The God King hotf-1

by James A. West

  Ellonlef was another matter entirely. She remained solemn throughout the meal, but he understood that hearing of the loss of her people weighed upon her soul. Still, he marveled at her strength. He was not certain he would have been able to hide his feelings half so well.

  Kian waited until all were sleeping soundly, then arose, taking his blanket with him. The room’s firemoss lamp was covered with a threadbare bit of cloth, allowing a little of the lamp’s glow to light his way. He made the mistake of looking at Ellonlef, sleeping on a pallet of ratty blankets, with more pulled up under her chin, her dark hair spilling over her brow and cheek. He wanted to brush his fingers over her skin, feel her warmth, but could not. Neither could he tell her his intentions.

  He turned and froze. Hya was looking straight at him. He did not know what to do, so he whispered the simple truth. “This fight is mine alone. If I fail, do not allow Hazad and Azuri to avenge me. Tell them it was my wish that they flee from Varis. It matters not where they go, as long as it is far away.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Should I fail, tell Ellonlef that … that it pleased my heart to know her.” The words sounded ridiculous to his ears, and in no way expressed what he truly felt, but at the moment it was the best he could do.

  “May the love of Pa’amadin light your path and bless your sword, Izutarian,” Hya said. “And may the Most High bring you swiftly back to us.” With that, she closed her eyes.

  Kian crept from Hya’s shop. Outside, under dark skies filling with clouds, he quickly cut a hole in the center of the blanket and dropped it over his head, then girded the improvised cloak with a length of rope tied about his waist. Warm as he was likely to get, he began walking northeast, toward Ammathor and the king’s palace. He would have preferred to ride, but did not want to risk his companions coming awake from hearing him banging about in Hya’s makeshift stable.

  A cold wind harried him from the Street of Witches and into the heart of the Chalice, which had grown unusually still, though it was far from empty or quiet. The night air carried the scent of snow, an aroma he had not forgotten, even after a lifetime spent away from his northern homelands. It was a scent he had never expected to find in these arid southlands.

  Once treading upon a main thoroughfare, he turned due north. There were no firemoss streetlamps in the Chalice, as there were in Ammathor, but light poured from winehouses and brothels. Drunkards staggered by in unruly packs, singing bawdy songs to disinterested trulls. Filthy urchins scurried amongst the shadows, looking for something to steal or to eat. Like all such children, they had learned to avoid cutthroats and worse. Kian made no attempt at concealment. He was just another Izutarian mercenary among the thousands who earned coin in Aradan.

  After an hour, the liveliest sections of the Chalice lay behind him, and Kian made his way into the outskirts of Ammathor. For the first time in the history of the city, it looked less appealing than the Chalice. The king’s city could have been a graveyard, what with its empty streets and blocked windows, its denizens either fled, perished, or gathered around seldom-used hearths to ward off the cold. He had expected to see soldiers by now, but every narrow lane, street, and alley lay empty, save for starving dogs nosing about gruesome stacks of the dead.

  Moving toward the palace, which sat atop the highest point in the city, he still did not bother with caution. There was no point staying out of sight, not when his aim was to be found. Still, no matter how close he came, he saw not one soldier scouring the city for him. The only conclusion he could imagine was that Varis held absolutely no fear of him. That meant the youth was either a proud fool, or Varis truly had no reason to fear any adversary. Either option suited Kian’s plan, but the latter troubled his heart.

  As Kian continued his march, the voices of his friends filled his mind, beginning as unintelligible whispers and rising to a grating chorus. Varis has grown more powerful by far … He intended the message to be a challenge, a slap in the face … He wants you to come for him, so he can prove that he is the more powerful of the two of you. Ellonlef’s voice rose above the rest. He will kill you … You did not see what he did to his army, how he destroyed ten thousand in moments. God or not, he holds the power of one!

  Kian halted in the shadows cast by a small palace, staring at his destination across a broad and cobbled road that encircled the king’s palace. In his mind’s eye, he saw Ellonlef’s gaze, so dark and warm … and slowly fading.

  A chill wind gusted around him, pulling him out of his reverie. Castoff rubbish danced low over the ground, carrying with it the mingled odors of snow and despair. You could turn aside, a small voice suggested, deep within his mind. Run. Run now, far away.

  Despite himself, Kian listened.

  Hazad and Azuri are your men, they are your brothers. They will stand with you, no matter your decision. Did they not say as much? Ellonlef, too, all but begged you to turn aside. Run, now! Get Hazad and Azuri and Ellonlef, and make a new life for yourself!

  The words sowed seeds of doubt and promise in equal measure. Varis’s journey abroad was to have been Kian’s last task as a hired sword. He had longed for a hasty end to the mission, so that he might retire to Izutar and live out the rest of his days in peace and contentment. However, Varis’s secret ambitions had changed that. Already the new king had slaughtered many, and his actions doubtless would condemn tens of thousands more.

  “I do not want to die,” Kian said under his breath, feeling like a boy again, lost and alone. “I want everything to be as it was.”

  Another gust slammed into him, and fingers of ice seemed to claw over every inch of exposed skin. Such winds and worse were common in Izutar, the realm of his birth, lands he had not seen in over a score of years. Those winds, along with scratching out a life amid stone and ice, instilled strength and resilience into every Izutarian. As well, it gave them pride, for what other people could boast of surviving not just enemies, but also the unforgiving world itself? Such confidence had led his parents to send him away as a child, rather than see him in chains, knowing that if the ruthless life every Izutarian faced had not killed him in the crib, then he stood a fair chance of enduring anything the world put before him, even if alone and hungry.

  “Even if I run,” Kian whispered, “I will never be free. Varis will send his hounds, be they men or demons from Geh’shinnom’atar. He will hunt me and those I love, until we can run no more.”

  The truth did not make him feel any better about his likely fate, but he knew, if for no other reason, he could not dishonor the memory of his family or his people by fleeing this duty set before him now. And if that duty earned him death, then so be it. Death, after all, was the ultimate fate of every man. Better to chose the path and face all upon it with a strong heart, rather than to cower and run and be taken unawares.

  Resolved to his purpose, he flexed his sword hand while he studied the scene before him. Guardsmen at the main gate stood over a blazing firepot, stomping their feet against the cold, their fingers splayed above the flames. He would have expected to see archers walking atop the wall, their eyes scanning the darkened sprawl of Ammathor, but the wall stood empty. Likely, the cold had driven most of them into the corner turrets. Only if an alarm were sounded, would they bother coming out.

  Like a wraith clad in beggar’s rags, Kian left the shadows and strolled across the road. The wind’s icy bite gnawed past his inadequate garb, sank past flesh to assail his bones. The flames of the guards’ firepot leaned far over in the rising wind, the tops sheared off in wisps of orange amid swirls of sparks. The guardsmen, more concerned with keeping warm than guarding the palace, had propped their spears against the wall at their backs. They had swords, but Kian suspected that even if they drew them, they would not use them unless he forced them to it. They did not see him coming, staring as they were into the flames and grumbling loud enough to mask any sound of Kian’s approach.

  One of the guards finally glanced up when Kian halted and loudly cleared his throat.

  “Halt!” th
e man called needlessly, drawing his companion’s attention. The guardsman was tall for an Aradaner, his face gaunt from recent hunger. His eyes were shot through with red, as if he had found additional warmth from a skin of wine.

  “I am expected,” Kian said calmly, the blustery night air whisking away his steaming breath.

  The other guardsman, silent and unmoving, peered at him. Unlike his companion, his dark eyes were clear, though he looked every bit as hungry. “You should not have come here, Izutarian,” he said, in no way hostile. They might have been two fellow travelers pausing to discuss the condition of the road. The calmness of the meeting proved that Varis had told them to expect Kian.

  “I had little choice,” Kian answered.

  The sober guard considered that. “I suppose not. What choice all of us had was taken away with the arrival of the new king.”

  “Are you loyal to Varis?” Kian asked bluntly.

  The guardsman showed his teeth in a bitter smile. “Much the same as I am loyal to all vipers that can kill a man with a single bite. As I said, our choices on many matters have grown slim.”

  “Quiet, Vicr,” his companion hissed. “The king’s eyes and ears are everywhere!”

  Vicr nodded toward his companion. “Na’eem, here, he fancies even the shadows are after him.” Though his tone was mocking, his darting gaze suggested he believed it as well.

  Kian could have told them of the freed mahk’lar into the world of men, but he did not have time to spin that tale. Instead he said, “Dark days have fallen. Best to trust the likes of Na’eem’s fancies, just in case.”

  Vicr shrugged. “Perhaps you are right, but there are not likely to be any watchers this night. Too damned cold. If there are, they are looking for you,” he finished, eyeing Kian.

  “I saw few enough of the living in the city,” Kian said.

  “Most have fled to the Chalice. And if not there, they have left Ammathor entirely.”

  “As should you,” Kian responded.

  “The king gives us bread and a warm bed,” Na’eem said. “And wine. The road, as we hear it, is beset by armies of brigands and Bashye.”

  “When’s the last time you got bread or a bed?” Vicr snapped. “My belly has wanted for anything to eat for so long that I’m starting to think you might make a fine meal.”

  Na’eem looked suspiciously at his companion, and took a subtle, careful step away.

  Kian shook his head. “From here to the Qaharadin Marshes, the road is near as empty as the city, unless you count a few Madi’yin wandering about, and no more Bashye than normal.”

  Vicr considered that, anger growing in his dark eyes. “So the kingslayer,” he snarled derisively, “lied about that as well. No surprise, really.”

  “You may perish,” Kian advised, “but were I you, I would leave Ammathor after you let me through the gates. Better to die fighting to live, than to be slaughtered when your usefulness ends.”

  “You may have the right of it, Izutarian,” Vicr said with a considering expression.

  Knowing that the conversation had more to do with avoiding his duty than offering advice, Kian said, “Whatever you decide is your decision to make, but I need to deal with your king.”

  “You will die,” Vicr said, not unkindly.

  Kian’s smile was broad but humorless. “So I have been told.”

  “Better that you turn aside now, and make what peace you may in the world. Go away … and no one will hear it from us that you were ever here.”

  “I can no more run than you can cease drawing breath.”

  Vicr contemplated that. “So be it, Izutarian. Just do not forget we gave you this chance-not that it will matter, in the end.”

  Chapter 37

  After the two outer guardsmen handed Kian off to a pair of their fellows within the palace gates, they led him without speaking along a path pebbled in quartz. Other guards were in attendance, but none spared him more than disinterested looks. By their gaunt features, hunger was the pressing concern.

  Kian knew he had taken a grave risk openly coming to Varis, but one thing above all else convinced him that the new king would not bind or otherwise hinder him. Ellonlef had said more than once that Varis wanted to show that he was the more powerful of them. So far, Kian’s gamble had proven accurate.

  While he had never stepped foot on the palace grounds, he had heard much of them-mostly that, at any time of day or night, highborn strutted about like perfumed peacocks, or took their ease around bubbling fountains, all the while waited on by slaves bearing delicacies and entertained by those playing soft music. Only the fountains remained, their light spray freezing in deep crystalline layers over the statuary, turning them from beautiful works into frosted grotesqueries. Of highborn, there was no sign. During normal times, he would have assumed they had taken shelter from the cold. Now he suspected that Varis had disposed of those who might think to usurp him, and the others had likely been sent back or fled to the their holdings.

  Indoors, the palace was dismal and wintry. Under the glow of but a few firemoss lamps, Kian noted splendor on display in all directions, but it was not as magnificent as he had expected. Heavy dust coated items of gold and silver, onyx and ivory. Without question, a pall had settled over all the world since Varis stepped out of the doorway of that far-off temple.

  A sudden turn took them out of the palace and onto a wide path paved in sandstone, which led to a pair of black obelisks covered with glyphs representing ancient gods, the faces of which were all upturned toward reliefs of the Three soaring above. Ahead, Kian knew from stories, waited the Path of Kings. The guards led him between the obelisks and the sandstone paving gave way to bone-white alabaster cobbles. High, black granite walls rose on either side, forcing the chill gusts into a steady wind that froze the sweat on his brow-sweat he had not known was there.

  Elaborate sculptures of past Aradaner kings flanked the path, and though he was no Aradaner, he knew each: King Edaer, the First King, his marble face worn by centuries, rode a ferocious steed; King Thirod, who had delivered several crushing defeats to Tureecians throughout his short reign, held high a curved scimitar; King Uddhan had been a grossly fat sovereign, and was accurately depicted lounging on his side eating grapes, but also he had been a great builder of monuments to Aradan’s greatness. Though not all these rulers had been great men, or even competent, these three and a handful of others had proven worthy enough to be known in every kingdom that bordered Aradan.

  After passing the last stone king, they came to another pair of obelisks, and the guards halted. “The king awaits you in the Garden of Dawn,” one guardsman said.

  The other guardsman glanced at Kian’s sword. “Our orders are to let you keep your weapons, but trust that should you draw steel before the king, a score of arrows will pierce you in less than a heartbeat.”

  So Varis does fear me, at least some, Kian thought, taking what little satisfaction he could that Varis had posted unseen archers. He strode forward, leaving the two guardsmen.

  Beyond the Path of Kings, the Garden of Dawn was alight with dozens of blazing firepots, whose brightness showed a sprawl of pebbled paths winding through fruit trees brought from as far away as Izutar and Jinan, sculpted shrubbery from Kelren, and overgrown arbors laden with grapevines brought a thousand years before from Kula-Tak, on the northern shores of Geldain. The unprecedented cold, however, was taking a toll on the greenery, leaving it wilted and darkening toward black. Pillowed sandstone benches sat around as-yet unfrozen ponds filled with brightly colored fish. Kian could only imagine what the place must look like during a bright summer day, when full of lounging highborn.

  “I did not expect to see you so soon,” Varis said, coming around a bower laden with withered grapes. He halted near a firepot. Only his smirk was as Kian remembered. Neither the middling boy-prince he had watched stride into the temple in the Qaharadin, nor the abomination that had come out, remained. Varis could easily be taken for a man ten years older than he was. His bl
ack top-lock was long and oiled, and held in place with a ruby-crusted gold band. 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. If he noticed the chill air, he did not show it.

  “You would not have seen me at all,” Kian answered tauntingly, “had you not fled before delivering the remainder of the gold owed me for my services, and that of my men.”

  Varis’s smirk vanished. “I fled nothing, and certainly not you, Izutarian.”

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

  “Your due?” Varis chuckled, striking without warning.

  A wall of flame washed over Kian, knocking him flat. As he curled into a defensive ball, Ellonlef’s voice filled his mind anew. Varis has grown more powerful by far! And yet, the flames did not touch Kian. Through squinted eyes, he saw and heard the roaring of unnatural fires, a swirling mass of gold and azure, raging all around him. No heat touched his skin, his clothing, nor even the alabaster cobbles he lay upon. If only I knew how to wield the power inside me! But he had no control. Something in him resisted Varis’s attack, but did so of its own accord, not of his will. Which left but one option, a means with which he was far more familiar.

  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 just a wavery blur before him, a creature of pearlescent eyes and skin glowing like burnished bronze. Indistinct or no, it was enough.