Wahala scowled. She could feel the grass under her boots—she didn’t like it. Where was the sharp stone? The ragged cracks in the ground making a man's feet blister and bleed with each step, marking a red trail across the land? She wanted to return home. Many others did as well. But the bracer, Mal'Bal's gift from the dark between the stars, had opened the man’s mind to a new opportunity: evolution, destruction, a change from tradition.
Wahala looked at her legs, examining her joints and how they gleamed. They were her only modification, her only sacrifice. Rage enflamed her. The entire cult had been dragged into folly. They reveled in death and the lack of an afterlife. They worshiped the process of decay. Mal’Bal would take that away. He would take even them away when the time came. They were marching with their chins up, right into the maw of omnicide. To think, her first sacrifice had been done in the name of Mal'Bal when she could have instead done the mutilation in remembrance of her ancestors.
The leader of the cult caught the buzzing insect and snuffed its life. He turned and beckoned Wahala to stand at his side. Obediently, she complied, hiding the way she looked upon him when his back was turned. Mal'Bal pointed to the lands of the North. The horizon was green and pure grass.
“There, Wahala my handmaiden, my righteous. Beyond we’ll find the path to the end. Beyond are many who will be ours to purify.”
Wahala bobbed, not foolish enough to reply. Mal'Bal's mood could shift in a heartbeat. She’d seen him rub shoulders with a man, to only a few seconds later disembowel him. She locked onto his eyes: a mistake. His hypnotic stare was wild, his pupils only pinpricks. It was as if Mal'Bal was attempting to force his mad thoughts into Wahala.
“We’ll end all life as I have ended the life of this creature.” He held out his hand where remnants of the bug fluttered to the ground.
“Yes, Golden Agony.” Wahala stated with a bow.
Mal'Bal pushed past her to face his large gathering of gold cult members, their entire people. Thousands of mutilated men and women looked to him, many with praise. But now, Wahala observed, there were many with faces like stone—those unhappy with Mal'Bal's decision to leave their lands, disgusted by Mal'Bal's delusion.
“Born from a golden womb, was I.” Mal'Bal spoke, voice like the rumbling of thunder. The veins on his face and scalp pulsed with the dark energies of the Apex gems infused into his body. “You know of my mother, the previous Queen Priestess. Fatherless was I. Her insides were given to her, already prepared to bear fruit. Given by the dead lands themselves! By my birth was she torn in two! From blood, bone, and gold was I born. You knew then as you know now, I was to lead our people!”
Many cult members raised their arms, screaming into the sky. Some fell to the ground, rolling and wailing. So entranced were some by the man, they immediately pulled out scythes and flayed themselves. In disgust and outrage, Wahala watched as they ritualized in the Land of Light. Her body trembled. Spread throughout the crowd, many others had the same angry reaction. But caught up in his own words, Mal'Bal didn’t notice.
“We’ll spread ourselves beyond the borders that have confined us! We’ll cover the entire world in blood and darkness! Depravity will wash as a flood through homes and cities, eradicating life!” Mal'Bal leaned forward as if about to whisper a secret. The men and women went quiet, eyes wide with anticipation.
“I have seen our future.” Mal'Bal whispered out. The cult was as silent as the stars. “By this device I was granted a vision!” The man lifted his hand. A metal bracer gleamed in the sunlight. “Through my inheritance, was my mind focused! I saw what we were to do!”
The cult, even Wahala, perked their ears, curiosity staying their voices.
“I’ll bring movement to which is inanimate! I’ll reverse the order of existence! All organic life will die and be replaced by a purer creation! I’ll become a God to a nation of anti-life! You... will be my heralds!”
The cult stayed silent, trying to imagine how the man could accomplish such a feat. They knew he had the power of necromancy on his side, but how was one to create anti-life?
A voice spoke out from the crowd. “But we are alive! Will you kill us as well? Have we fallen so far from our traditions?”
The crowd turned, trying to find the speaker. Mal’Bal’s breathing grew shallow, his face one of a predator sniffing blood.
People parted, revealing a wrinkled elder leaning on a cane made of carved bone from her dead husband’s spine. “This is folly I say! Heresy! Anti-life belongs to the dead roaming our home!” She coughed, stomping with a clawed golden foot. Others around her nodded.
Mal'Bal slid past Wahala like smoke, smelling of sour rot and rage, and approached the old woman, his hulking form overshadowing her. “It’s a new age.” he spoke, muttering under his breath as if talking to himself. “There are new rules to abide by. Tradition won’t let us become more. All we do is stagnate and die!”
The elder stepped back, pursing her lips defiantly. “Death is what we worship! We embrace it! A Queen Priestess would never allow this!”
Mal’Bal loomed over her, hands twitching like large vices. His back and his jaw stuck out. “Born from a Queen was I!” he hissed. “I am more than a Queen ever could be! I am the mandate of the earth itself!”
Many in the cult cheered, few dared hiss. Mal’Bal’s arm blurred out, catching the elder’s neck. “If you embrace death so much, then I grant you exaltation!”
There was a snap as he broke the woman’s neck. There were cries of outrage among the crowd. Wahala staggered back, shocked. Mal'Bal ignored the sounds.
“Those who oppose the cult, hold us back! Will you listen to her, or the earth itself? I am the earth!” He shook his bracer-adorned arm. “I was verified by the heavens! I am the will of our people! Of the world!”
There was silence. Many were nodding, eyes like blank sheep, worshipful. Wahala’s stomach churned. What was happening? Her entire world, all she’d believed in, was turning upside-down.
Mal’Bal motioned for an Apex gem to be brought to him. A teenage girl carried one forward, grabbing it from a supply cart. Mal’Bal lifted the green stone into the air.
“Behold the power granted to me by the skies! For death!” he screamed.
Suddenly, his bracer came to life. It contorted and spread, metal growing and covering his arm. The cult members jumped away from him, scared and cowering. Was this some form of new spell the man had learned?
Metal encased the golden body, forming a suit that covered Mal'Bal's chest, legs, and other arm. When it was over, not one bit of Mal'Bal could be seen. The entire man was enclosed in dark metal armor, a metal frill growing from the back of his skull-shaped helm. Intricate, curved designs ran along the arm braces, shin guards, chest piece, and head covering. They glowed golden.
In his hand, the Apex gem glowed as well. It thrummed to the same beat as Mal'Bal's heavy breathing. He waved his hand, pointing to a covered cart. Dumbfounded cult members pulled the cloth off, exposing boulders of various sizes. Mal'Bal stomped forward and his suited arm shot out, jamming the Apex gem into the pile. All was still. Wahala licked her lips. Then the pile of stones moved, grating and cracking, rolling off the cart. Cult members dove to the sides, screaming and falling back.
Wahala watched in awe as the boulders piled one over another, forming the basic shape of a ten-meter man. It wobbled and straightened out, animate. By the power of the bracer, Mal'Bal had constructed a crude—living—stone idol that towered above the crowd. An evil feeling came over the area. The form shuffled and Wahala gasped.
Something was happening to Mal'Bal. She turned and watched as his suit collapsed, hiding within itself and returning to the bracer. His head, the only flesh left to him, was covered in sweat. Although the bracer was once more normal, the stone golem stayed upright. Still alive.
“I have transcended to Godhood.” Mal'Bal whispered. “I bring existence to new creation. Life to which was not meant to have life, formed from any material. I am a limitless… God.�
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He spread his arms and looked to the sky. “We will end this world and bring about a new age.”
Mal'Bal walked to his golem; his creation. Around him, cult members fell to their knees in worship. Wahala stepped back; disgust, terror, and betrayal hammering against her chest.
“It’s time to change our ways.” the leader spoke. “We’re no longer a cult of stagnancy. We’re harbingers, bringers of the end.”
He beckoned Wahala over. Startled, she approached him.
“My butterfly.” he purred. “I’ll need you to learn words in the ancient tongue. If many are to ritualize in our campaign, you’ll be the one to join gold to limb. I cannot waste energy and time on such trivial matters. I shall make you my…acolyte.”
Wahala was agape. She didn’t know whether to be insulted at the mention that ritualization was trivial, or feel the rush of power at the responsibility given to her. Necromancy! Mal’Bal had made only himself privy to the art, hiding the knowledge from all others.
“Come,” he spoke, “I’ll teach you some words. Our people are cutting themselves now.”
Mal'Bal stopped and put a hand to the belly of the stone man. He touched it in loving wonder and looked to the horizon where lay the lands of humanity. His eyes, as wild as ever, vibrated with a promise to bring death to all.
“Anti-life.” he whispered.
CHAPTER SIX:
Fate Wrought
—Erstwhile in a day gone by, oft stalwart men die: not by blight, sword, nor rod, but by Aluxim, the Baron-God. A warning: be wary of a pillar of light, to hither transport you to endless night. Venerate Aluxim, shall the weary chant, venerate, venerate! Yet I shall reply, armor-donned God will I not obey, for the sake of my freedom, I can’t.—
-Old forgotten song, tuneless, believed to have come from the 14th Era, roughly 20,000 years prior to modern age (E.E.)
A gurgling scream full of pain and terror disturbed the dead sky. Finn pulled away from black rock, shocked by the noise that’d come from his throat. He was a baby, violently born into a hot, unforgiving world. Everything he'd ever known: gone.
His skin, like one large swollen welt, refused to stretch. Invisible fingers were pinching the sides of his brain, rolling the meat between knobbed digits. The headache in his temples flooded his senses and he staggered about, dodging steam as if the ground was spitting at him. Heat waves the size of mountains rippled the landscape, distorting reality. Air thick as mud and hot as a furnace forced its way down his throat. He fell, tearing the skin on one knee. He let out a moan. His mind—his mind couldn't take what he'd seen. How could one man have caused so much death?
An image of Gunther flashed through Finn's mind, already dead yet still stumbling about. He dry-heaved, tasting sour bile. Hot, it was way too hot. Half-running, half-falling, Finn entered the shade of a stone spire shooting to the heavens like an enormous tooth. There was no change in temperature. Everywhere he looked, he couldn’t see signs of life, not even cacti, birds, or bugs. The only movement came from steam, trickles of lava pouring from rock.
Finn’s mind huddled into the corners of its own depths. Nozgull the EarthBreaker: how had the man obtained such power? What Nozgull had demonstrated—it changed everything. The scales of Lenova were tipped. Magic and armies, artillery and navies, they were nothing to a man who could create clouds from gems. Memory of the Star-Child shimmered before Finn like the heat waves vibrating the landscape. Nozgull held his arm up, showing a piece of armor—a bracer—his yellow teeth glinting in the heat. His eyes mocked Finn.
“This. This fell from the sky to land at my feet. I was chosen by the heavens themselves!”
There was something about that bracer. Nozgull had shown it off, like a knight brandishing a beautiful sword. Was that what had given the man such power? If the article had fallen from the sky, what could have manufactured the event? Why send it to Nozgull, a man full of greed? A murderer.
Rage engulfed Finn for all the miners who'd died. They’d struggled so much, fought so hard, just to stay alive. Then with the wave of a hand, Nozgull swept it all away. He’d even taken Goblin. Finn howled into the air, his voice weak. Why had Finn made friends with the boy? He’d taken the risk, promised himself he'd watch the younger cave-diver knowing full-well Goblin could die in the mines. Yet fate was too strong a thing to change. Danger had found them in the end.
Helplessness boiled within his veins, forcing his muscles to clench and his burned skin to throb in agony. What could he do? He spun in place. There was nothing but black rock stacked and poised, ready to cut him to ribbons. Spines pointed to the sky in accusation, bristling in curved rows like petrified liquid explosions. The Slaglands, he was lost in the Slaglands. Panic squeezed his chest and his stomach muscles clenched. The Slaglands meant death. He was going to die, the meat on his bones slow-roasted, peeling back to reveal bone cracking under heat. He could already smell it; the cooking flesh sliding off him. He wanted to giggle, the edge of madness tempting him into an easy slide down into the dark.
But his cave-diver training fought back, assessing the situation. Think Finn, what do you have? Finn patted himself, grabbing his cave-diver belt. His fingers ran over the satchel hanging from his right side. He tore it open. Inside, were various stones Finn had stored for the day's work, a job he'd never do. Eight Aquamarine Tears waited within, staring back at him. Water!
In frantic greed, he stuffed one of the stones into his mouth and sucked as hard as he could. A small cold trickle hit his throat and he cried out in relief. Standing in the shade of the large stone spire he closed his eyes, drawing on the stone with relish. It wasn't a lot. No, it wasn't nearly enough. But it would do for a while.
He opened his eyes and continued to riffle through the bag: four lumps of Miner’s Pumice, an empty parchment, and a coal pencil. He searched his clothes to see if there was anything else. His eyes were drawn to the small wristband on his arm, Goblin's gift to him. It would have one day paid for his freedom. The solar gem shone in the sun, its white surface flawless. It caused something to stir within Finn, an emotion that’d only previously come to him with his desire to see Lenova: determination.
Goblin was still alive—had to be. Nozgull was keeping him a slave. But Finn couldn’t save him, he was lost in the Slaglands. Adding to the problem, there was something wrong with the terrain, as if the air was heavy-laden with a curse. The sun wasn't changing position. It hung perfectly at the center of the sky, giving no indication of his bearings. In the time Finn had been underneath the stone spire, the rock's shadow hadn’t wavered even a fraction of a hairs-width. He scratched a line at the edge of the shadow with a stone shard, then watches it obsessively. What seemed like an hour passed and his body grew heavier and heavier in the heat. The shadow did not shrink or grow. The Slaglands, it seemed, was timeless.
With no indication of a way out and without the help of the sky, Finn spun in place, knowing his next decision would determine whether he'd die or not. Looking one direction, Finn could see more black spires like the one he stood under. He was unsure of whether it was the correct path, but he knew the rocks would provide shade. He clenched his jaw, closed his belt satchel, and took a step into the blistering sunlight.
Finn trudged the land as an endless wanderer. Vats of smoldering lava bubbled out from natural terraces, layered like stacked black tubs. Thick sludge rose to the surface, spilling to the steps below, then was swallowed by jagged cervices. The lava waterfalls hissed, greeting Finn as he hobbled past, sucking on his Aquamarine Tear. Welcome stranger. We've never seen your kind before.
Over a sea of waved hillocks and unnatural cliffs Finn walked. For all its danger and lethality, the Slaglands was a wonder. How had it been created? A massive volcano? No, one volcano couldn’t span such a distance and change the landscape so drastically.
As he hiked beside a sheer wall of rock with his shirt over his head, Finn took a break, marveling at the sight. The wall, possibly eighty-meters tall, looked like a large frozen wa
ve in mid-movement. Finn put a blistered hand on the burning-hot facade. It was perfectly smooth. He imagined a castle standing on the spot. The wall could have been the remains of a cathedral the size of a city. He spotted the faint outline of a form burned into the surface. Was it a beast with tentacles coming from its head or perhaps a woman with splayed hair? Finn tore his gaze away, spitting out his second Aquamarine Tear. Not wanting to tarry long, he continued. A macabre, haunting feeling trailed after him.
Finn passed open lava tubes resembling the shed skin of snakes abandoned on the ground. They were large enough for armies to march through. He traversed spires and stones that were melded back, as if once liquid. Even though his Sponge-Marble sandals were designed for walking in hot places and protecting his soles, they weren't strong enough for the continuous stomping through volcanic rock. Chips and nicks were appearing and Finn knew if even one of the two sandals broke, he would no longer be able to continue and would die in the Slaglands.
Anxiety mounted in him as he spat out another dried Aquamarine Tear. The pebble, once blue, was now gray and could have passed off for any other common stone. There were only four left. He knew he'd gone the wrong way, but it was too late. If he changed direction, he would potentially go in circles.
Finn walked on, body sagging with exhaustion and the weight of the sun’s heat. Whether he was heading deeper into the slag or toward its edge, he didn’t know. He rested in the shade of a rock, using his shirt as an ineffective barrier to help stifle the heat of the ground. Meters away a wide stream of lava ran by, hypnotizing him to sleep.
The heat bent and broke through Finn’s scalp, piercing his skull and cooking his head. He was being roasted alive. With eyes squinted half-shut, he nearly staggered into a vent, sure the hole—resembling a well—led to some deep magma-filled chasm. Finn pulled out his seventh Aquamarine Tear. They weren't doing him any good. They didn’t have enough water. Not enough... How many days? Two? Three? Perhaps still only one? There was no way to tell time. He was going to die.
SunRider: Book 1 (The SunRider Saga) Page 6