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

by West, James A.

  The deep gorge ran from the southern horizon to the northern, its sheer sides of freshly broken rock plunging hundreds of paces before meeting crashing waves that churned and tore at all they encountered. The waters smelled of the sea mingled with mud. The Gulf of Bakaal lay over a hundred leagues south, off the coast of Tureece, and yet, here before him, salty waves roared far inland. It was not the first evidence he had seen of the recent disasters that had fallen upon the world, and he could not help but wonder at the breadth of the world’s destruction.

  Some days before he had watched, awed despite himself, as stars fell from the heavens like bands of molten silver to strike the earth far ahead of his vast company. Where those stars fell, great pillars of seared rock and ash had billowed up, higher than any cloud. By the following day, those columns had dissipated over the desert, becoming a fog of smoke and dust denser than what had already been in place from the fires burning in the Qaharadin Marshes. Storms had come next, with lightning the hue of blood and torrential rains. The deluge cleared the air for a short while, but an hour after the last drops had fallen, the acrid smoke and drifting ash rushed back, thicker than ever. And with that choking fog, Varis had noted that the usual blistering wasteland of the Kaliayth had grown much cooler.

  Such calamities could only aid him, for where destruction fell people grew fearful, and when fear persisted, hope was lost. Soon enough, people would seek out a strong and guiding hand to lead them through the darkness. It took no imagination to see that, in time, for the mere promise of bread, people would raise him above themselves and all other kings. Moreover, they would fall to their knees in worship, naming him their savior.

  “Master,” Uzzret said, reining in at Varis’s side. “Master of Spears Hur’aun has confirmed that none of his scouts have been able to find any sign of either the traitor Kian nor the heretic.”

  Varis smiled at the word the magus used for Sister Ellonlef, but for now pushed that aside. Although Peropis had claimed she would destroy Kian herself, he had continually sent out riders to scour the north for any sign of him. To Varis’s mind, whether Kian died by Peropis’s hidden machinations, or at the hands of his followers, made no difference. In truth, he doubted that he would ever see Kian again. The man was an ignorant mercenary, and without gold to sway him, he held no allegiance to Aradan. As for the Sister of Najihar, Varis had sent riders ahead of the company to search her out as well, ordering them to range far to the east.

  “They will be found,” Varis said, somewhat disappointed about the sister. A king—an emperor with the powers of gods—deserved to have such a woman as Ellonlef as a concubine. Not only was she beautiful, she was learned, as were all the Sisters of Najihar. Varis smiled to himself, considering that having a harem of such women would prove quite exhilarating. If not Ellonlef, there would be others.

  Ultimately whether Ellonlef was found or not made no matter. In all likelihood, she had already been captured by one Bashye clan or another. If they did not kill her outright, then by spring of the coming year, she would birth her first of many bastards to the clans. Likely, he would never learn what had become of her.

  “Master?” Uzzret said, breaking Varis’s reverie.

  Varis glanced at Uzzret in irritation, his lifeless gaze forcing the magus to bow his head in fearful respect.

  “Speak your mind,” Varis commanded.

  “How can we possibly cross this obstacle?”

  Instead of answering, Varis dismounted and strode to a small bush at the edge of the chasm. It was withered, and it deep roots were exposed to trail several feet down the face of the gorge. He knew this would be a test of his strength and control, but he had little fear that he would fail.

  Spinning on his heel, he looked out over his arrayed forces, nearly ten thousand strong, all gazing raptly in his direction. Men and women and children, all who had seen the horrors of Geh’shinnom’atar, all who would give their lives for him without thought or hesitation, his Chosen. Under the oppressive clouds of smoke and ash, their strange half-life shone to his eyes like a sea of glimmering silver threads.

  Carefully, he reached out to that life, drawing it into himself, then releasing it into the scraggly bush at his side, gently shaping it to his will. He imagined he could feel the love and acquiescence of his Chosen flowing through him and into the bush.

  The ground shifted and rose, groaning as new roots fattened and sank deep into the earth. Varis closed his eyes in concentration, working with his mind the way a sculptor worked stone with hammer and chisel. He sensed his followers growing weaker as their life drained away, but he did not stop harvesting that life from them. He felt more alive than he ever had before, more powerful. By the day, he realized, he was growing stronger.

  The ground at his feet rose up amid a great crackle of breaking stone. Behind him came a vigorous rustling of vegetation, growing louder and deeper by the moment, like a forest assaulted by a gale. As the available life force began to fade, Varis delved deeper … deeper … until the weakest among his followers began to drop. Still, he drew more, draining them to the brink of death, and by turns forcing their life into the shrub at his back, bending its growth to his will.

  The flood of life soon became a trickle, no matter how hard he strove to continue the flow. With some regret, he severed the connection and opened his eyes. The sea of silver had gone to dull gray, and a large number of his Chosen had fallen to their knees, heads bowed. Dismissing them for now, he turned to face the chasm, and nodded in satisfaction. It was all he could do not to shout in victory at his accomplishment.

  Stretching across the mile-wide gulf, the stunted bush had grown a thousandfold, even ten thousandfold, forming a lush bridge of densely entwined branches and vibrant foliage no less than a hundred paces wide, and half again as thick.

  Uzzret, lying on the ground, struggled to raise his head. When he saw what Varis had done, tears began to trickle from his eyes. He tried to speak, but nothing would come, whether from weakness or from awe, Varis did not know. However, Varis saw that his Chosen would be unable to cross the bridge unless he fed them back a measure of the life he had taken. Directing his mind away from the bridge, he reached out farther than he ever had before. He found scant life here and there, for miles all around, and stole it away, then dribbled it into his followers until they began to stir, and then stand on their own.

  “Cross!” he called.

  At his command, the weary army pressed forward.

  It took hours to get everyone across the bridge, but when the last one strode off his creation, Varis drained the living bridge, and returned that life to his Chosen. The bridge remained, dead wood but solid. Belatedly, he realized he could have revitalized his army before the crossing, but to do so could have risked losing them all if the bridge had proven too weak to support them.

  Still gazing on the incredible bridge, he vowed to himself that he would eventually learn to shape the very stones of the earth, and more. That day could not come soon enough. In time, he would become truly immortal, and wield the powers of creation as had the gods who abandoned those powers. He would be indomitable. When that day came, Peropis would suffer for denying him all that was his from the outset.

  After sending north thrice the number of searchers as before, on the off chance that Kian was foolish enough to have remained in Aradan, Varis rode to the fore of his army. Projecting only his wish that they again take up the march, he led his forces due east at a ground eating trot. At this pace, faster than any army had ever travelled, and never needing to rest besides, Ammathor and, more importantly, his first of many crowns was but a few days away.

  Chapter 24

  Kian’s diminished company rode in heavy silence along the faded ruts of an ancient supply road running south and east. They formed a group, yet each member of the party rode in self-imposed isolation, keeping grim company with their own dire thoughts. Kian, used to days spent chiding his companions while they guarded their charges, and nights lounging about campfires rec
ounting stories of past adventures and humorous mishaps, inherently knew he could not allow his company to continue on as they were. Such constant introspection was as dangerous as an open pit to a midnight rider, and all the more so when dangers could lurk anywhere.

  For the time being, he ignored his own instincts, and let the grave mood hold, if only because there were too many dark things to consider for himself. Things that did not bring smiles to men’s faces.

  After many days under thick clouds of dust, smoke, and ash, an unnatural chill now gripped the Kaliayth. Not having proper coats or cloaks, all had donned an extra set of clothing and wrapped blankets about their shoulders, giving them the look of vagabonds. For himself, Kian found the lack of heat pleasant, despite knowing there was something terribly wrong with it, given that it was the height of summer. Winters in the desert were nothing like those in Izutar, where snow fell continuously during the long dark months, piling up to the height of a man, even in the lowlands. The Kaliayth did grow cold on occasion, especially through the winter nights, but if it was so cold now, and that chill held until winter set in, Aradan’s people would suffer greatly for lack of preparedness.

  If Aradan still exists come winter, he thought.

  Though he was not given to pessimism, he could not help but feel besieged when he surveyed the broken lands they rode through. As far as the eye could see, the desert had been transformed into more of a wasteland than it had ever been before. Since they had begun travelling east, they’d often had to ride around great rents and chasms in the earth. In other places, mile after mile, deep and smoking craters pocked the lands, creating impassible areas of blasted rock and heaped sand. In other places, the heat of falling stars—what Ellonlef named the Tears of Pa’amadin—had melted the desert sands and left behind wide, thin sheets of crumbly glass.

  Considering Ellonlef, he peered about in the reddish haze and found her riding some distance back, her head bowed as if in prayer. If she were praying, he could not fault her. Though his people considered Pa’amadin a god of silence, lately of a night he often looked heavenward, wondering if he cried out if the Creator of All would hear him.

  As if sensing his scrutiny, Ellonlef looked up with a small, secretive smile. Discomfited, Kian nodded to her, then turned in the saddle to study the desert. For no reason he could see, she seemed to have warmed to him. Strange as it seemed, he almost wished she would treat him as she had initially, as if he were a crude but useful utensil. Being irritated with her was easier than sharing the occasional grin, or even a laugh. Simply put, there was a bond growing between them that he did not entirely trust or understand.

  Mostly, however, when he thought of Ellonlef, he recalled the words of protection he had spoken to her. Not merely spoken, though. He had fairly wailed his vow, even while holding her dead in his arms. Thinking back on that moment, and those that had followed, little of what had happened made sense to him. Somehow, despite being buried under a darkness so pure and thick as to drive a man insane, he had seen her reaching for him. His mind showed a memory in which all had been bathed in a ghostly light. The next he knew, the cramped space had exploded with a flickering glare and flying rock. Before he could throw himself over her, a large stone had crashed into her brow, crushing—

  Kian tried to shake the image away, but failed. He tried to drown it with a drink from his waterskin, focusing on the sour grittiness of water they had dug from the ground. He told himself that he could not—would not—relive the moment Ellonlef had perished, but his will failed.

  He had heaved the stone off her head and jammed it deeper into the recess, still able to see Ellonlef with his strange sight, but wishing he could not. She glowed with a fading silvery radiance, and somehow he knew that once that glow was gone, she would be gone, as well. What had nearly broken his mind, and still kept him awake at night, was the terrible wet heat of her blood pouring over his hands as he lay over her, cradling her head. He could still feel her trembling, dying, even as more rock crushed down from above. Pinned though he had been, he strained against that smothering layer of death, holding it off her. He whispered words of comfort, offering what solace he could, despite knowing the futility. When she went still, her luminescence dimmed further. At that moment, a wholly unfamiliar sense of despair spread over him like a great black wing, beating at him with a torment unlike any he had ever known. It was then that he had felt something inside of him, something he wanted—needed—to set free. The desire of that emotion was more than anything he had ever wanted before.

  It was then that a queer but not unpleasant sensation had begun coursing through his being, pulsing with his heart, growing stronger with each new breath. The sensation became a searing heat that wormed its way through his bones and sank deep into his very soul. At once he recognized the sensation as the same that had assailed him when the tongue of blue fire had streaked from Varis’s accursed temple and slammed into him. At the temple, he had believed he was dying. With Ellonlef lifeless in his hands, the feeling of his own demise did not come, but rather a growing feeling of indomitable strength. Lest he burst under the rapturous pressure he somehow poured some measure of himself into Ellonlef, even as he cried his vow to her.

  Almost at once, warmth had flooded back into her limbs, and her radiance blossomed like a silver rose. After that, Kian recalled falling into a numb stupor, aware, but separate from himself. During that time, he continued to speak to Ellonlef, though she was unconscious. Even now, he did not know all that he said.

  When Hazad dragged them free, Ellonlef’s face was covered in a crust of dried blood and dirt. But when Kian wiped her face clean, there were no wounds upon her, not even a scar. Somehow, he had given back her life … the same way that Varis had given back the lives of the folk of Krevar. At first this troubled Kian, but after Ellonlef snapped at him about fetching and carrying instead of worshipping him as some kind of Life Giver, he realized there must be a difference between what he had done for Ellonlef, and what Varis had done to the people of Krevar… .

  Kian firmly set aside the recollection of Ellonlef’s death and rebirth.

  Feeling a little shaky, he scrubbed a hand over his dusty face. His one regret on that day had been his inability to save the Asra a’Shah. As he had watched Ellonlef work, he sensed the desire to help, much as he had revived her, but nothing had come. For all he knew, what he had done for Ellonlef was the first and last time he would ever be able to use the power of the gods. Much like a stick of wood thrown onto a fire, he considered, once it became ash, it stayed ash. Deep in his heart, a part of him hoped that was so. Lesser powers by far than those wielded by gods had destroyed men’s souls.

  “It’ll be getting dark soon,” Azuri said, riding up next to Kian. “Do you want to order a halt and set camp?”

  Thankful for the distraction, Kian took in the hazed desert. A ridge of broken hills rose up not far to the east, and farther south a tall cliff of sheer red rock sprouted from the desert floor.

  “If I am not mistaken,” he said, as Hazad joined them, “the ruins of Salev are just over those hills.”

  Hazad, his eyes as bloodshot as everyone’s for the smoke and drifting ash, nodded toward two outcrops on either side of the road. “I believe you are right.”

  Ellonlef reined in, looking at the three men. Kian was sure her gaze rested on him longer, and he tried to resist the pull of her dark, warm gaze. “Are we halting?”

  “Within the hour, Sister,” Azuri answered.

  With a tired nod and a final, mysterious glance for Kian, she heeled her mount forward, leaving them there.

  Kian looked after her, an unusual pressure tightening his chest. Hazad and Azuri both smirked at him. As if they had issued a challenge, he quietly cursed them for fools, then kicked his horse into a trot that took him abreast of Ellonlef. She glanced at him. Kian did not take that as an invitation to ride with her, but neither did he take it as a dismissal. Together, they rode in a comfortable silence to where the road passed between the two
outcrops, and halted. He was keenly aware of her presence, and had to force himself to concentrate on the task at hand—that of finding proper shelter for the night.

  The road dropped steeply into a valley less than half a mile across, then climbed back up the opposite side, and continued on through a broken terrain of hills and flat-topped mountains. The low, flat lands of the Kaliayth were behind them, and from now until they reached the feet of the Ulkion Mountains, the seldom-used road would gradually climb through a more rugged landscape. Without question, the days ahead would be harder than the days behind.

  Kian examined the narrow slash of valley he had not seen in many years. At first it was difficult to make out the ancient village’s location, and he began to wonder if this was Salev after all. Then, low down at the base of the far canyon wall, he found the telltale remains of the small, scorched mud brick abodes of those folk who had lived here a hundred years gone. Raiders—be they Tureecian or Bashye, no one knew—had razed the village, and now the weathered buildings resembled rotten, soot-streaked teeth jutting from the sand.

  After locating the ruins, he searched the deepening gloom and noted that green things grew amid the ruins—overgrown fig and olive trees picked over by birds, a few date palms, and summer-wilted areas that had once been well-tended gardens. The presence of greenery proved the existence of water, but time would tell if any wells remained with water fit to drink. The Bashye had a nasty habit of despoiling wells along the kingdom’s roads with wild goat carcasses, in order to ensure travelers were thoroughly weakened and demoralized when the renegades launched their attacks. If they had done so here, digging parties would have to find water below ground. There would likely be water, if full of silt.