James West - The God King

Ellonlef began backing away, telling herself this must be a terrible dream. How could a man lose his mind so swiftly? And not only that, how could he come to such outlandish conclusions?

“Seize her!” Uzzret screeched. “Cast her into the fires!”

Ellonlef spun to flee, but came face to face with a creature risen straight from Geh’shinnom’atar . When its dead white eyes found her, she choked on a scream.

With veiled amusement, Varis watched the Sister of Najihar recoil. Between her shock at seeing his ravaged features, and hearing the ravings of Magus Uzzret, it was all he could do not to fall into a fit of laughter. Peropis had assured him that she knew the hearts of men, had learned their ways from their beginnings. She had painted a picture of what to expect, and what to utilize, that was uncannily similar to the scenes of chaos he had encountered since passing within the broken walls of Krevar. But jumping so quickly to burning heretics alongside corpses as an appeasement to nameless gods, no less, was more than even Peropis had anticipated.

A pair of guards who had not heard Uzzret’s wild command to hurl Ellonlef into the flames, came from the shadows dragging the body of one of their fellows, intending to burn the corpse. Their grim labor sobered the prince. If he did not put a stop to this nonsense, and soon, the seeds of his future army would, quite literally, go up in smoke.

Varis strode to the feet of the old gaping fool perched atop the hill of broken stone. “Magus Uzzret,” he said, knowing the man’s name as well as the woman’s, just as he knew all the advisors to the lords marshal across all of Aradan. “I’m sure that gods, forgotten or not, disdain such an empty sacrifice as charring the dead. Call off this madness if you ever hope to see these hapless souls walk again.”

“On whose authority do you speak?” Uzzret demanded, voice shaking. By his expression, it was all he could do not to succumb to the same fear filling Ellonlef’s heart.

Varis had the distinct impression that the man was a blustering imbecile who thought more highly of himself than did his peers, an assessment that had never reached his grandfather’s court in Ammathor. Of course, Varis considered, troubles and hardship often brought out a man’s true nature. At a furious shout, Varis was sure the old fool would soil himself. But there was no need for that, no matter how amusing it would be.

Raising himself up to his full height, Varis said, “By the authority of the blood of my Royal House, Magus Uzzret, that which has flowed through the veins of all the heirs of the Ivory Throne since the First King Edaer Kilvar stormed off the Kaliayth to bring about the fall of the Suanahad Empire, a thousand years gone.”

Both Uzzret and Ellonlef stared. To hasten their burgeoning understanding, he added, “Though I bear the recent scars given me by an enemy to all men, I am Prince Varis Kilvar, heir to the Ivory Throne of Aradan, Keeper of the Kaliayth in the West, and Holder of the Golden Plain in the East.”

“My lord,” Uzzret gasped, as recognition finally bloomed in his gaze. “What … what has befallen you?”

Varis did not bother answering. He did not wish to have to repeat himself incessantly, and he knew well that the tale he was about to tell was one created to coerce, not convince. He must act quickly, giving no time for deep consideration. He commanded, “Call off these men, Magus. This is no plague, and neither is it a curse of the gods.”

Uzzret and Ellonlef responded with questioning looks, and Varis laid down the first paving stone that would become the road to his accession.

“These deaths are the work of one man, who has stolen into himself the very powers of creation, once held by the Three. Before we lose anymore of the time needed to mend these wrongs, take me to Lord Marshal Otaker- if he still lives ,” he added belatedly, not wishing these two fools to guess that he knew of at least one man, in particular, who still drew breath. Neither could know that he had purposefully spared Otaker, and so they did as he ordered.

It had taken Ellonlef much urging to get Otaker to leave his dead wife and grieving children, but now he sat behind his writing table, his eyes red from weeping. He stared at Prince Varis as if he were an apparition. As a frequent visitor to the king’s court, he had recognized the youth with little prompting, but it was apparent he was having a difficult time fully accepting what he was seeing.

Ellonlef knew how the lord marshal felt. She tried to ignore the revulsion she felt when she looked at the prince. She had briefly seen him as a child when she passed through Ammathor on her way to Krevar, but he no longer resembled that child. The dark skin given him by his ancestry had been bleached bone-white, and all the flesh beneath that skin had melted away, leaving him gaunt to the point of death. His eyes were whiter still than his skin, and every hair on his body had either fallen out or been burned away. He looked like a resurrected corpse, though without the warm blush of life.

Despite his abominable appearance, things he had mentioned troubled her more. “Call off this madness,” Varis had said in the market square, “if you ever hope to see these hapless souls walk again.” Though unspoken, it seemed that he had claimed the dead would be raised to life. Her conclusion of what he had meant was implausible enough for her to consider that she must have misheard him-except she knew she had not. Also, when the prince had demanded to be taken to Otaker, there had been a brief hesitation before he had added, “if he still lives.” It was as if he had known full well that Otaker was still alive.

“My lord,” Otaker said in a hollow tone, interrupting Ellonlef’s thoughts, “you have come at a grievous time for Krevar. We-”

Varis quieted Otaker with a raised hand. “I fear it is a ‘grievous time’ for the whole of Aradan and, perhaps, the entire world. The powers of the Three, the gods who created the world and men, have been stolen by a mere mortal, and the gates of Geh’shinnom’atar have been breached and the Fallen freed. This night, the mahk’lar stalk the face of the world.”

He spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone that it took Ellonlef a moment to fully register the import of his words. Uzzret moaned, low in his throat.

“The Three … the Fallen,” Otaker muttered, shaking his head. “Forgive my disbelief, but you speak the ramblings of the Madi’yin.”

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.”