The Sun Sword

by Lexxie Couper

  She couldn’t fight them. There were too many. “Gotcha, cunt,” the man with the knife sneered. She pressed her back to the crumbling brick wall behind her, her stare darting from one salivating, leering man to the other. Five of them. Five. Her ankle screamed at her and she knew it was broken. How was she to fight them with a broken ankle?

  You just do, Kala. You never give up. Ever. After all these years you know what to do. Shut out the pain. Kill it. Or let it kill you.

  “Gonna have some fun now, cunt.” The man stroked the edge of the knife with his thumb, his face splitting into an obscene grin. His companions guffawed, two of them taking a step closer to her. They eyed the steel pipe in her hand. She’d blinded one of their number three days ago when they’d first stumbled upon her and their hesitation was evident. But she was outnumbered. And trapped. And injured.

  “Gonna fill you up to the eyeballs, cunt,” the man went on. He didn’t move. He didn’t have to. He knew she was caught as well as she did. He knew she was…

  She was screaming. The old woman was screaming.

  “Please, please!” the old man cried, his kind, sweet eyes red with tears. “Please, don’t hurt her.” The man with the metal arm hit him, smashed him in the side of the head and he fell, blood bursting from his nose. Kala stared at the old man lying motionless on the ground, at the blood pooling beneath his head, at the tears slipping from his blank eyes.

  “Why do you cunts always scream?” the man with the metal arm said. He stepped over the old man and grabbed a fistful of her hair, forcing her to look up at him. “As if it ever…”

  She was chained to the wall. She yanked on the rusty length, her torn, bloody hands slipping over the steel. Five nights, five days, chained and starved and used. Five nights, five days. Who knew how many more to come? A sob threatened to escape her but she bit it back. Fucked if she was going to cry. Fuck them, if they thought chaining her up in an old abattoir would make her cry. Or scream. Or make it easy for them. If they wanted to stick their dicks between her legs again they’d have to…

  Laughter. His smug laugh cut into her agony and turned it to something darker. Hotter. The bastard leered down at her, shoving his flaccid cock into his trousers before kicking her in the ribs. She ground her teeth, her scream trapped in her throat. “Try an’ enjoy it next time, will ya?” He spat, the wad of phlegm landing on her cheek. “Ya takin’ the fun outta it all.”

  She glared up at him. Her blood ran down her face, into her eyes, coating them in a stinging red film. “Maybe if you had a dick I would,” she snarled. “Instead of that limp growth dangling between your legs. Seriously, I’ve seen dogs better hung than you.”

  Indignant disbelief twisted his face and he swung his foot into her side again.

  She grabbed his ankle before the toe of his boot could slam into her ribs, the chains around her wrist shearing into her flesh. She didn’t care. She didn’t feel the pain. Only the burning fury. Fury was all she had now. All she needed.

  He stumbled back a step, throwing his arms in wild arcs in an effort not to fall, jerking his ankle free of her grip. “Why you fucken’…” He didn’t finish, at least not with words. His foot smashed into her stomach, her chest. He stomped on her hands, her fingers. She heard them break but didn’t feel the pain. Only the burn of her rage. Only the…

  “The fire.”

  Uloch’s whisper stabbed into her ear. She jerked backward, Zroya’s arms clamping tighter around her chest. Sweat trickled down her face, into her eyes, over her cracked lips. She stared at the old prophet, agonized torment consuming her. A lifetime of the vilest abuse, the most horrific existence. From the first to the last. He’d made her live them again. Her nightmares. Her memories. Her truth. A lifetime of memories she’d denied every minute of every day. Memories she would give anything to destroy. Memories she believed Torin had extinguished with his kisses, his touch. Fury razed through her. Turned her blood to molten hate. “You bastard,” she gasped.

  “The Sol prophecy sees me differently, Kala Rei.” He brushed a tangled strand of her hair from her forehead with the back of one bloody knuckle. “It sees me as the deliverer of the Sun Sword’s true wielder.”

  Zroya chuckled behind her, grinding his dick into the base of her spine. “That would be me, bitch,” he murmured in her ear.

  Uloch smiled, his stare boring into Kala’s eyes. “It has taken a lifetime, Kala Rei, to make you what you are. From your birth to this very moment.”

  She sucked in a slow breath, her scalding hate wrought by the torturous memories churning through her. “And what’s that, old man?”

  His smile stretched wider. “Mine.”

  She snarled. “Fuck you.”

  He slid his white stare to Zroya and back to Kala again. “It is time.” He skimmed the back of his knuckle over her cheek, an obscenely tender gesture that made her gut twist. “For the One Who Burns and the False Fire to stand before the Sword.”

  His face went slack, his eyes clouded, there was a dull pop and Kala’s body suddenly erupted in a million pinpricks of agony and light.

  The Sun Sword

  Chapter Seven

  She gasped, every molecule tearing apart as the space around her folded.

  Nothingness suffocated her. Black pressure blinded her. She screamed, the silent sound torn from her throat, piercing into her ears. Her atoms disintegrated and she became the space, the nothing.

  And then she opened her eyes and gazed at the cavernous hollow in which she stood.

  Smooth rock walls rose high above her in a gentle curve, so high shadowy blackness hid their apex. Their surface glowed a muted golden light that seemed to emanate from the stone itself and illuminate little.

  Where…? Kala pulled a quick breath, icy air streaming down her throat into her lungs.

  A ripple ran over her flesh, pinching her nipples tight and, despite the chill, a simmering heat unfurled deep in the pit of her core, licking at every nerve ending in her body like singeing embers of a growing force tasting her from the inside out.

  She frowned, a soft beat fluttering in her neck. What was going on?

  The beat quickened, filling her throat, thumping in her ears. She gazed at the glowing walls, their stretching span hurting her eyes. It was like looking at a lie. No space could be so immense and yet so oppressive. Another ripple coursed over her, making her nipples ache and her hair stand on end. The freezing air turned colder, even as the embers in her body grew hotter. Turned to fingers of heat that seeped into her existence. Seeking, seeking…what?

  What is this?

  “The Sun Sword calls its destiny.” Uloch’s elated proclamation came through the heat building within her. She flinched, the sound of his voice faint and yet somehow amplified in the cavernous corridor. All sound cut into her ears, each noise, no matter how soft, sharper in clarity than ever before. She could hear Zroya’s shallow, rapid breaths slip past his nasal hairs, over the skin of his nostrils. She could hear Uloch’s heart beating inside his chest. She could hear his blood surging through his veins, being sucked into his black heart and spat out again.

  Heightened beyond possibility, every one of her senses assailed her. She could smell Zroya’s clammy sweat beading on his forehead. She could smell the old dried blood rusting on Uloch’s cloak. She could taste the ice on the stagnant air, the metallic mix of blood and snot in Zroya’s clotting nose. With each step she took, she could feel the vibrations of the two men’s footfalls tickling the soles of her feet. With each step deeper into the darkness, she could see the shadows around her writhe and shrink from the glowing walls.

  No, you can’t. You’re going insane. It’s all been too much, too much and your brain has finally—

  Heat rolled through her, a wave of unadulterated warmth that stole her breath.

  God, she was burning. Burning from within. Something had set her alight. Something unseen. Something…

  She stood still, the flames devouring her soul. Devouring her.

  Is
it…?

  The junction of her thighs grew heavy. Wet. Hot.

  Is it…?

  She sucked in an icy breath, her lungs on fire. White-hot pressure curled around her heart, into her core, and her lips parted.

  Oh, Torin. I can feel it. Her sex throbbed. Her palms itched. Her blood roared in her ears. It’s here. I can feel—

  “We move.”

  At Uloch’s utterance, barely audible through the heat devouring her, Zroya shoved Kala forward. She stumbled from her frozen stance and a scalding fist buried in her belly. Holding tight.

  Pulling her. Taking her.

  They walked through the cavern, their footfalls like the sound of cracking ice, the fist in her belly squeezing tighter. More insistent. Demanding.

  Demanding what? What is it? What is going on?

  No answer came to her. Instead, a prickling weight pressed at the back of her head and she lifted her face to the walls around her.

  Row after row of men stared down at her. Massive warriors carved into the rock, watching the perverse procession beneath them with calm faces and empty eyes. She gazed at them, noting their menacing physiques, the swords of different lengths and widths that they each gripped, the various images of blazing suns on various parts of their bodies. Kala felt their lifeless stares raze her flesh and, without understanding how, she knew immediately these men were the fallen Sol. The warriors of whom Torin had spoken, killed by a single command from the Oracle.

  A tingle traced up her spine and her already aching nipples puckered painfully. They studied her, the carved Sol. Assessed her. She didn’t know how, but they did. They weighed her and measured her as she walked beneath their forms. She frowned, studying them in return, and a deep sense of grief blossomed in her chest, rivaling the fist in her gut. Oh, God, Torin…

  His name filled her head, flowed through her body like the caress of cool water over parched lips.

  Her throat grew thick and she turned her stare from the warriors. Their grief called her, recognized her and she bore it. She knew what they wanted her to do. The furious ache in her soul for the man she loved told her so. The hideous memories Uloch had awoken in her told her as well. She needed to keep her focus. The scalding fist in her belly tugged with greater urgency, the pulse in her sex throbbed with stronger need—Come. Hurry.

  “The blade shall mark the One,” Uloch whispered behind her, the excited words tripping over each other. “And the One shall mark the blade, and the fire shall burn and the sightless one shall become one with the power and the worlds shall feel his ascension and…”

  A soft tone threaded over the old man’s feverish voice, low and almost inaudible but there all the same. It brushed Kala’s mind like particles of mist. She shook her head. Frowned.

  “…and the one who stood alone will bleed and the blood with give birth to the fire and the truth and the death will give birth to the…”

  The tone grew louder. Kala scrunched her face. It was in her ear. In her head. It was—

  “…the blade will sing and the song will call and the One Who Burns will see…”

  The tone rang louder. Louder. Like a million voices all singing as one. A choir of voices singing one word. Drowning Uloch’s words in a pure, golden note.

  Oh, Torin. What is going on?

  The thought barely penetrated the rising tone. She swayed on her feet, the sound of Torin’s name in her head making her stomach clench.

  Torin.

  His name echoed in her mind again. Rising over Uloch’s ranting drone. Threading through the pure tone. Through the singing. A complementing accompaniment that made her sex throb harder.

  Torin.

  “…blood on stone, blood in stone, the One Who Burns will know true fury…”

  Torin.

  “…will unleash and the one who stood alone will…”

  The singing rose higher. Louder. Louder. A deafening choir of infinite harmony. Kala lifted her hands, desperate to press them to her ears, to block out the sound, the pure, terrifying sound, but Zroya rammed his gun harder into her back. His fingers dug into her biceps and he jerked her backward a little, enough to make her footfalls stumble. “Uh-uh.”

  His smug reproach barely penetrated her head. The singing filled it, filled her, and now she could distinguish the words of the mellifluous song.

  Here here here here here

  One word, a million voices, singing a single word. Yet through it all, overlaying each note, each crescendo and each diminuendo Kala could hear a lone voice speaking one name. One name, spoken with such ethereal strength Kala could barely draw breath—Torin.

  She lifted her head, raising her gaze to the carved Sol watching her grim march through the temple. Their grief still pressed upon her, an infinity of loss and despair for their last warrior. She followed their frozen presence, studied each one as she walked beneath them. Marked each one. Just as they marked her.

  Here here here here here.

  The song grew louder, more rapturous. Exultant. Kala’s feet moved of their own accord, the burning fist in her belly no longer pulling her, but guiding her. No longer drawing her through the temple, but welcoming her.

  Torin.

  Torin.

  She studied the carved Sol staring down at her, letting their grief seep into her core, taking it as her own. Until she came to the last one and her heart leapt into her throat.

  Torin.

  He stood at the end of the silent procession, his image chiseled into the glowing stone, his powerful energy undeniable even in such lifeless medium. In his right hand rested a blazing sun, the golden light of the walls seeming to radiate from its spherical shape. In his left hand rested a bleeding heart, drops of carved blood trickling down his wrist and forearm as if to fall from his elbow onto the massive black stone altar shrouded in shadows beneath.

  The Oracle’s altar.

  “The Sun Sword,” Uloch cried, and a chill shot through Kala.

  She blinked, and just like that the inferno in her body was extinguished, the singing in her head was silenced. Gone. She frowned, the pit of her belly knotting. Had they ever been there?

  Yes, they had, Kala. They had. If not, you truly have gone insane.

  The thought chilled her further and she frowned again, staring up at the image of Torin before her. He looked down at her, his eyes piercing and commanding, and her heart cracked with utter despair. “Torin,” she whispered.

  Unable to look at him any longer, she dropped her gaze to the dark altar before her. The shadows seemed to move there, charged with life beyond her sight and understanding, and an empty longing curled around her heart.

  She was alone. Wishing for life where she knew there was none, aching for an ending that could never be. Even the euphoric singing had become ominous silence.

  She pulled an icy breath and let her grief feed her rage. Uloch had brought her to the weapon she had been trained to wield. Soon she would use it to end it all.

  “The One Who Burn’s mercy shall be just,” she murmured on a breath, a dull heat beginning to unfurl deep within her once more. “And bloody.”

  A shift behind her jerked her stare from the shadow-shrouded altar and she watched the prophet step past her, his gaze fixed on the stone formation. “And the spurned brother shall find the Sword,” he intoned, his arms wide, a dead rabbit in his left hand, “and the One Who Burns shall wake it from its cold slumber and all hearts shall beat again.”

  “Well, all hearts except yours, Uloch,” a deep voice said, and Kala gasped as Torin stepped from the shadows of the altar into the light. His eyes burned grey fire and his lips curled into a cold smile. “And the walking corpse who dares touch Kala Rei.”

  His left arm moved so quickly it was just a blur. Something small and silver shot from his hand, slicing the air with a hiss. There was a wet thud, a sharp crack and, as if it had suddenly sprouted from his body, Torin’s gutting knife hilt jutted from Uloch’s chest.

  “No!” Zroya screamed.

  K
ala spun, smashing her fist into his face. The man’s head snapped backward, blood spurting from his nose. Glistening beads fanned above his head in a grotesque crimson arc before, eyes murderous, handsome face distorted with fury, he locked his stare on hers and slammed the barrel of his de-atomizer to her forehead. “Die, cunt.”

  “Cease.”

  The single word cut the chaos like a detonation, and Kala couldn’t move.

  Uloch stepped up beside her, those hideous white eyes of his shimmering iridescent silver light. He lifted his hand and traced his fingertips down the side of her face with gentle care. “She is needed.” He swung his head slowly toward Torin, who stood frozen—mid-lunge, sword drawn—before the Sol altar. “You,” he continued, lips pulling into a cold, smug smile, “are not.”

  The pressure trapping Kala vanished and everything moved again. Everything. Including the blade buried in Uloch’s chest.

  It burst free of its fleshy sheath, sucking blood and ichor with it. It moved so fast Kala could not track its projection. The blade shot through the air, sinking hilt deep into Torin’s throat.

  She screamed.

  Torin’s eyes grew wide. Blood bubbled past his lips, bright red and frothy. His stare swung to her, his bloody lips parted and, knife buried in his neck, he fell backward onto the stone altar.

  “No!”

  Kala leapt for him, every fibre of her being denying what she saw. Refusing to process it. No. It couldn’t be true. No.

  Behind her, Uloch laughed, the sound high and wild. “A physical weapon will not kill me, Sol,” he crowed. “I am the prophet. I transcend the physical, the laws of reality, a gift from the old gods my short-sighted, thoughtless brother should have mentioned while cursing my name.” He laughed again, a gleeful screech of smug triumph. “And as the prophecy has foretold, the lone warrior’s blood will be spilled and the last of the Sol will be no more!”