James West - The God King

First, however, he had many familiar kingdoms to conquer. The Suanahad Empire, under the rule of Emperor u’Hadn, had subjugated all the known world after defeating and uniting the multitude of sand kings of northern Geldain. In ships barely suitable for the crossing, he had struck north for mysterious lands of plenty, sailing his fleet across the Sea of Drakarra and landing on the shores of what became the kingdom of Tureece. Of lush lands, the emperor found few enough, but of gold, silver, and precious stones, there had been an abundance.

In time, Emperor u’Hadn led his armies farther north, vanquishing the Grendahl clans, driving them into the inhospitable and icy holds of Falseth and Izutar. For the briefest time, u’Hadn held the known world in his palm, and ruled from the great city Kula-Tak, on the northernmost point of Geldain.

Then Varis’s greatest ancestor Edaer Kilvar, the First King, grew tired of bowing to an uncle who demanded the blood of his subjects and the wealth of the new world, all for the promise of nothing, and wrested the lands that would become Aradan away from the emperor. In time, Edaer’s rebellion left the empire and its vast armies shattered, and the long-subjugated tribes of southern Geldain finished what he had begun, sweeping aside the last remnants of the retreating cohort of sand kings, to the point that even the memory of what u’Hadn had built became more myth than accepted truth.

For centuries, Aradan ascended, growing in power and influence until becoming so bloated, rich, and apathetic, that she had to resort to filling the ranks of her armies with the very peoples the fallen empire had conquered long before, the offspring of the Grendahl clans, the barbarians of Izutar, more ignorant animals than men. Straight away, Varis meant to wash clean his kingdom with the very blood of those lesser peoples.

And I have already begun, he mused, sipping sweet summer wine from a golden goblet studded with amethysts. By now, Kian was surely dead, and more, the food of men and vermin. The thought pleased him.

Thinking of Kian, who had been a thorn in his side for a short but lingering season, led Varis’s eye across Izutar on the map. His councilors argued that Izutar had grown stronger since their war with Falseth, some two decades prior, and were now more united against their enemies. Be that as it may, Varis considered them little more than witless brutes who preferred rutting with hounds rather than women. They spoke of honor and duty, but in truth they readily sold both for gold. They were easily manipulated fools, and as such, they would fall to ruin in short order. Moreover, a good many of the Izutarian population lived not in Izutar, but in Aradan. Already, he had commanded that all Izutarians be secretly identified, located, and marked for slaughter. And if, by chance, Izutar proved more formidable than he allowed … well, then, he would gladly destroy them with fire and shadow drawn from the very heart of Geh’shinnom’atar . By sword or by the power of gods, all that mattered in the end was that Izutar cease to be.

He took another sip of wine, already savoring the sound of the lament Izutarian women and children would one day sing. Such would be a paean to him, to be sure, but it would not still his hand against them. To the last, he would utterly destroy all remnants of the late Grendahl clans. They were not even fit to serve as slaves, to his mind. The utter annihilation of Izutar would serve as a lesson to the world that they dare not stand against him-

One of the throne room’s doors banged open, and a guardsman entered, nearly bent double in humility. Or is it fear? Varis wondered, trying to dismiss a sudden sense of unease.

“What is it?” he demanded.

The guardsman stammered something inarticulate, swallowed, then began again, his words halting but understandable. “Sire, the head gaoler of the Pit, Ixron, has come. He has word of Ki-” the guardsman cut off in a choked garble. Varis had forbidden the use of Kian’s name, not only in Ammathor, but in all of Aradan. To do so earned the penalty of death. The guard gulped a breath then stammered, “Ixron brings word of the … ah … the prisoner … ah … the Izutarian.”

The Izutarian, Varis considered darkly. Such had the ring of an honorific, and might well become a rallying cry for future martyrs. He saw straight away that he could not allow its usage, but now was not the moment to rename Kian. He would have to think on it, come up with a turn of phrase or title so vile that only a blind fool would think to use it to engender hope.

“Send him in,” Varis commanded.

The guardsman bowed low, then backed hastily through the doorway. A moment later, a filthy man covered with bruises and scrapes all but crawled into the Golden Hall. Even with his head bowed, Varis noticed a crust of partly congealed blood on one side of the gaoler’s bruised face. Something like a small terrified animal came alert inside him.

“What news do you bring?” Varis demanded.

Ixron began blubbering, perhaps thinking that if he blurted it out all at once, he would be spared. As he carried on, flakes of sticky blood fell from the wound on his face to the polished marble tiles at his booted feet. The smell of him, that of urine and stables and sour wine, curdled Varis’s stomach.

Ixron fell abruptly silent, breathing heavily.

Varis ground his teeth. “Begin again, and speak clearly this time. Fail in this, and I will have out your useless tongue.”

Ixron flung himself to the tiles, wailing in terror. “ Kian! He is escaped!”

“You are mistaken,” Varis grated.

Ixron shook his head in answer, weeping uncontrollably.

Varis wanted to scream in rage, and the power of the gods surged in him. The light of his inner fires spread out over the map of the world, curling the edges. Yet Varis resisted, just managing to push it back down before he destroyed the throne room. He needed to know what was stirring, and turning Ixron to a heap of smoking ash would not serve … not yet.

“What do you mean, escaped? ” Varis asked, subduing his wrath with a gulp of wine.

“Sire?” Ixron asked uncertainly, as if Varis had spoken in a foreign tongue.

“How could a man so near death escape the inescapable, you babbling idiot?” Varis snapped.

Ixron eyes fell. “As I said, he was aided by three-two Izutarians and a woman, a Sister of Najihar. More, my guards, they betrayed me to the last. I was set upon, battered insensible. When I came awake, they had thrown me into the Pit. I had a spare key, a secret key, but when I came out, all were gone.”

“He will be in the Chalice,” Varis knew instantly, recalling that one of the Sisters of Najihar resided there, in service to King Simiis longer than Varis had been alive. He silently cursed himself for that oversight. But that was no matter. They would not be able to move Kian far, his injuries serving to trap them.

Varis sent for the Captain of the House Guard. When he arrived, eyes bleary with sleep, Varis explained what had happened and where Kian and his companions would be found.

“Take as many men as you need and hunt them down,” he ordered, “Do not spare them. I want them dead.” He had toyed with them enough, and now was the time for blood to spill. “I want their heads.”

Before coming to Hya’s shop, the wind became a bitter gale, driving litter down empty streets. For perhaps the first time in a lifetime, the reek of the Chalice was freshened. The biting cold was unlike anything Ellonlef had ever experienced, and she found herself constantly blinking on the chance that the surface of her eyes might freeze over.

Azuri was silent as he climbed down from the wagon’s seat. Hazad clenched his jaw, as if to keep his teeth from chattering. Ellonlef had no such strength in her. Icy fingers clawed at her flesh, leaving every inch of her shuddering. She knew she had experienced nearly unbearable heat before, and in her mind’s eye, she could see that remembered heat rising off the sandy wastes of the Kaliayth, but she could not recall how it had felt.