James West - The God King

Varis kept secret that he desired more than she promised, and that he knew she was not telling him the full truth of her intentions. For now, he would allow her to serve as his teacher and guide. All the while, he would expand his power. After Aradan was his, he would then stretch out his hand over lands known and unknown, across all the face of the world, and subdue them. Afterward, he would destroy Peropis and take what sustained her-not a life force, he had discovered, but something like it.

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

Deciding that he would not move on Krevar until nightfall, thus utilizing the darkness of night to bring out men’s inborn fears, he found an outcrop of rocks that would provide shade from the rising sun, and settled down to wait. As the day grew brighter, the eastern sky exploded in a crimson wave that stretched all the way to the western horizon. To Varis’s changed eyes, he saw only smudges of silver-lined gray, an image of stark beauty in its own right.

The acrid scent of smoke drew his attention toward the Qaharadin. Infernos raged throughout the swamp, doubtless brought to life by the fiery streaks that had fallen every night since he set out from the collapsed temple. To the north and west, far out 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. He knew not what would come of it, but before he had left the site of his rebirth, molten stone had began to bubble and spew from under the spot where the Three had hidden their powers. No doubt a day would come that he might return to the spot and find a monument in his honor, an offering given by the lightless heart of the world itself.

Varis found himself hoping for great fires and worse catastrophes, knowing that he could combine the uncertainty and terror of widespread destruction and calamity with his plan to take the Ivory Throne as his own, and then the surrounding kingdoms of Tureece, Falseth, and Izutar. Geldain, across the Sea of Drakarra, would fall, too, for though it was a wasteland every inch as much as the Kaliayth Desert, 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. For the time being, here at Krevar, admittedly Peropis’s design, he would employ different methods to gain the devout followers he needed to ensure his ascension to the Ivory Throne.

As the day lengthened, Varis turned his mind to Kian Valara, the Izutarian barbarian, a man who sold his sword to the highest bidder. Although Varis still could not conceive why or how the man posed a threat to him, Peropis had assured him that Kian was dangerous enough to let her deal with him, rather than taking a direct hand in it. Once more, he suspected she knew more than she was telling, but decided what she knew did not matter. Given the chance, he would deal with Kian himself.

As heat shimmers began rising off the desert, Varis reclined deeper in the outcrop’s shade. Even at a distance, he sensed the many hundreds of people milling about within the walls of Krevar. When he looked that way, the heap of rubble that had once been Aradan’s mightiest fortress shone with shades of silver and gray. At first he had believed that Peropis had cursed his eyes by stealing from them the ability to see color, 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 a two days past, the transformation was shocking. To his new sight, he appeared to be a risen spirit. His skin was pale, and his flesh was so thin as to be nearly transparent. While he would not have traded what he gained from those changes, it assaulted his pride enough that he had clothed himself from head to heel at the first opportunity.

He had first come out of the swamp at night and, guided by the glow of life, made for a firemoss hunter camped nearby. Varis’s appearance had reduced the poor fellow to a gibbering, begging imbecile. Without hesitation, Varis had drained the man like a waterskin, until all that was left behind was a leathery husk wrapped about jutting bones. All the while, the ‘moss hunter’s team of oxen had chewed their cud with bland indifference. With matched callousness, Varis had sorted through the man’s chest of clothes until he found what he needed: a tunic, trousers, and a long, hooded cloak that when belted looked like lowborn robes. After, he had begun again the long, swift march to Krevar….

Over long hours of rumination, day gave way to night, and even that was waning by the time Varis stirred. Across the firmament, the now familiar streaks of fire flashed past overhead. To the east, the waning, burning face of Hiphkos rose, crowned with an ever growing ring of what looked like stars, but could not be. It struck him that what he was seeing was actually the ruptured remains of Memokk and Attandaeus. He could not be certain, but he thought that the celestial fires that had initially spread across the face of Hiphkos had grown dimmer.

He laughed at the idea of various priesthoods and their followers, across many lands, running about in a panic believing that the gods they worshipped had just died, when in truth those gods had actually sacrificed themselves at the dawn of mankind. The perceived deaths of the gods would ensure mankind would embrace him and his dominance. Men, for the most part, were but lowly beasts ever-seeking a leader of strength and authority, someone or something stronger than themselves. In the face of his own power, such fools would eagerly bow, thinking to curry favor or, at the least, to stave off due punishment. Like all canny leaders, Varis would use such fawning idiots to further his own ends. When their usefulness expired, he would dispose of them. The rest, he supposed, he would spare for his amusement, for if nothing else, fools provided all manner of entertainment.

Pushing aside these trifles of interest, Varis stood and looked to the south. Ethereal filaments danced and swayed like radiant sea grass above Krevar. He could gauge each strand’s strength by the force of its glow. And in Krevar, he judged, there was much pain and suffering.

With careful study, he found a particular life force, studied it, and concluded that that one strand was the only one he must protect. Then, with reckless abandon, he added to the pain and fear of the rest, draining away the vitality of the living. Before the great wealth of living energy could destroy him, he began pouring it into the Qaharadin Marshes, some miles distant. By the time he finished his work, the swamp had grown deeper and wider.

A loud rapping drew Ellonlef from a restless sleep. Before she raised her head from the pillow, a woman wearing the white and gray livery of House Racote burst through the door. Cast in the light of a firemoss lantern, her features were a mask of dismay. “Sister!” she cried, “Lord Marshal Otaker has summoned you. Please … please hurry!”

Groggy, Ellonlef sat up. “What is the hour, Alia?”

“The third past midnight, Sister. Please, you must come. It’s terrible.” Her face crumpled and tears began to stream.

“Alia, are you ill?”

“No,” she wailed. “Not … not yet.”

“Tell me what is amiss,” Ellonlef ordered, sliding out of bed. She drew on her white robes, then tied back her dark hair with a leather thong. While she hastily washed the sleep from her eyes, Alia spoke in broken sobs.