Sunlord

by Ronan Frost

  Surk waited a little longer after the steady thumping footsteps of the small band of Sunlord soldiers had died away in the distance, the purposefulness of their stride telling Surk they marched towards some unknown objective. He didn't care where it was, as long it was away from him.

  He shakily stepped away from the pile of rubbish, brushing the lawn clippings from his grubby, hardy clothing. He stepped forward towards the road again, almost tiptoeing, ready to bolt back into shelter should he spot any sign of another Sunlord.

  He hugged the rough wall and sidestepped out, looking up and down the length of the street. The wall of darkness was almost like a cage, and he felt like a trapped mouse being stalked by a hungry predator.

  So where do I go? he thought wildly. He panted and drew a hand across his face, forcing himself to calm down. When his breathing had slowed he raised his eyes once again.

  The quickest way out of the city would be to the west, down past the old man's shop where he used to buy the things requested by the Caretaker. From there, over the bridge spanning the Park Brook that ran along the fringe of the city. But what if the Sunlord's were there? The bridge was narrow, and was bordered by the smithy and a huge, rundown industrial building. Even a single Sunlord could position himself on the bridge, blocking off any escape.

  What about the old sawmill, he thought. He knew of a place where the boarding in a wall had collapsed, and he could run through the length of the building to end up on the outskirts of the city beyond the Park Brook.

  That would be the best way. Small puffs of steam came from his throat as he broke into a run, his legs pumping like pistons, moving him swiftly through the shadows. He kept close to the side of the road, almost in the gutter, leaping over pieces of debris that had lodged there since the winter rains. His unconscious mind directed him, his eyes searching and finding a place to land his feet as he sprinted through the confined space. He ducked and weaved as the low overhanging roofs of shops loomed closer, his surroundings bathed in pool of darkness. He was running away from the fighting and the light of the blazing fire had diminished considerably. The sounds of gunfire and screaming had also quietened, as if this area had not been affected by the rolling wave of Sunlord invaders yet.

  He fought the urge to cast glances over his shoulder as he ran, his mind playing tricks on him, his ears hearing the steady thumping of marching Sunlords at his tail.

  And he ran through the troubled night, phantoms at his heels and panic in his heart, pushing on until his lungs burned like embers in his chest.

  * * *

  Josian squinted into the setting winter sun, shading his eyes with a broad hand as a shadow moved towards them. The figure's back was against the clouded sun that cast a long, skeletal shadow along the path before it.

  The old tosutri the farmer had given them stopped in its tracks, the blankets and baskets of food clattering as the beast raised it's head and snorted. The tosutri was a beast common to the farmlands, and they were used for carrying burdens or even pulling a ploughshare. It's hide was not unlike the donkey and it walked with the same gait, except the tosutri had a longer neck, its eyes spaced widely on either side of its wedge-like head. The old beast snorted, flaring its wide nostrils, as the stranger approached.

  Locantar had been following close behind the tosutri, one hand upon the worn saddle for guidance, and he too stopped. Locantar raised his thin currach brows questioningly, and for an instant Josian was convinced Locantar's milky white eyes glimmered with sight.

  "It's a boy," reported Josian as the stranger grew closer, a small cloud of raised dust in his wake. Travellers were not common along the roads ever since the invasion, and in their week long journey Josian and Locantar had not met with a single soul. The only sign they had to convince them that they were not the only sole survivors wandering along a barren lifeless plain was the occasional farmer still tending his field. It was one of these such farmers who had offered Locantar the tosutri to aid the old missionary.

  Josian pulled his heavy cloak over his shoulders as the wind at their backs picked up, reminding them it would not be long until the winter storms set in.

  "Hello there," hailed Josian.

  The small stumbling shadow of the boy stopped sharply, looking up for the first time and noticing the two dusty travellers. His eyes were dry and his breathing ragged, his footsteps dragging and leaving comma shaped scuffs on the gravel in his wake.

  Josian gasped as the boy's upturned eyes met his own. They were wild, lost eyes that reflected a pain racked soul. Just looking at the exhausted figure Josian felt the fear and desperation that was the boy's sink into his own heart.

  The boy made out the shapes of the towering, frightening looking men, catching the musky smell of the tosutri in his nostrils. He started as his exhausted mind played out the images, making them seem like grinning Sunlords, mountain-like shadows blocking out the sky as they reached forward. His heart beat tattoo in his thin chest, burning up the last reserves of his strength, as his knees buckled and he stumbled backwards.

  "Hey, are you all right?" Josian reacted quick enough to catch the limp form in his arms. The boy had fallen unconscious in his grasp, his head lolling back and his mouth wide and dry.

  "Locantar," called Josian, settling the boy in his arms and raising to his feet. "Pass me the waterbag - the kid is almost dead."

  The blind preacher had the leather waterskin in his hand by the time Josian had reached the tosutri. Together they forced a little liquid between the child's parched lips.

  Locantar felt a weight lift from his chest as the boy groaned, eyelids fluttering, as the water trickled down the side of his face. Now that the panic was past Josian had a chance to study the boy.

  He judged the child had been running for hours on end, without pause for rest or food. He saw his legs were shiny with a layer of sweat despite the winter cool and his muscles trembled and cramped. The boy's face was streaked with dirt and sweat. Josian saw the boy wore respectable clothing, and despite his current exhaustion looked well fed.

  Then what was he doing out here?

  Locantar beckoned with a bony hand. "Josian, fetch me that blanket - this boy is freezing up."

  Josian did as he was asked, and lay the thick prickly hide over the resting boy. Locantar placed the waterskin on the ground beside him and turned his white-eyed gaze to Josian.

  "He is close to the edge," he muttered. He sniffed at the air, testing it. "It is almost night. We should camp here and care for him."

  Josian nodded as he reached under the belly of the tosutri and unbuckled the harness, hauling the heavy saddle from the beast's back. He lay the pile of clothing and baskets to the ground, glancing uneasily at the blanket clad form in Locantar's lap.

  "What do you think he's doing out here? We're still two leagues out of the city."

  The other shrugged noncommittally. "He is obviously running from something...never before have I seen someone push themselves so far - but wait, he's moving."

  Surk fell back into consciousness, fitting back into his body as if it were an ill-fitting suit. He was suddenly aware of an intense ache in his chest and his legs felt as if lead weights had been embedded into the bone. The strange but not entirely unpleasant odour of the drosk hide blanket permeated his senses, the rough texture warming his skin. The few drops of water that had been placed through his lips only served to heighten his raging thirst, and his first conscious thought was to search for more. He shook his head, clearing away the cobwebs that had formed, and opened his eyes to his new surrounds.

  He saw an old man leaning over him, placing the spout of a cold waterskin to his mouth. Surk drank greedily in ragged breathless mouthfuls until his belly was full. His head was still spinning but he managed to croak a few words.

  "Who are you?"

  The old man's face was hidden in shadow but his words rung with trustworthiness.

  "I am Locantar, preacher for the almighty Abas. Might I ask who you are and what you are doing out h
ere, my son?"

  "My name is Surk, and I come from the city. Please, you've got to help me - I've got to tell the League."

  "The League of Steel?" Locantar's voice hardened. "What has happened in the city?"

  "They've come...the Sunlords."

  Locantar felt Josian hunker down beside the boy, grabbing the smaller hand in his own. The young man's brows furrowed in worry, knowing that his relatives may be in danger.

  "What have the Sunlords done?"

  "They came last night," gasped Surk, grimacing as recent memories resurfaced. "They started a fire, and shot and killed everybody."

  "By the Mother..." whispered Josian in an awed curse.

  Locantar's milky gaze bored into Surk's eyes as if burrowing into his soul. "And you were sent to fetch the League? By whom?"

  "The Caretaker, they all decided. I must go, please, let me go."

  Locantar placed a friendly, but firm, hand upon Surk's chest. "No, you cannot. The League can do nothing."

  Surk squirmed with sudden alarm.

  "No!" he cried. "I promised the Caretaker! Let me go!"

  Even Josian was having trouble keeping the boy down now. It seemed a new burst of energy had surged through Surk's bones as he was reminded of the importance of task.

  "Don't you understand?" pleaded Josian. "Locantar and I have spend the last week trying to show the League the error of their ways, and if you were to call them..."

  "The blood of many will be spilled," finished Locantar with finality.

  "It already has been," wailed Surk. "Georin, Vcoiad, the Caretaker - they all need me."

  When Josian looked up his eyes showed the beginnings of doubt. "What do we do?"

  They were both as surprised as one another when Surk doubled up, sliding from their grasp like an eel. Before Josian could blink the boy was gone, and he was left staring blankly at his empty hands.

  "Hey-" he began.

  But Surk was already away at a sprint into the evening mists. Josian leapt to his feet, cursing, as his clenching grasp caught nothing but air.

  The old man moved with surprising swiftness for his age. Josian found himself caught by the shoulder, and stopped, looking around into Locantar's ageless eyes.

  "Wait. Do not chase him, or you will exhaust him. I wouldn't be surprised if he would drive himself to death if he had no alternative."

  Josian paused, undecided. "But we can't just let him go! He will fetch the League, and will start a war."

  Locantar bowed his head sadly. "We cannot restrain him."

  "Then all our efforts last week were in vain?" Josian was incredulous now. "You're just going to sit back and watch the war that will end our race?"

  "It is not as simple as that."

  Josian glanced angrily into the darkening night. Surk was nowhere to be seen. "Then what is it?"

  "The situation has changed." Locantar seemed to be drawing back into himself, his voice becoming distant. "The whole issue has deepened - I was foolish not to see it before. You see, it is not longer a matter of morals of the currach heart, but now we are forced by another far more powerful factor. Compassion."

  Josian listened in silence as Locantar continued.

  "That boy was not acting for revenge - his strength derives from the duty he must perform for the ones he cares for. I could sense young Surk's desperation and I must sympathise with him."

  "Then we let the League fight?" Josian's voice was broken, recalling Surk's words that the Sunlords had set fire to the city.

  "The battle for peace is not over," muttered Locantar. "But we cannot stand in the way of this boy."

  Josian broke away and, in an effort to redirect anger, cast about irritably for the basket of foodstuffs.

  "We will leave some food for him, then," he said. "We can leave it away from our camp, along with some blankets, so he may take it without fear of us."

  Locantar nodded, but seemed somehow vacant, deep in thought.

  Josian set about carrying a small pile of clothing and dried strips of meat away and stacked it in a neat bundle near the base of a withered tree. He called out into the wind, announcing to the boy that he had left food for him there.

  His call was not answered, and Josian turned back to the makeshift camp. His mind was a knot of worry and he hardly paid heed to his footsteps at all.

  Surk had reminded him of his younger brother. The younger brother that he had treated with pretend annoyance, especially when he had tagged along behind, eager to be with Josian. Josian hadn't had time to see his brother grow up - he was but ten years old when he had been killed by the Sunlords.

  Again a new surge of emotions boiled within and he clenched his fists into his eyes. What were they to do? It just seemed so lost, so hopeless, as the entire world was spinning slowly but inexorably down the side of some immense whirlpool of chaos. Now even Locantar seemed doubtful - Locantar, the old wise man who had always been there to guide him. As Locantar had said, the whole question had changed now. It was all so utterly confusing, the once definite line bordering right from wrong becoming blurred.

  The cold wind buffeted against his form as he stood stock still, his eyes fixed upon some lost point on the horizon. The future was clouded in mist, and Josian felt a fear as deep as none other he had ever experienced.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Mind of the Behemoth.

  How now, a rat? Dead for a ducat, dead!

  - William Shakespeare: Hamlet.

  The door hesitated for a second, the shorting of circuitry inside sounding like the clicking of crickets.

  It reminded Shaun of the buzzing noise the synth-popcorn machines back on Earth had made.

  Myshia hammered futilely against the lip of the door with the metal butt of her pistol. The door had slid open no more than two centimetres and was stuck. Myshia's colourless eyes glinted as her gaze ran nervously over the corridor, her heart beating heavily, expecting the Sunlords to be upon them any minute.

  "Hurry up."

  Shaun did not respond. With his head bent in concentration over the wall panel he twisted a handful of wires together, jerking back suddenly as sparks flew. Cursing and blowing on his hands in frustration Shaun at last gave up.

  "The door circuit's got a lock on it," he growled, standing and reslinging his rifle. "No amount of fiddling with this panel will open it." He traced a finger over the surface of the door; brushing across the slightly raised green block lettering that read, in the swirling pattern of Hartrias tongue;

  COMMUNICATIONS LABORATORY.

  AUTHORISED ACCESS ONLY

  So close, thought Shaun. Without a proper keycard they were stuck - he had seen this sort of locking mechanism before and had not been able to master it. He shook his head as Myshia attempted to prise the narrow opening wider.

  "That won't work," said Shaun. "There's a bolt of metal as thick as your arm holding it."

  Either Myshia did not hear him, or she ignored him, for she just kept on heaving and wrenching angrily at the door.

  Shaun paced away a short distance, breathing deeply to calm his thoughts. I knew it would come to this, a small pessimistic part of his mind said. Nothing escapes Avatar.

  He mulled over these thoughts, brooding. Indeed, he had known that soon enough he would run into a door he couldn't open - a system where Avatar had control. It was just been a matter of time before they were caught. He raised his eyes and saw Myshia still working stubbornly to force the door.

  "I told you, it's locked into place. Quit wasting your energy."

  Myshia swirled on her heel, insect-like eyes blazing with emotion. It was as if a sudden change had occurred within her, a breaking out of a far stronger spirit. "Well then how do we get in?" she yelled, suddenly surprised at her own frustration. She swirled around, raising the muzzle of the pistol and squeezing off a blast.

  Shaun instinctively ducked low to the ground as the bullet ricocheted off the door, the air by his left air shattering. Taken aback, Shaun stood, recalling with intense vi
vidness the flapping, whizzing sound the bullet had made as it tore past his head. His rebuke was not long in the coming.

  "What the hell are you doing? That was stupid - "

  "Well at least I'm doing something," screeched Myshia. "You give up too easily."

  Shaun examined the damage she had done to the door; the blast had done little but scrape shallow scratch into the heavy veneer on the surface.

  "Well you're not doing a hell of a lot either," he commented wryly.

  He saw a light flicker in her eyes, saw it brighten as her face stiffened. He took an uncertain step back, watching as that light faded slowly in her eyes. Myshia's hands clenched at her sides (Shaun winced as her tightening grasp enclosed about the trigger of the pistol), the native trying with visible effort to calm herself. Then she was out of it, pulling herself from a deadlock in her mind, her mind dashed with icy cold water.

  Seeing this change in her eyes Shaun stepped forward to help.

  "Hey, are you all right? You looked as if you were about to kill me there."

  Myshia could only shake her head and shrink back from his attentions. "I'm sorry...I don't know what came over me." Indeed she did not. The sensation was fast fading now, but her actions had not been her own - it was as if her mind had taken a back seat to some other entity. Myshia shook her head, wanting to clear it of the matter. "Can't we hurry?"

  The feeling of apathy had been cleansed from his veins. Whatever had shown itself briefly in Myshia's eyes had been strong enough to pump new energy into to his exhausted bones. He stood back, eyes narrowing.

  "The secondary lock is too strong to force," he mused. "If we could..." He was about to say more, but stopped, seeing Myshia cock her head as if catching a sound. That heavy feeling of dread returned like concrete filling his gut as he to heard it. He spun about as the heavy clanking grew louder, rapidly approaching. "Now we're screwed."