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

by James A. West

  Hazad halted before one of the tents. “You sleep on the left. The other is mine.”

  Kian stifled a groan. Hazad had a habit of rolling about in the night and groping anyone nearby. He also snored, loud and unceasingly.

  “Wake me for the last watch,” Kian ordered.

  “No. You need sleep.”

  Kian was not about to argue. With a relieved gust, he flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes. He had caught only snatches of sleep since he ordered the retreat, and the prospect of getting a full night of rest was almost too good to believe. The low chatter of the men not on watch was like a lullaby, and he began to drift.

  From seemingly a mile away, Ishin said, “Fenahk? Your watch is not over for another turn of the glass. Unless you have something to report, get back on the line.”

  Kian found himself waiting for a response. A hush fell over the men, but the horses began stamping their hooves and snorting.

  “Fenahk,” Ishin said, “are you well?”

  Kian’s eyes flared open at Hazad’s harsh curse. He sat up to find everyone staring at a golden-robed figure standing at the edge of the firelight. At first, Kian could not see what all the fuss was about. But when Fenahk took a halting step closer, Kian’s insides twisted. Fenahk was a short and slender fellow, but this imposter’s bulk rivaled Hazad’s. It was as if something huge and malformed had donned Fenahk’s skin like a coat, and that too-small garment was coming apart at the seams.

  “Kiaaan,” Fenahk croaked.

  “Hold,” Azuri warned everyone.

  Ishin did not seem to hear or see what everyone else did. He angrily strode forward. “Get back to your post!”

  Fenahk’s eyes, black through and through, but with a silvery glint deep inside, locked on the approaching mercenary. Ishin halted abruptly and reached for the hilt of the scimitar strapped across his back.

  All at once, everything took on a creeping, nightmarish quality. Kian caught up his sword and struggled clear of the tent. Ahead of him, Hazad drifted toward Ishin. Azuri produced a gleaming dagger. Most of the Asra a’Shah were dragging their great scimitars free, while the rest hastily strung bows.

  Fenahk lumbered toward Ishin, and with each stride his body swelled and stretched. His mouth grew wider and deeper, and his cheeks stretched and tore. Through tatters of hanging flesh gleamed rows of slanting black teeth. Still struggling with his scimitar, Ishin loosed a scream when that mouth snapped closed over his neck and shoulder. Fenahk, now much larger than before, shook him back and forth like a dog worrying a rat, until his screams stopped, and then cast him aside. The Asra a’Shah leader rolled limply in death, torn nearly in half.

  Kian and everyone else froze when Fenahk raised his arms as if in greeting. But he was Fenahk no more. His body continued to expand, disintegrating his golden robes and the flesh beneath. Bloody, tattered meat sloughed off a thing of twisted bones cloaked in a spiny crimson hide. It straightened to its full height, nearly twice that of a man, and its roar ripped through the swamp.

  A lone Geldainian dashed ahead and swung his scimitar against the creature’s leg. The blade shattered, leaving only a small cut. In answer, the creature savaged the mercenary with six dagger-length talons.

  “It’s like the old stories,” Azuri murmured in disbelief, even as he hurled his dagger. The blade struck the beast’s chest with a dull clang and fell away, the tip bent.

  Kian paid that no mind. Wielding his sword like a short spear, he rushed forward and rammed the steel into the creature’s groin, the most vulnerable place on any foe. Where other blades had shattered or bent, his sword sank deep. What he didn’t expect was the crackling flash of blue fire that originated from his hands and crawled over the creature. Its agonized howl rattled his teeth and brought tears to Kian’s eyes.

  He wrenched the sword free and fell into a graceless roll, just avoiding having his head ripped off by slashing talons. He came up ready to fight, but the Asra a’Shah warriors beat him to it.

  They attacked as one, scimitars shattering against inhuman flesh, leaving only small wounds. Arrows shrieked through the smoky air, and to the last, each shaft burst into splinters. One man spun away from the creature, his entrails tangled around his legs. Another warrior filled the gap, but his headless corpse fell an instant later.

  Kian drew his dagger to compliment his sword, and lunged through the breaking ring of Geldainians. The shorter blade stabbed into the creature’s thigh. Crackling blue flames erupted from Kian’s hands again, traveled the length of the blade, and surged over the beast like lightning.

  When the creature’s dread eyes rolled toward Kian, he thrust his sword into one. Scalding ichor poured from the wound. Before Kian could dance back, the creature seized him and began to squeeze, but some strange energy rippled through him, something that kept those long claws from impaling him.

  Then he was being lifted and drawn to the creature’s mouth. Hot slaver dripped onto his face. Before the beast could devour him, Kian dropped his weapons and caught hold of two fangs. He pushed against them with a strained shout. The creature flinched back and added its deafening howl to Kian’s.

  As their dueling voices rose higher, oily smoke began oozing out of the creature’s melting face. Kian wriggled and twisted to avoid those seeking wisps, and the creature suddenly tossed him aside. Kian bounced along like a skipping stone until striking the base of a tree.

  He leaped up before his head had cleared, and instantly fell again. A moment later, he was up once more, casting about for a weapon to use against the hell-spawned nightmare.

  Before he could find anything, Hazad was in front of him, one big hand on each of Kian’s shoulders, shaking him. “It’s over. Whatever you did worked. That thing is gone. It ... melted.”

  Kian shook his head, clearing the battle rage, thawing the iced blood in his veins. “How?” he asked, breathless.

  “We can worry about that later,” Azuri said, coming near. “Unless you want to wait around for another of those demons to turn up?"

  “Demons?” Kian rasped.

  Azuri’s grin was mirthless and icy. “Do you have a better name for the creature we fought?”

  Kian hoped to find any other answer, but hope failed him. He suddenly cried, “Fall in! Backs to the fire!”

  The company obeyed with a babble of murmured confusion.

  “What are you doing?” Azuri blurted, when Kian grabbed his head and peered into his eyes. Without answering, Kian moved on.

  Hazad didn’t resist, but gave his leader a quizzical look. Kian continued his inspection until finished, then faced the company.

  “The beast’s eyes glinted silver,” he said. “None of ours do.”

  Hazad peered around. “So, then, we’re not demons?”

  “Not yet,” Azuri said.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I want half your men guarding the camp,” Kian ordered Ba’Sel, who had become the leader of the Asra a’Shah after Ishin’s death.

  The tall, black-skinned Geldainian looked at Kian as if he had gone mad. “You intend to stay here?”

  Needing this man at his side, and not willing to push matters of honor and duty onto the distraught fellow, Kian clasped Ba’Sel’s shoulder. “Ishin was a good man and fine leader. You’ll have to work to take his place, but I believe you can.”

  “With the world broken and skies burning at night,” Ba’Sel said wearily, “and with Ishin and my cousin Fenahk dead, I just want to get out of this accursed swamp. I want to go home, not lead men. I’ve never wanted to lead men, only to serve.”

  Kian nodded in understanding, but did not relent. “You will serve your brothers by leading them, and you will do a fine job of it. Trust me, I can tell these things. Besides, who better to lead Geldainians than a sand-runner of Eponta?”

  Ba’Sel winced at the mention of his heritage. “Ishin was a sand-runner. What did it gain him?” Before Kian could think of a response, Ba’Sel gusted a heavy sigh. “I will do my duty to you, Izutarian, as will my
men.”

  Kian hid his relief. “You have my thanks.”

  “What of the men not on guard?” Ba’Sel asked. “Gods know, they’ll not sleep anymore tonight.”

  “Prepare them to leave,” Kian said, and almost laughed at the flash of relief that passed over Ba’Sel’s face as he spun away.

  “Do you really believe what you said?” Azuri asked, looking after the Geldainian.

  Instead of answering, Kian pointed out a few flecks of mud on Azuri’s fine coat.

  “Damn!” Azuri blurted, tugging a kerchief from his pocket. With utmost care, mumbling under his breath, he frantically daubed at the spots.

  Hazad drew near, the forefinger and thumb of each hand pinched over the hilts of Kian’s sword and dagger. “Don’t know that I’d want to use them again, but I’m not sure you have a choice.

  “Blood wipes off,” Kian said.

  “Is that what it is?” Hazad asked doubtfully.

  The blades were covered in a rank wetness thicker than any blood Kian had ever seen, and black besides. What better color for the blood of demons? he thought.

  As he set to cleaning the sword first, and gingerly at that, he said, “Only in children’s tales can demons escape the Thousand Hells.”

  “Well,” Azuri began, tucking away his kerchief, “if that wasn’t a demon escaped from Geh’shinnom’atar, then we are all mad. I suppose a group of men might go insane all at once, but I doubt we would all have the same vision.”

  Hazad gulped jagdah. There was a rare, fearful sheen to his eyes. “Those shadows at the temple with Varis must have been demons too.”

  Azuri nodded. “It would seem so. The very oldest stories claim that demons possess humans and remake them. Fenahk—rather, what came out of him—seems to prove that.”

  “Gods good and wise,” Hazad said, “what did that fool princeling bring on us?”

  “I don’t know, but I think it’s fair to say the Thousand Hells have been breached.”

  Listening intently, Kian inspected his sword before sliding it into the scabbard. He set to scrubbing the dagger. “I’ve never heard a story say a man could kill demons with steel. Nor have I ever heard that the gate to the Thousand Hells was inside a tumbledown temple within the Qaharadin Marshes.”

  “Stories of demons and Geh’shinnom’atar,” Azuri mused, “are as old as humankind. Who can say what’s been forgotten over the ages?”

  Kian frowned at the memory of the misty shapes that had surged from the ruined temple, monstrous figures that had joined Varis’s side like old companions. “How could demons—the Fallen, Mahk’lar—escape a prison created by the Three before the first men walked?” He thought a moment. “And why did Fenahk, or whatever he was, call out my name?”

  Azuri shrugged. “Why not you? My guess is—”

  “Guesses are useless,” Kian snapped. “We need answers, if we are to reach El’hadar with the remaining men we have.”

  “No doubt Fenahk called you by name because you happen to be the leader of this company,” Azuri said, unperturbed by Kian’s outburst. “But if you want further answers, the Hall of Wisdom in Ammathor might have them. The scholars of the Magi Order, or even the Sisters of Najihar, could also know something.”

  “There are others to call on,” Hazad said quietly.

  Kian raised his eyebrows. “Who?”

  Hazad looked torn between distaste and hopefulness. “The Madi’yin.”

  Azuri laughed ruefully. “Leave it to you to trust anything the begging brothers would have to say.”

  “When the world goes mad,” Hazad said, “it could be that madmen have answers closer to the truth than the sane. And demons, after all, seem to be the Madi’yin’s favorite topic.”

  Kian glanced over his shoulder at the pool of black muck, all that was left of the demon. Somehow, his sword alone had truly harmed the creature.

  My sword, he thought, knowing that was not true. Not entirely. The blue fire that had flashed from his hands had pained the demon, the same kind of blue fire that had shot out of the temple to sink its cold heat into Kian. So far, no one had mentioned that, and he wasn’t about to. Not yet.

  But in the end, it was neither his sword nor that queer blue fire that had killed the beast. My voice did that. Hard as it was to admit, it seemed that whatever had happened at the temple also connected him to Prince Varis Kilvar.

  Not admitting anything aloud, Kian said, “All we really know is that something has happened that should not be. And, in some way, it ties to whatever Prince Varis became at the temple.”

  “And what do you suggest we do about it?” Azuri asked.

  “For now, I want out of this blasted swamp,” Kian said. “Then we make for El’hadar. Lord Marshal Bresado keeps a magus there. Perhaps he can shed some light on this. Either way, after we refit, I intend to make for Izutar. Our Asra a’Shah friends can return to Geldain, or wherever they wish to go.”

  “Don’t you think the prince’s family should learn what happened to him?” Azuri asked.

  “And just what do you suggest we tell them?” Kian asked.

  “We can’t say the boy turned into a demon-sorcerer,” Hazad said.

  “This doesn’t sit well with me,” Azuri said.

  “Neither does mud,” Hazad said, “but you are covered in it.”

  “Damn!” Azuri blurted, much as he had earlier, and immediately drew out his kerchief again.

  “Watching his friend wage his war on filth, Kian said, “Our duty to the Kilvar line ended the second that sulking little shit of a boy tried to kill us. I’m finished with demons and princes.” Kian glanced around at the gathering Asra a’Shah. “What’s more, I’m finished with Aradan and this gods-cursed swamp. I cannot guess Varis’s intentions, whatever he is now. The people of this godless realm can fight him, or bow to him, or sacrifice themselves for his amusements, for all I care.”

  Hard black eyes studied him, but no one disagreed.

  “Is all in order?” Kian asked Ba’Sel, as he strode near.

  “It is.”

  “Then make ready to ride. I want to reach the desert by dawn.”

  Chapter 9

  In the predawn light, a young man nearly unrecognizable as Prince Varis Kilvar halted a dozen miles beyond Krevar. He surveyed the destruction, noted the deep split in the earth zigzagging across the desert before reaching the collapsed northern wall of the fortress.

  I did this, he thought with a cheerless smile. By taking into himself the Powers of Creation, he had remade the face of the world. He did not intend to stop here. The glorious reshaping would continue for an age under his reign. But Fortress Krevar is where I will begin to come into my own.

  Varis had been running almost the entire time since leaving the temple, but he felt as fresh as the moment he had begun. The need for rest was now as irrelevant to him as the need for food. He required only the living world to sustain his strength. Where another man would have collapsed long since, he simply drew on the essences of a thousand living things, forcing their energy to replenish him.

  Before returning to Geh’shinnom’atar and leaving him to secure his army, Peropis had taught him how to harvest the life of everything around him.

  She had also taught him how to resist taking in more of that life than his mortal body could contain. There was a balance to be struck between taking life and releasing it in equal measures.

  He was impatient to master his gift, but Peropis had explained, “Soon, Prince of Aradan, the breadth and depth of your strength will exceed your greatest desires. You are but a child taking his first steps. In the fullness of time, you will run.”

  For a while longer, he would continue to behave as an eager pupil, even as he secretly expanded his power. After Aradan was his, he would stretch out his hand over lands known and unknown, all across the face of the world, and he would subdue them. Afterward, he would destroy Peropis.

  But all that would come later. As Peropis said, for now he needed an army to do his bidd
ing, and to shield his human flesh from the weapons of any men too foolish to understand that a living god stood in their midst.

  Deciding that he would not move against Krevar until nightfall, thus utilizing the darkness of night to bring out men’s inborn fears, he found a heap of boulders and settled into a patch of shade.

  As the day grew brighter, the eastern sky exploded in a crimson wave that stretched all the way to the western horizon, but not to Varis’s eyes. He saw only smudges of silver, black, and gray. The acrid scent of smoke drew his attention toward the Qaharadin Marshes. Infernos raged throughout the swamp, doubtless brought to life by the fiery streaks that had been falling out of the sky every night since he set out.

  To the north and west, deep into the swamp, a great roiling black and gray plume rose like a storm cloud. He placed it somewhere near where the temple had been.

  Varis found himself hoping for great fires and worse catastrophes. He could join the terror of widespread calamity with his plan to take the Ivory Throne, and then move on to claiming the surrounding kingdoms of Tureece, Falseth, and Izutar. Geldain, across the Sea of Drakarra, would fall too. It was a wasteland every inch as much as the Kaliayth Desert, but it was also a rich land. He cared not for the wealth, but rather for the sumptuous temples he would have constructed in his honor, places where people could properly worship him.

  As the day lengthened, heat shimmers began rising off the desert, and Varis scooted deeper into the shade. When he looked toward Krevar, he saw a great silvery aura rising above the fortress city. At first he had believed that Peropis had cursed his eyes, but now he knew differently. His new sight showed him exactly what he needed to see, and where to strike.

  As for the rest of his body, which he had first seen reflected in a pool of water two days past, the transformation was shocking. He appeared to be a risen spirit. His skin was pale and parchment thin. While he would not trade what he had gained, it stung his pride enough that he had sought to clothe himself from head to heel at the first opportunity.