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

  Contents

  The God King

  Also by James A. West

  Acknowledgments

  Part I Ends and Beginnings

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part II New Gods

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part III Shadow and Hate

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  About James

  THE GOD KING

  Copyright © 2011 by James A. West

  First edition: November 2011

  Published by: James A. West

  Cover art by: Darko Tomic

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Produced in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Also by James A. West:

  WORKS OF FANTASY

  Heirs of the Fallen:

  Book One: The God King

  Book Two: Crown of the Setting Sun

  Book Three: Shadow and Steel

  Book Four - Final Volume: Wrath of the Fallen

  Songs of the Scorpion:

  Book One: Reaper of Sorrows

  Book Two: Lady of Regret

  Be sure to join the Scorpion in upcoming volumes!

  Short Stories:

  Night’s Hunt

  Dystopian/Thriller

  Emerald City Protocol:

  Book One: Beasts of the Field

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my first readers and fantastic editors—you know who you are, and you are awesome! To my fans, I cannot thank you enough for joining me on this adventure.

  Be sure to check for updates and new book releases at: http://jamesawest.blogspot.com

  PART I

  Ends and Beginnings

  Chapter 1

  Pale slime streaked the temple’s floor and walls, and the moist reek of old death soaked the shadows. This is no place for the living, Prince Varis Kilvar thought with a shiver of dread. While seeking this place, he had believed the temple and its lost treasure would be things of beauty and majesty. Instead, he had found darkness and decay. No matter. I will not flee before taking what I came for.

  He turned his attention back to the immense granite basin behind him, its pitted surface covered in ancient runes. It looked as if it had grown out of the center of the floor, but he knew that was impossible. Stone was fashioned with hammer and chisel, it did not grow.

  It might here.

  Pushing that thought down, he circled around. The basin was empty of all but dust, cobwebs, and the yellowed bones of some small creature. For all its age and emptiness, something about the basin troubled him. If I leave, no one will be the wiser, and this temple can be forgotten again … as it should've remained.

  Pushing down that fearful voice, Varis edged even closer. His fingers shook, cold sweat beaded on his brow. There’s nothing to fear. I am a Prince of Aradan. I—

  Varis squealed and leaped back when a shimmering veil flashed into being over the top of the basin. Before silence fell again, a chorus of demonic howls soared up into the murky heights of the temple’s domed ceiling. Varis cringed as those perverse cries danced over him, slithering and creeping with mindful purpose.

  And then all went still again. In the cool glow of the veil, Varis took a few shaky breaths to settle his thudding heart. A few breaths more, and he felt more in control of himself. Did I imagine those howls?

  He glanced at the basin again, its surface now covered with an alluring topaz glow. His fear and uncertainties faded into the back of his mind. This is what I came for.

  An ancient tome in his possession named the basin the Well of Creation. The tattered book claimed that it held a source of power greater than any mankind had ever imagined, a power never meant for the hands of men. Old books said many things, some false, some not, but the woman of spirit who had spoken within his mind had confirmed the tome’s claims.

  He crept closer to the basin. He had planned too carefully for this moment and endured too much to run away now. And how many magi died for my secret, how many of their beating hearts did my dagger still? “Not nearly enough,” he said aloud, laughing softly at the thought of eradicating the entire Magi Order.

  A figure shifted under the flickering veil, a vague outline of some twisted thing. Varis swallowed nervously, but was unable to keep from reaching out. His fingertips came within a hair’s breadth of the malformed face pressing against the underside of the lustrous shroud. The creature turned, as if drawn to the warmth of his flesh. Its toothless maw gaped wide. Just before it snapped shut, Varis jerked back, his lips curled in disgust.

  Frantically scrubbing his hands together, it crossed his mind that the tome didn’t mention anything except the Well of Creation resting within the temple. Certainly nothing about a veil, or the demonic host lurking beneath it. But neither had that book mentioned the woman of spirit, she who had filled his head with visions grander than anything he had imagined for himself.

  As if drawn by his thoughts, her voice filled the temple. “You stand at the threshold between two worlds.”

  Varis flinched, eyes wild, searching the musty emptiness. He had not heard her since he departed Ammathor, but like a barbed hook gouged into the meat of his soul, her promises had pressed him to seek out a company of uncouth warriors, had dragged him across the searing Kaliayth Desert and deep into the Qaharadin Marshes, and finally to this forgotten temple that held within its befouled heart the key to his destiny.

  “You stand within arm’s reach of all you desire,” the woman went on. As always, her tone was enticing beyond all reason. “And yet you hesitate. Have you reconsidered my offer, Prince of Aradan?”

  Prince of Aradan. Coming from her, that title sounded more like a mockery than an honorific.

  Varis searched the shadows again. Besides himself and a great spider on its web, nothing lived within the temple. He couldn’t see her, but her presence closed tight about him, even more than it had when she first spoke to him in the subterranean reaches of the Hall of Wisdom.

  “Rest assured,” the spirit woman went on, “if you take what I give, you will gain boons greater than any man has ever dreamed.”

  “Is your gift a blessing, or a curse?” Varis asked the spectral voice. He had thought long about her promises of power unchecked, absolute domination of friend and foe ... and even immortality. Such promises were hard to resist, but he was no fool. If her gift was a blessing, then why had the knowledge of the Well of Creation been buried and forgotten?

  Another face bulged under the veil, this one with angular features and ragged fangs. Fresh cries filled the chamber, making his skin crawl.

  She spok
e again. “If you were a crofter who preferred grubbing in the mud to sustain your existence, then my gift would be wasted on you. Yet your beating heart sings to me the song of unquenchable desire, a longing for supremacy. For you, Prince of Aradan, what I offer is the highest blessing you will ever receive. Accept what I give, and the power of gods will flow through your veins.”

  Varis’s pulse quickened. With considerable effort, he tempered his eagerness. Life at the king’s palace had taught him that gifts were often rife with hidden dangers.

  He swept his palm over a spiny face presently heaving against the veil. “Were these creatures men, those who learned too late the folly of trusting a ... a voice in the night?”

  Cool laughter raised a rash of gooseflesh over his skin. “Do they look like men? No,” she answered for him, “of course not. They were never human at all. You know them as the Fallen and as Mahk’lar. They were the first children of the Three.”

  “Demons!” Varis blurted.

  “A hateful name, but fitting.”

  Varis’s stomach clenched violently. Memory of the Well of Creation might have been lost down through the ages, but the Fallen were still a source of nightmares and dark tales. “It’s taught that the Three imprisoned their first children in the Thousand Hells—what scholars name Geh’shinnom’atar,” he said, unable to hide the quaver in his voice.

  “This is true.”

  “Then why are they here?”

  Wry mirth filled the woman’s voice. “Why do you think, Prince of Aradan?”

  Varis fought to stay put long enough to reason out this riddle. “If this is the Well of Creation, then … that means….” he trailed off, unable to speak aloud his thought. The woman filled the silence.

  “When the Three understood that their children were growing too evil and too powerful, they created the Thousand Hells and imprisoned them. As a misguided penance to Pa’amadin, the Silent God of All, the Three made a race of gentler beings, creatures formed of both flesh and spirit—mortal men, who are but weak creatures forced to rely upon their limited wit and the pitiful strength that rests in their limbs.”

  “We are not so weak as—”

  The woman’s voice overrode Varis before he could finish. “As a final act of contrition, the Three devised the Well of Creation, and therein surrendered their powers—a choice that ultimately led to their demise. The veil before you is the source of that collected power, and it is all that remains of the Three. Since then, those powers have served as the capstone which seals the Thousand Hells, and ensures that the Fallen remain forever imprisoned.”

  Everything she said fell on him at once, but one thing stood out. The Three are dead? Other than ceremonial acts, Varis had never been pious, but learning that the Three were dead staggered him. His mind circled back to the question he had dared not speak. He had no choice now. “If all this is true, then who are you?”

  Her laughter filled the chamber, and the shrieks of the demonic spirits grew still. “I am the Precious One of the Three, their first and greatest creation. In the beginning, I was free to explore the mysteries of the universe, but after my creators made the Thousand Hells, Pa’amadin devised a means to cleanse the taint of sin from the wretched souls of men—this so that he might enjoy their pure and childlike presence in Paradise. He forced that task of refinement upon me, and bound my spirit to the Thousand Hells. Only in the smallest ways can I now reach beyond my realm.” She paused, letting her words sink in, then went on.

  “Men, with all their emerging wisdom,” she scoffed, “deduced my purpose and named me Peropis, Eater of the Damned. As the sins of men are my meat and wine, my title is fitting. Pa’amadin’s curse is that I must devour the poison of men’s souls before they join him. In his twisted judgment, it is better that I alone, though innocent, should be condemned for the sanctification of many.”

  The heat of her words seared Varis, but his dismay had nothing to do with her anger. Standing in the presence of the Fallen horrified him, but having Peropis speaking to him was another trouble entirely. The temple walls seemed to be closing in, wrapping about him like a death shroud. Struggling for breath, he began backing away. All thoughts of ruling some future empire fled his heart.

  Peropis stopped him by speaking in calming, mesmerizing tones. “No matter if children’s tales claim that I ride the winds of midnight storms in search of the innocent, I cannot wear living flesh. I am and have ever been a being of spirit. Geh'shinnom’atar is my home, and the world of the living is denied me by Pa’amadin. Rest easy, Prince of Aradan, for terrorizing mortals has never been my desire.”

  “If I accept your offer,” he asked slowly, unable to hold back the question, “will I become a god?”

  “Indeed,” Peropis answered without hesitation.

  “And if I take your blessing, what do you gain?”

  This time she held silent for a time. “Vengeance,” she said at last.

  “Against whom?”

  “Pa’amadin.”

  Wars between gods, Varis thought, were nothing to him. “Tell me what I must do,” he said.

  “Your human weakness must be stripped away, Prince of Aradan. You must come to me here, in Geh’shinnom’atar. I will devour your failings, replace them with an indomitable spirit and incorruptible flesh. I will make you immortal.”

  “And if I should fail this test?” Varis asked.

  “If you were so weak,” she declared, “I would not have drawn you to me.”

  Drawn you to me? Varis bit back an acid response. It was he who had found the ancient tome and its secret of the Well of Creation. It was he who had gleaned from those ancient writings what power awaited him. And it was he who had murdered the doddering fools who had unknowingly guarded those secrets. All that he had done before Peropis made herself known to him. In truth, he decided, she had come to him like a beggar hoping for a morsel from his hand.

  Are you so sure? a speculative voice asked. Perhaps she has controlled your actions from birth.

  “I grow impatient,” Peropis warned. “For long ages I have waited for someone strong enough to wield the powers of gods. Come to me, and take what I have held safe.”

  I will be a god, Varis thought again, the allure of such power overriding all caution. His heart fluttered with anticipation. As if from a dream, a few words written in the tome drifted to the forefront of his mind, words meant as a warning, but were to him a promise: Within the Well of Creation, there are hidden powers to remake a man into a creator and a destroyer, the ruler of all….

  Varis edged closer to the Well of Creation, halting when his legs pressed against the rim.

  “Come to me,” Peropis urged.

  He glided his palms above the shimmering veil, careful not to touch the twisted first children of the Three.

  “Come to me,” Peropis commanded. “Pass through the veil, and on this day the memory of gods will die in the hearts of men, and another god shall arise in their place. Come to me.”

  Varis plunged his hands into the shroud of blue radiance. His eyes widened as the barrier between two worlds closed over his wrists with an icy grip that burned hotter than any fire. His skin began to smoke and char. The veil grew brighter with every thumping beat of his heart, bathing his stunned features in a frosty glow. Demonic howls climbed around him. At the same instant, a blister of azure fire rose slowly up out of the Well of Creation, melting all the flesh below his elbows.

  A scream too large to escape him clogged his throat. Misshapen hands held him fast, dragged him closer … dragged him down. Far away, far beyond his silent scream and the walls of the temple, everything began to shake, and he heard the faint sounds of cracking stone.

  Chapter 2

  “Gods!” Hazad shouted, jerking his head around hard enough to whip the braids of his black beard. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Kian asked irritably. The big oaf was always on about something that usually turned out to be nothing.

  “An earthquake! Are you d
eaf?”

  Azuri, fussily brushing a speck of invisible mud from his sleeve, glanced disdainfully at the big man. “If it had been an earthquake, you would’ve felt it as well as heard it. I noticed nothing except the bubbling of your guts. How can you be hungry after that satchel of salted beef you ate this morning? Mark my words, by the time you see your first gray hairs, you’ll have grown so fat that Kian and I will have to roll you from place to place, like a wheel of cheese.”

  “He’s halfway there already,” Kian said, though that wasn’t true at all. Hazad was built like a wall of bricks. Besides being ugly as ten sins, the brute made Kian look as slender as a girl, and Kian was no small man.

  “Wasn’t my guts,” Hazad snapped. “Maybe … maybe it was bog gas?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s what it was,” Azuri drawled, and went back to primping.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Kian said again, which was the truth. And right now, it would take a strong bit of rattling from the accursed swamp to distract him from the irritation he felt for their charge, Prince Varis Kilvar. Gods good and wise, he scolded himself for the thousandth time since meeting the pompous man-child. Instead of taking his gold, I should’ve told the snaky little shit to go bugger himself. The sentiment was halfhearted. Truth of it was, Varis’s mission was one of the easiest Kian had ever undertaken. And so far, he hadn’t even had to kill anyone. Gold without blood was a rare and precious gift, to his mind.

  Getting back to the task at hand, Kian hurled his dagger at a mossy tree several paces away. The blade flashed end for end and thudded into the trunk. He allowed himself a brief grin. On either side of the quivering steel hung two halves of the same leaf. A mercenary had to keep his skills as sharp as his sword, but the satisfaction of a fine throw didn’t ease his frustration for long.

  Despite the inarguable fact that gold spoke with a powerful voice, Kian counted all highborn as fools barely worth the price they paid for his services, even when half of what Varis had offered would buy a crown in Kian’s homelands of Izutar. Hunger for gold is my curse, he thought darkly. Even more than Aradaner royalty.