Ellonlef struggled to keep her features calm, but she could not still her tongue. “How could a man steal the powers of living gods?” she asked incredulously.
Varis turned his lifeless gaze on her. “Suffice it to say, the Three live no longer. In truth, they destroyed themselves at the dawning of the age of men. The moons that represented their deity are but remnants—ghosts, if you will. And now, even their ghosts have been destroyed.”
Uzzret began bobbing his head, as if he had known as much all along.
“That is impossible,” Ellonlef said, shaken.
“If I had not believed the same,” Varis said, suddenly morose, “then I could have avoided suffering the living nightmare of my own ruination. However impossible, I saw that power unleashed and, too, I saw demons freed that those same energies held trapped within the Thousand Hells—demons that now soar free in the world of living men. That force melted my flesh, ripped through my bones, nearly destroyed me. I watched my supposed protector—a man who beguiled me with false tales of treasure large enough to aid Ammathor hidden within a secret temple—as he went mad with power and fury, and slaughtered those few under his command who were not loyal to him. He scorched them with fires created from nothing. When that did not slake his bloodlust, he fashioned a vile and corrupt form of life from that which was once pure, using it to destroy all the rest who opposed him. By good fortune, I was able to escape—though not without paying a high price, as you can see.”
Varis pointed to the doorway. “Your people, Lord Marshal, are not the first to have their very lives drained from their flesh by this treacherous devil, and they certainly will not be the last. This man, along with those who follow him now, and those who will surely follow him later, must be destroyed. An army must be assembled and marched to Ammathor, for this man thinks to begin his conquest of the world by usurping the Ivory Throne. Though an army may not be enough to stop him, I would forewarn Ammathor, rather than let the city of my birth be taken completely unawares, as have been the people of Krevar.”
“Your protector,” Otaker asked, “he is one of the House Guard?”
Varis shook his head. “No. The man is Kian Valara, an Izutarian mercenary leading a complement of Asra a’Shah hirelings.”
Before Otaker could respond, the prince explained: “With open rebellion more frequent than ever in Aradan, and the danger of Tureecian raiders increasing with every season, as well as the ever-present threat of the marauding Bashye, I wrongly chose men who I believed would be absolutely loyal to the gold I paid them, if not to myself. As it happened, Kian used my outing as a cover for his own diabolical ends. How long he has planned this, or why he needed me along, I cannot say.”
Uzzret abruptly coughed to gain everyone’s attention. “Perhaps this traitorous bastard intended to use you as a ransom?” he suggested, all but panting in his eagerness to provide an answer for Varis.
To Ellonlef, if no one else, the prince’s entire story sounded contrived. There could be some measure of truth in Varis’s words, but it struck her that despite all his professing ignorance, at the same time he seemed to know far more about the intricacies of what was happening than someone who had supposedly been surprised by a mercenary’s actions, and the ensuing results. As a Sister of Najihar, she was well-trained in looking for truths hidden amongst clever lies. While she could not put a finger on exactly what Varis’s secrets were, she knew they were there, and she knew Varis was lying to hide some greater, perhaps damning, truth.
“You may be correct, Magus,” Varis said with a dismissive shrug.
Uzzret bowed graciously, eagerly, as if Varis had bestowed upon him lands and titles. “You are too kind to your humble servant, Your Highness.” He took that moment to glance furtively between Ellonlef and Otaker. “Without you here to lead us, I fear that Krevar would have soon vanished under the shifting sands of the Kaliayth.”
The thinly-veiled slight had no apparent effect on Otaker, but Ellonlef felt rage growing in her heart, tempered only by pity. Uzzret was like a drowning man, searching for any hope, no matter how thin, so that he could escape certain death. It was not death by water that he fought against, Ellonlef knew, but a crushing wave of insanity. Too many tragedies had befallen Krevar over the last few days, and now a plague that was supposedly not a plague but rather the work of a man wielding the powers of gods, was simply too much for Uzzret to contend with. How many others were fighting the same battle, Ellonlef wondered, and what foolishness would those distraught minds gravitate towards, in order to save themselves?
Otaker said, “I have heard of this mercenary, and those reports never suggested he might be capable of such treachery. Izutarians, for all their reckless nature and uncouth ways, are heralded as men of both valor and honor. And, as you know, Your Highness, many serve with distinction in Aradan’s legions.”
Ellonlef sighed with relief. Though grieving, Otaker had not completely lost his wits to remorse. He was bringing to light ideas that flew in the face of Varis’s story.
“I cannot speak to what turned this Izutarian’s heart to embrace this darkness,” Varis said, somewhat defensively to Ellonlef’s ear, “but know that his heart is turned. By his own words—which I overheard spoken to his cohorts—he intends to begin his campaign of domination by subjugating all of Aradan. What he desires after that can only be imagined, but I dare say he will not stop at seizing the Ivory Throne.”
“Why would an Izutarian mercenary want to prop himself up as a king of Aradan and, as you hint, perhaps even an emperor?” Ellonlef asked, thinking this tale was growing more unbelievable by the moment. Men of all stripes were capable of seeking such enormous power, but never in all her studies had she learned of anyone who sought the accession to such authority by initially overthrowing the throne of a foreign land, instead of their own.
“Why does any man seek to rise above himself?” Varis said, evasively. Speaking quickly, he added, “All that matters, here and now, is that we must act with all haste. For Kian, from afar and by means I do not fully understand, has murdered scores in Krevar alone. Who can say what atrocities he has wrought along the rest of the border? If you seek hard answers, I have few enough, and much more speculation.”
Before any could respond, still speaking rapidly, Varis offered the details of his own speculation, which again sounded too much like firsthand knowledge to Ellonlef.
“My guess,” Varis began, “is that Kian intends to strike fear into the peoples’ hearts, using that trepidation to gain control over them. Unless you heed me, tens of thousands, all across the kingdom, shall perish. Be it terror or desire to spare themselves, others will surely align themselves with Kian and his army. I can do little on my own. I need your allegiance, lord marshal, and that of our countrymen, to swiftly build a counterforce greater than Kian’s—an army where fealty is earned through love, not terror.”
“The Magi Order has always provided strong, loyal supporters to the crown under that which they serve,” Uzzret blurted. “While I am not the head of my order, I can promise our support.”
Ellonlef bit back a derisive oath at such shameless bootlicking. It was not hard to do, because her greater concern was that Varis was using his astonishing story and highborn influence in an attempt to maneuver both Otaker and Uzzret to his side.
Otaker said, “My fealty has always been to the Ivory Throne and House Kilvar, Your Highness. But, if even half of what you say is true, then you are claiming that an Izutarian, a barbarian of the north, is planning to bring Aradan under his rule by means of the powers of … of deceased gods. If so, how can such a man possibly be stopped with swords and spears and bows?”
Varis looked at his hands, turning them over and back, his features miserable. “Perhaps what has been done to me is a blessing … perhaps it is a curse. I know not.”
He looked up, dead eyes fixed on Otaker. There seemed to be something behind those white eyes, a sudden understanding of a troubling mystery. That understanding, it seemed, he kept to h
imself. Aloud he said, “What I do know is that when Kian seized the powers of creation, some measure of that power escaped into the world—and some was given to me.”
Varis’s expression of enlightenment quickly faded, and his voice came as a whisper. “In my ignorance, I could not save the men Kian killed at the temple, nor spare myself this affliction.” Abrupt tears streamed over his scant cheeks. “But it is not too late for Krevar or Aradan.”
Otaker’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“I can offer no promises, but in some manner I cannot fully understand, I believe I can restore the life which was stolen from our people.”
Uzzret gasped in shock, then threw himself prostrate before Varis.
Startled by such an unbelievable proclamation, Ellonlef frowned. Magus Uzzret might be ready to hand over his soul at a word from Varis, but she felt an ever-growing distrust for the prince. All that he spoke smacked of half-truths at best, and outright falsehoods at worst. Furthermore, he sounded like a madman. While she had never seen or met this Kian Valara, as Otaker had said the man’s reputation preceded him. He was said to be a hard man, but an honorable one. By the same measure, Varis’s repute had ever been that he was a cruel, selfish, spoiled youth.
Striving to solve the puzzle before her, to find hidden intents, Ellonlef let every word and deed Varis had said and done since his arrival wash over her, filtering his words through her own experience and wisdom. As a scholar of her order, she had much history and personal knowledge upon which to draw.
She abruptly caught her breath, a dread excitement surging through her veins. It took all of her will to remain silent, as she considered the truth dawning in her mind. She clearly saw how the youth had baited all present, deftly using the last days’ troubles to twist their minds and hearts toward his own ends. Save for the inclusion of the powers of creation, Varis’s was a common ploy often used amongst rabble-rousers and usurpers. Ellonlef could scarcely believe it had taken her this long to decipher his methods.
Varis’s strategy was not elegant, and did not need to be. Such manipulators relied heavily upon the predictable fickleness of the human soul when overburdened with disaster, loss, and uncertainty. Such opportunistic men cunningly positioned themselves at the fore of rudderless groups by providing simple, direct answers and solutions to troubling questions. It did not matter how irrational those answers might be, or how vile the solutions were, for the heavy-laden heart desired most of all to lash out against the incoming tide of pain. Once drawn into the maelstrom of his cause, such a manipulator directed his followers to focus upon a carefully provided enemy, inflaming them further still. As long as those fires raged, reason languished. Ellonlef’s study of past uprisings had taught her that after the passions of the bestirred masses waned, they often realized it was too late retreat back along the monstrous road they had tread. And, more often still, the enemy they had savaged and warred against proved less of a threat than the very leader who had guided them from the start.
Ellonlef’s mind worked frantically, putting the pieces of the puzzle together, as they related to Varis.
First he had come to Krevar, his flesh devastated, looking nothing like an Aradaner highborn, which gave weight to his commiseration with the plight of the townsfolk. Then he stirred in a crucial ingredient by suggesting a common enemy existed who was responsible for Krevar’s woes—Kian Valara. Going further, he had presented the mercenary as an undefeatable enemy with the power of gods at his disposal. Finally, after building a subtle sense of hopelessness, Varis shared that he had the means to reverse the enemy’s grim deeds. Of course, like all usurpers, he also needed willing followers.
“Why have you waited until this moment to reveal that you, as well as Kian, can wield these powers of creation?” Ellonlef asked, unable to contain herself any longer. She had to stop this madness before it went too far. But at the same time, she needed to proceed with caution, for it was no small matter to accuse a sovereign son of Aradan. “Why not act first, and explain later?”
Varis turned on her. No hint of life shone in his eyes, but she felt cold hatred issuing from them. Before he could begin to speak, Uzzret was on his feet.
“You thankless, wretched woman,” he snarled. “You dare question the virtue of this man?”
“Enough!” Otaker shouted. Then, in a quieter voice, he asked Varis, “Can you bring back Danara, my wife?”
Taking advantage of the distraction, Varis avoided answering Ellonlef. He nodded to Otaker and, belying his earlier statement that he could offer no promises, spoke now with absolute surety. “I can and will bring back your lady wife, as well as all the dead of Krevar—save those who have been devoured by flame. Those are lost, even to me.”
At this, Uzzret dropped his worshipful gaze and began babbling of his sorrow for ordering so many burned to ash. Varis ignored him.
“Tell me what I must do,” Otaker said fiercely.
Ellonlef felt her heart fall at his fervor. Whatever he had glimpsed behind the veil of Varis’s strange tale was now hidden by the false hope that he would again see his wife. For herself, Ellonlef had no doubt that the dead were dead and could not be raised. The only question was why Varis would make such a claim, when the evidence of his failure would destroy his standing. What is he up to?
“Assemble the townsfolk as quickly as possible,” Varis ordered, “but let the dead remain where they fell.”
Otaker had begun nodding even as Varis spoke. When the prince finished, Otaker called in a handful of guards. “Assemble the townsfolk in the market square. If they cannot walk, carry them!”
After the guards ran out, Otaker led Varis, Uzzret, and a watchful Ellonlef to the market. Ellonlef wanted to draw Otaker away, tell him her concerns, but there was no chance. Everything was moving too fast.
Whatever means the guards used to get the people to come, it did not take long for them to gather. Varis ordered an empty, high-wheeled wagon brought into the open, then invited Otaker and the others to join him in its bed. Ellonlef stoically suffered Uzzret’s glares and harsh muttering, and Varis’s vacant if disdainful looks. Otaker said nothing, but paced back and forth in the wagonbed, fidgeting with expectation.
When the arriving stream of people trickled off, Otaker said to Varis, “My lord, there is no way to be certain if this is all who are left, but you spoke of haste.”
“So I did,” Varis said, scanning the mournful faces.
“You have only to ask,” Uzzret said, placing a hand on Varis’s forearm, “and I will provide any assistance you need.”
Varis shrugged the man off without a word, then faced the gathering. He raised his arms to gain their attention, and quickly repeated a similar story to that which he had related in Otaker’s quarters. It was not lost on Ellonlef that the prince’s tale was more refined now, adding to her belief that he was untrustworthy.
As Varis spoke, she saw confusion and fear written on the faces of the people ringed about the wagon, but mostly she saw deep sorrow. If not for the lassitude that grief produced, she was sure many would have slipped away. When Varis began telling them that he could bring their loved ones back to them, however, every face slowly, hesitantly, became rapt.
Ellonlef looked around for a way in which she might escape, for if Varis’s promises proved to be lies, as surely they must, the crowd was apt to go mad with fury, and tear apart anyone who stood at the prince’s side.
When Varis stopped talking, the market square was dead silent. Nodding as if that was what he had expected, Varis raised his arms and closed his eyes. Ellonlef, who had not heard his last words, gazed around, but saw nothing unusual. Not at first.
Chapter 13
Varis raised his arms and closed his eyes. The gestures were unnecessary, but he wanted to focus everyone’s gaze on himself. After a moment, he opened his eyes. As he had expected, the attention he sought was fixed on him. To his sight alone, threads of life burned as bright, sinuous strands woven throughout those gathered. This lif
e before him, he did not need. Instead, he sought the stolen life he had earlier placed within the Qaharadin Marshes. In his mind, he imagined the hundreds of miles worth of new growth suddenly wilting and dying. Carefully, he gave back the stolen life to the dead, just as Peropis had instructed.
Moments passed, and during that time the life he harvested became a torrent visible only to him. Everything around him was bathed in silvery white radiance. Long moments slid past without anything happening, and he began to worry that he had overstepped the limits of his ability … or was it that Peropis had lied to him yet again? Still, he continued, for while he did not trust Peropis, he could not afford to doubt her in this matter. He was almost certain she wanted something from his ascension, so his failure could not be part of her plan.
Suddenly a shout went up, far away. More followed the first, rapidly becoming joyous cries. Varis knew then that the dead were rising. A tide of murmurs swept through the crowd before him. Blinded as he was by the fierce radiance he was pulling into himself and then releasing, he could neither see the corpses revived, nor see them rise to look around with blank gazes, indifferent to the manic attention they received. He could not see it, but he could feel it happening.
He did not know how long he labored to reverse what he had done, but after what felt an age, the powers of creation slowly began to recreate life inside him, as they had at the temple. At that moment, he ceased pulling life from the swamp and, as planned, used his own life energies instead upon the dead of Krevar. His skin rapidly grew taught over fleshless bones, and he bowed under the weight of his own skeleton. His intention was to show that he was literally sacrificing his own flesh for his people, thus gaining even more devoted followers. In the end, he went on far longer than he should have, even until he wavered on the threshold between life and death.
As he toppled off the wagon to sprawl in the dust, he knew the sacrifice had been worthwhile. He lay before the wagon, dazed but smiling to himself, as the voices of men and women and children rejoiced over the risen dead and, too, shouted his praises. His subjects—his army—rushed forward, blessing him, doing all they could to comfort him. When they raised him up, wasted but alive, they broke out in song.
The God King (Heirs of the Fallen (Book 1)) Page 9
