The deep gorge ran from the southern horizon to the northern, its sheer sides of freshly broken rock plunging hundreds of paces before meeting crashing waves that churned and tore at all they encountered. The waters smelled of the sea mingled with mud. The Gulf of Bakaal lay over a hundred leagues south, off the coast of Tureece, and yet, here before him, salty waves roared far inland. It was not the first evidence he had seen of the recent disasters that had fallen upon the world, and he could not help but wonder at the breadth of the world’s destruction.
Some days before he had watched, awed despite himself, as stars fell from the heavens like bands of molten silver to strike the earth far ahead of his vast company. Where those stars fell, great pillars of seared rock and ash had billowed up, higher than any cloud. By the following day, those columns had dissipated over the desert, becoming a fog of smoke and dust denser than what had already been in place from the fires burning in the Qaharadin Marshes. Storms had come next, with lightning the hue of blood and torrential rains. The deluge cleared the air for a short while, but an hour after the last drops had fallen, the acrid smoke and drifting ash rushed back, thicker than ever. And with that choking fog, Varis had noted that the usual blistering wasteland of the Kaliayth had grown much cooler.
Such calamities could only aid him, for where destruction fell people grew fearful, and when fear persisted, hope was lost. Soon enough, people would seek out a strong and guiding hand to lead them through the darkness. It took no imagination to see that, in time, for the mere promise of bread, people would raise him above themselves and all other kings. Moreover, they would fall to their knees in worship, naming him their savior.
“Master,” Uzzret said, reining in at Varis’s side. “Master of Spears Hur’aun has confirmed that none of his scouts have been able to find any sign of either the traitor Kian nor the heretic.”
Varis smiled at the word the magus used for Sister Ellonlef, but for now pushed that aside. Although Peropis had claimed she would destroy Kian herself, he had continually sent out riders to scour the north for any sign of him. To Varis’s mind, whether Kian died by Peropis’s hidden machinations, or at the hands of his followers, made no difference. In truth, he doubted that he would ever see Kian again. The man was an ignorant mercenary, and without gold to sway him, he held no allegiance to Aradan. As for the Sister of Najihar, Varis had sent riders ahead of the company to search her out as well, ordering them to range far to the east.
“They will be found,” Varis said, somewhat disappointed about the sister. A king-an emperor with the powers of gods-deserved to have such a woman as Ellonlef as a concubine. Not only was she beautiful, she was learned, as were all the Sisters of Najihar. Varis smiled to himself, considering that having a harem of such women would prove quite exhilarating. If not Ellonlef, there would be others.
Ultimately whether Ellonlef was found or not made no matter. In all likelihood, she had already been captured by one Bashye clan or another. If they did not kill her outright, then by spring of the coming year, she would birth her first of many bastards to the clans. Likely, he would never learn what had become of her.
“Master?” Uzzret said, breaking Varis’s reverie.
Varis glanced at Uzzret in irritation, his lifeless gaze forcing the magus to bow his head in fearful respect.
“Speak your mind,” Varis commanded.
“How can we possibly cross this obstacle?”
Instead of answering, Varis dismounted and strode to a small bush at the edge of the chasm. It was withered, and it deep roots were exposed to trail several feet down the face of the gorge. He knew this would be a test of his strength and control, but he had little fear that he would fail.
Spinning on his heel, he looked out over his arrayed forces, nearly ten thousand strong, all gazing raptly in his direction. Men and women and children, all who had seen the horrors of Geh’shinnom’atar, all who would give their lives for him without thought or hesitation, his Chosen. Under the oppressive clouds of smoke and ash, their strange half-life shone to his eyes like a sea of glimmering silver threads.
Carefully, he reached out to that life, drawing it into himself, then releasing it into the scraggly bush at his side, gently shaping it to his will. He imagined he could feel the love and acquiescence of his Chosen flowing through him and into the bush.
The ground shifted and rose, groaning as new roots fattened and sank deep into the earth. Varis closed his eyes in concentration, working with his mind the way a sculptor worked stone with hammer and chisel. He sensed his followers growing weaker as their life drained away, but he did not stop harvesting that life from them. He felt more alive than he ever had before, more powerful. By the day, he realized, he was growing stronger.
The ground at his feet rose up amid a great crackle of breaking stone. Behind him came a vigorous rustling of vegetation, growing louder and deeper by the moment, like a forest assaulted by a gale. As the available life force began to fade, Varis delved deeper … deeper … until the weakest among his followers began to drop. Still, he drew more, draining them to the brink of death, and by turns forcing their life into the shrub at his back, bending its growth to his will.
The flood of life soon became a trickle, no matter how hard he strove to continue the flow. With some regret, he severed the connection and opened his eyes. The sea of silver had gone to dull gray, and a large number of his Chosen had fallen to their knees, heads bowed. Dismissing them for now, he turned to face the chasm, and nodded in satisfaction. It was all he could do not to shout in victory at his accomplishment.
Stretching across the mile-wide gulf, the stunted bush had grown a thousandfold, even ten thousandfold, forming a lush bridge of densely entwined branches and vibrant foliage no less than a hundred paces wide, and half again as thick.
Uzzret, lying on the ground, struggled to raise his head. When he saw what Varis had done, tears began to trickle from his eyes. He tried to speak, but nothing would come, whether from weakness or from awe, Varis did not know. However, Varis saw that his Chosen would be unable to cross the bridge unless he fed them back a measure of the life he had taken. Directing his mind away from the bridge, he reached out farther than he ever had before. He found scant life here and there, for miles all around, and stole it away, then dribbled it into his followers until they began to stir, and then stand on their own.
“Cross!” he called.
At his command, the weary army pressed forward.
It took hours to get everyone across the bridge, but when the last one strode off his creation, Varis drained the living bridge, and returned that life to his Chosen. The bridge remained, dead wood but solid. Belatedly, he realized he could have revitalized his army before the crossing, but to do so could have risked losing them all if the bridge had proven too weak to support them.
Still gazing on the incredible bridge, he vowed to himself that he would eventually learn to shape the very stones of the earth, and more. That day could not come soon enough. In time, he would become truly immortal, and wield the powers of creation as had the gods who abandoned those powers. He would be indomitable. When that day came, Peropis would suffer for denying him all that was his from the outset.
After sending north thrice the number of searchers as before, on the off chance that Kian was foolish enough to have remained in Aradan, Varis rode to the fore of his army. Projecting only his wish that they again take up the march, he led his forces due east at a ground eating trot. At this pace, faster than any army had ever travelled, and never needing to rest besides, Ammathor and, more importantly, his first of many crowns was but a few days away.