The God King hotf-1 Read online

  A mercenary swung his scimitar in a deadly sidestroke, but the razor-edged steel managed only a thin slice before exploding like glass. The creature’s six-fingered hand flashed out in a blur of motion, impaling the Geldainian on dagger-length talons. It swept the dying man aside even as it came forward to meet the next attacker.

  A wild-faced Hazad stopped midstride and spun to retrieve his bow. Azuri, eyes narrowed in concentration, cocked his arm and, in a blur, brought it forward. His dagger flew true, striking the creature’s chest, penetrating but an inch, before falling way. Azuri looked at the bent blade for the barest moment, then called, “Back, you fools!”

  The mercenaries did not heed him. Nor did Kian. He raced past Azuri, who tried but failed to grab his arm. Kian came in low, thinking nothing, acting instinctively. His mind afire with purpose, his emotions cold and unfeeling as ice, he attacked. With his blade held before him like a short spear, he rammed it into the creature’s groin, the weakest point of any enemy. Where other steel had shattered or bent, his sword struck with a flare of blue fire that seemed to originate from his own hand. His steel sank deep with a horrid screech of metal scraping over bone. The creature threw its head back and let out a bloodcurdling scream. Kian’s eyes watered, and his ears felt as if they would burst. Teeth bared, he wrenched the sword free, just as a freakish hand thrice the size of a man’s swung at his head. He ducked away, just missing being decapitated, and fell into a graceless roll.

  The Asra a’Shah had paused at Kian’s unexpected attack, but now they redoubled their efforts, their swords shattering or clanging against inhuman flesh, leaving only small wounds. Arrows from farther back shrieked through the smoky air, deadly true. To the last, each bolt exploded in a rain of splinters, as if having been fired at stone. One man went down, his head nearly torn from his neck by raking talons. Another instantly filled the gap in the circle of warriors, but fell an instant later, his innards spilling from a ragged gash in his belly. Despite their disadvantage, the Geldainian mercenaries continued their assault, effectively keeping the creature’s attention off Kian.

  Kian scrambled to his feet, drawing his dagger to compliment his sword. He stabbed the shorter blade into the creature’s thigh, and again, blue flame erupted from his hands, traveled the length of the blade, and surged into the beast’s flesh. His sword came up as the creature bowed its great height. Glimmering black eyes, lifeless as that of a creature dragged from the deepest sea, focused on Kian. He instantly sent his sword into one of them. Thick, scalding ichor poured from the wound, forcing Kian to dance back without his weapon.

  With blurring speed, the thing that had been Fenahk caught Kian in one of its enormous hands and drew him close. Kian tensed every muscle, sensing some queer energy rippling through him, a force that resisted the long claws pricking his skin-claws that should have shredded him. Slaver dripped from massive teeth onto Kian’s upturned face. His hands shot out, catching hold of two of those fangs. He pushed against them to avoid being torn asunder. The tip of his sword, covered in black fluid, jutted from the top of the creature’s massive head. Such a wound should have been mortal, but Kian sensed only the swift approach of his own death.

  Rage filled his mind, bringing with it the cold fury of a winter storm scouring the barren ice fields of his homelands. With the only weapon left to him, he bellowed his defiance into the face of his doom. The creature abruptly drew back, as if in pain. It loosed its own deafening howl, and Kian howled with it, that sense of inexplicable power surging through him, seeking escape. Their combined voices rose higher, wordless cries filling the night. Asra a’Shah staggered back, gaping in shock.

  As the twin bellows rose higher still, a dark mass of oily smoke oozed out of the creature’s face, which seemed to be dissolving before Kian’s eyes. He ceased his wild shout, arching backward to avoid the foul touch of those greasy tendrils. The creature suddenly hurled him away. Kian flipped through the air, weightless and tumbling until he hit the ground. He rolled and skidded, bouncing along like a skipping stone, halting only after he struck the base of a tree.

  He leapt up, casting about for something with which to strike the hell-spawned nightmare. Before he could find a weapon, Hazad was there, one big hand on each of Kian’s shoulders, shaking him. “It’s over. Whatever you did, it worked. That thing is gone. It … melted.”

  Kian shook his head, clearing the battle rage, thawing the iced blood in his veins. He abruptly stopped trying to get loose of Hazad’s grasp. “How?” he asked, breathless, not sure exactly what had happened.

  “We can worry about that later,” Azuri said. “Unless you want to wait around here for another one of those demons to show up?”

  “Demon?” Kian rasped. “Only in children’s tales can demons escape the bounds of the Thousand Hells.” To his own ears, the explanation sounded hollow, for as hard as it was to believe, what else besides a demon could the creature have been? And had he not himself considered the same when those monstrous, vaporous shapes had escaped the temple with Varis?

  Gingerly holding each weapon by its hilt, Azuri handed over Kian’s sword and dagger with a look of more than passing curiosity. The blades were covered in a rank wetness that Kian could only name blood, though it was thicker than any he had ever seen, and black besides. As he set to wiping them clean, Azuri elaborated in a rational tone.

  “If that was not a demon escaped from Geh’shinnom’atar, then we are all mad. While I concede that a group of men might all go insane at once, it is doubtful that we would all suffer the same vision.”

  Hazad gulped his jagdah. In most things the big man was fearless, yet now his eyes were feral. “What if those living shadows at the temple with Varis were demon spirits, as well?”

  Azuri shook his head with a troubled look. “Some old stories claim that demons can possess a man, and remake them. Fenahk, whatever he became, seems to prove that.”

  “Gods good and wise, what did that fool boy bring on us?” Hazad snarled. “And how did he do it?”

  “I do not know,” Azuri said. “Whether by his deeds or another’s, it would appear that Geh’shinnom’atar has been breached.”

  Kian held his sword up for inspection, found it clean, and slid into the scabbard. “I do not recall any stories ever saying a man could kill a demon with steel,” he said. “Nor do I recall ever hearing that the gates of the Thousand Hells were located in a tumbledown temple within the Qaharadin.” He set to scrubbing the dagger.

  “Nor have I,” Azuri admitted. “Yet, stories of demons and Geh’shinnom’atar are as old as mankind. Who can say what has been lost in their telling over the ages?”

  Kian frowned at the memory of those vaporous shapes, dozens of which had surged out of the roiling pit where the temple had been, monstrous figures that had seemed to circle and brush against Varis, like old companions. “How could demons-the Fallen, the mahk’lar-escape Geh’shinnom’atar, a prison created by the Three before the first men walked?” He thought a moment, then added, “What’s more, why did that demon call out my name?”

  Azuri shrugged. “My guess is-”

  “Guesses are useless,” Kian interrupted. “I-we-need answers if we are to defend ourselves well enough to reach El’hadar with the remaining men we have.”

  “Possibilities are all we have,” Azuri answered, unperturbed by the force of Kian’s demands. “The Hall of Wisdom at Ammathor may have answers and, too, the scholars of the Magi Order, or even the Sisters of Najihar.”

  “There might be others who know,” Hazad said flatly.

  Kian raised his eyebrows in question.

  Hazad looked torn between distaste and hopefulness. “The Madi’yin.”

  “Leave it to you to trust in anything the begging brothers have to say,” Azuri said in derision.

  The big man glared. “When the world goes mad, I trust that madmen may have answers closer to truth. Demons, after all, seem to be their favored topic.”

  Azuri seemed to be searching his mind for a r
etort, but found none.

  Kian glanced over his companions’ shoulders at the demon’s remains-a pool of reddish sludge. Somehow, his sword alone had truly harmed the creature.

  My sword, he thought, knowing that was not the truth, not entirely. It had been that blue fire that had traveled through him and into his weapon that had caused harm. Even that, in the end, had not slain the demon, but rather his voice. None of it made sense. Still, if he was to defend himself and others against further attack, he needed to know why he had succeeded where others had failed-but not yet. Now they must run.

  “Something has happened in the world that should not be,” he said, imposing himself between Hazad and Azuri. “And that something must have to do with whatever Prince Varis did and became at the temple.”

  He purposefully did not mention the blue fire that had issued from his own flesh, nor did he mention that his cry had destroyed the creature, though by the look in their eyes, he knew his friends had noted it all. It was not lost on him in that moment that something similar had happened with the serpent-root that Varis had called forth to attack him. It too had perished at his touch. He did not want to talk about these things, until he’d had time to ponder the strange events. But the undeniable truth, no matter how hard he tried to avoid or disbelieve it, was that whatever had changed Varis, had also changed him. A chill crept over his skin at the thought of sharing any kind of bond with the young prince of Aradan.

  Hazad and Azuri shared a look that suggested they had at least broached the issue of what had happened to Varis while Kian was trying to reach them. Had he the luxury of time, Kian would have welcomed any opinion, but he sensed danger closing in from all sides, stalking them … stalking him. He had never been one to fear shadows, but in that moment, he did not doubt that he had the right of it.

  It called me by name. The tingle of fear crept again over his flesh. He had known fear as a child, when roving the deadly streets of Marso. He had not enjoyed the sensation then, and he liked it even less now.

  “We must get out of this accursed swamp,” Kian said, pushing all else aside. “Then we make for El’hadar to refit. Lord Marshal Bresado keeps a magus there. Perhaps he can shed some light on this. After that, regardless of what we learn from El’hadar’s magus, I intend to make for Izutar. Our Asra a’Shah friends can return to Geldain, or go wherever they wish.”

  “Do you not think the prince’s family should learn of what happened to him?” Azuri asked.

  “They will, I’m sure, but not from my mouth,” Kian said with a disgusted snort, his mind made up. It was not fear that drove him now-he would not and had never let fear control him-but rather a large measure of antipathy he had for all of Aradan and her people. The realm, as he had always known it, was surely a land fit for demons and strife. More, he had survived Varis’s attack, and now a demon spawned from the bowels of the Thousand Hells. In his mind, he had given enough to Aradan. His duty to the Kilvar line was concluded, even if for but half of the agreed upon gold. As for Varis’s attack against him, Kian reasoned that there were battles that needed fighting, and then there were grudges best left to fate and destiny to decide.

  “I’m finished with demons and princes,” Kian announced. “I’m finished with this kingdom and this gods-cursed swamp. I cannot guess Varis’s intentions, whatever he is now. The people of this godless realm can fight him, or bow to him, or sacrifice themselves for his amusements, for all I care.”

  Dozens of eyes studied him, but no one seemed inclined to disagree or offer a different choice.

  “To horse!” he ordered. “We make for the desert. At least there we will be able see what is coming long before it gets to us.”

  Chapter 9

  In the predawn light, a young man nearly unrecognizable as Prince Varis Kilvar of the Kingdom of Aradan halted a dozen miles beyond the broken walls of Krevar. He surveyed the destruction, noted the deep crevasse zigzagging across the desert before reaching the collapsed northern wall of the fortress.

  I did this, he thought with a mirthless smile. With but one action, that of taking the powers long hidden within the Well of Creation, he had remade the face of the world. He would not stop there. The glorious reshaping would continue for an age of man under his reign.

  Although Varis had been running almost the entire time since leaving the temple, he was neither exhausted nor breathing hard. The need for rest had become as irrelevant to him as the need for sleep. He required only the living world around him to sustain his strength. Where another man would have collapsed long since, he simply drew on the life forces of a thousand living things, forcing their energy to replenish him. In time, should Peropis fail him, he would learn on his own the ways to make his life and flesh incorruptible. Not only would his reign be glorious, it would be eternal.

  Before returning fully to Geh’shinnom’atar, leaving him to secure his army, Peropis had taught him more directly how to harvest miniscule portions of the life all around him, and how to resist taking more than his mortal body could contain. There was a balance to be struck, she told him, between taking life and releasing it in equal measures. It was a constant war not to draw too much of that mysterious power and simply hold it, but Peropis had explained, “Soon, Prince of Aradan, the breadth and depth of your strength will exceed your greatest desires. You are but a babe taking his first steps. In the fullness of time, you will run. However, you must understand that the gift you possess was never meant for the hands of men. For you, I have changed that. Do not waste that gift by destroying yourself.”

  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 ensu
re 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….