen his frustration with his charge, Prince Varis Kilvar. Highborn fools of any land, he concluded for the hundredth time that morning, were barely worth the gold they paid for his services. And Varis was the worst of the lot he had ever had the misfortune of guarding. Of course, if he had trusted his instincts, he would not be idling about in the swamp.

  His first experience with Varis was at a clandestine meeting in Ammathor’s most sordid district, the Chalice. The prince, a whip-thin, somewhat snaky youth who was too pretty by half, had been vague about his destination, saying only that he would pay a king’s ransom for protection along a secret journey. As to how his absence would be explained, Varis assured Kian that he would deal with the issue. Against his better judgment, Kian had obliged. Gold, after all, spoke with a powerful voice, especially when just half of what Varis had promised was enough to buy a throne in Kian’s homeland of Izutar.

  After the company set out from Ammathor, the princeling ordered a fast march due west across the Kaliayth Desert. Varis’s continual study of the horizon at their backs told Kian that he feared the House Guard would come riding after them, no matter his assurances to the contrary. But after three days with no pursuit, the prince had relaxed, and so did Kian.

  Afterward, Varis kept himself aloof, not uncommon for an Aradaner noble in the presence of men of lower birth, especially Izutarians. Such was something that used to anger Kian, but he had learned to take an Aradaner’s veiled insults and haughty manner as easily as he took their gold. Broad, brutish smiles and the occasional grunt ensured his employers never suspected that he loathed them as much as they loathed him. Still, crossing leagues of sun-baked rock, sand, and scrub with a prince in tow, had worn thin Kian’s practiced brutishness. Of smiles, he had none left to give.

  The prince had spoken little, save to inquire about their daily progress. What angered Kian was that Prince Varis had purposely kept back the tidbit that they would ultimately journey to Qaharadin Marshes-a vile swamp avoided by all but madmen and desperate firemoss hunters. In this, the fool boy’s secrecy had made Kian’s task more difficult. Each mission required different preparations, men, and skills, but the prince had only grudgingly allowed that he desir
ed to travel abroad in the kingdom. And so had Kian prepared, assuming Varis wanted to sow his seed throughout Aradan. Such a mission as that would have been simple, even boring.

  Yet now, far from Ammathor and days deep into the vast border swamp between Aradan and Falseth, Kian and his company were standing about like fools, getting eaten alive by a thousand unnamed insects, stewing in their own foul sweat, all while the middling prince of Aradan investigated some rundown temple of unknown origin.

  The temple-and how the prince had led them to it-had stirred an initial curiosity, but Kian was fast reaching his boiling point. Highborn or no, gold or no, he’d had enough of this farce. It was past time to take the princeling back to Ammathor and deposit him into the care of his family.

  “A fair throw,” Hazad said, dismissing his captain’s anger out of hand. Bigger in girth and height than Kian, and ugly as ten sins, Hazad smirked behind his wild black beard braids. “I, however, could have done better.”

  “Then do so,” Kian invited.

  In mock astonishment, Hazad’s dark eyes flew wide as he slapped his palms around the leather belt girding his trousers. “Seems I’ve misplaced my dagger.”

  “Use mine,” Azuri said with a wry grin. From a finely tooled leather sheath at his belt, he drew a blade as beautiful as it was sharp. The dagger suited his cold, handsome features. In carriage and dress, Azuri was more a foppish lordling than a hardened mercenary, but Kian had seen many a lout back down from the fair-haired Izutarian after taking a closer look into his flat gray eyes. Those poor fools who had mistrusted their instincts had suffered, greatly.

  Hazad’s gaze lifted from the dagger to the owner, unfazed by Azuri’s troubling stare. “Your dainty knife would snap with the force of one of my throws,” he boasted. “Besides, I’d hate to mar the blade with sap and force you to carry something so tarnished.”