SunRider: Book 1 (The SunRider Saga)

by Hohmann, Rafael

  Finn caught himself whispering, apologizing to Goblin. Turning to ask the boy why he wasn't responding, Finn saw he was alone. He neared a steep hill and to his weakened state, it looked like a mountain. His body shook, trying to cry without moisture. He sucked at his last Aquamarine Tear, tongue swollen enough to protrude between his cracked bleeding lips. The stone was empty; had been for a long time. There was no way he could return the way he’d come. He focused on the hill in front of him. Like a dying animal determined to go on a little longer, Finn fell to his hands and knees and crawled up. The skin touching black rock burned, but Finn no longer felt it.

  With conscience fading in and out, Finn made it to the top. His eyesight cleared and he witnessed the full scope of what he'd climbed. The hill was no sole mass, but a ring curving to his right and left: a full circle. Turning in place, he could see for kilometers in every direction across the Slaglands. The entire landscape curved as massive concentric rings, or frozen ripples in water. The tall stone waves and spires, like castle walls and towers, all leaned away from the area Finn stood on. The rivers of lava, the rocks—everything—looked as if made and pushed away from this spot. And at the other side of the hill—no, the lip of the crater—he spotted a shape.

  His mind had to have been playing tricks on him, for in the middle of the basin was a man, arms outstretched in greeting. In a movement Finn knew looked ridiculous—it couldn't have been a man down there—he raised a hand and waved. The form didn’t respond. A stone, it was a stone.

  His knees wobbling, Finn staggered to the epicenter, the heart of the Slaglands. His tongue tried to move and form words, but only quivered. He wanted to speak, to laugh out. Of all the directions he could have gone, he'd chosen the worst way. Coming closer to the mysterious mound, he made out more detail. The center pushed up, like a stack of boulders forming a platform, and there was something on top of it.

  He slid the last few feet and fell forward, body protesting that it had nothing left to give; no energy, no water, and no hope. He had to see the center though, the core of the Slaglands. He forced himself to his feet and walked to the mound. When he was close enough, his cracked mouth dropped and he wheezed out in shock. If he could have, he would've shouted. It was a man! Well, the rough form of one, as if chiseled from volcanic rock, or fossilized.

  To Finn, it looked to be kneeling, hands outstretched to the heavens, close without touching, as if pleading with the skies or pointing to them. Where the face would have been, a crack ran down the center. A tiny rivulet of lava poured out, down across the chest. The scene was...holy. Finn couldn't comprehend it.

  Silence abounded around him; even the hot wind died down. He climbed the pile and stood near the form. It was the size of a man. Could it have been human? If so... what had it been doing here, in the center of a crater?

  A glint caught Finn's eye and he studied the stone man's arm. Leaning in—careful to not touch the thin line of lava—he examined what he saw. Partially covered by volcanic rock and meshed with the figure was a... Finn fell off the stack of boulders, landing on his back. He tried speaking.

  “N—no! It can't be!” he rasped out.

  There on the man's wrist was a bracer. Not just any bracer, but a thick, wide, metal one like Nozgull's. The bracer of power. The bracer of a Star-Child.

  Shaking his head, Finn pushed himself up, his mind roiling and pulsing with heat exhaustion. His heart hammered in irregular pulse. A bracer in the middle of the Slaglands, resting on the statue of a man. Could the man have been a Star-Child? Could the man have caused an explosion big enough to create the Slaglands? If Nozgull’s ability to move gems came from his bracer, then had the bracer on the statue held power to terraform the landscape? Finn couldn't fathom the force necessary to achieve such a feat.

  But the Slaglands had been around for forever. Stoneworkers in the Crust with the skill to detect age in rock told that the Slaglands had been created many centuries back. If it were true...had Star-Children existed long ago? Finn held his head between his burned hands. Too much, it was all too much to process. Nozgull once more shimmered before Finn, repeating the same words as he had back at the miner's camp.

  “I was chosen by the heavens themselves!”

  Finn revisited Gunther's death. Remembered the bully punching him for saying he wanted to leave the mines and see the world. Remembered his desire to be something more. Goblin had supported that dream.

  “By the power granted to me by fate, I forge my future!”

  Finn narrowed his eyes, his focus on the bracer. His heart beat faster, the lava pouring from the stone man's face glowed with welcome, and the air thrummed with potential. With a mental apology, Finn leaned against the stone arm, putting all his frail weight on it. The arm shattered, launching fragments of rock and droplets of lava. Finn howled as a drop hit his face with a sizzle and bounced to the side. He fell, still on top of the severed arm, and rolled off the mound. The rest of the stone man cracked and fell apart like brittle ash, scattering around him.

  Finn rolled to his side, wheezing and choking on his depleted Aquamarine Tear. He spat it out and sat up. He’d crushed the arm into powder. The bracer waited in the dust, shining as if from a jeweler's store. Durable—maybe unbreakable?

  Finn picked up the dark smoky-gray object, awed. It was long, as if it would fit from the wrist to a fingers-length away from elbow. It was also heavy and solid all around—it didn’t clasp over the forearm like an archer’s bracer, but slid from over the hand. Overlapping pointed plates went along its back as if scaled armor on a beast. Strange runes indented the metal—inexplicable symbols. Finn found a word carved on its edge.

  Akuun

  He recognized the letters but not the language. Having only basic training in reading and writing, Finn could scribble out granite deposit, diamond mine, emeralds are rare—rudimentary sentences in standard Lenovan. This was not Lenovan. Was it a name? He didn't know.

  Holding the bracer, he was faced with the decision on whether or not to put it on. Nozgull said he'd been chosen—that his bracer had landed in front of him. Finn had obviously not been chosen—but he had found one. Did that make him a Star-Child?

  Goblin's terrified face returned to his mind. He had run away in panic, leaving his friend. He hadn’t protected Goblin. His hand squeezed the device to a point where it shook. Finn's entire life had been written for him; forced upon him. In his hand, he could change it all; he could be the master of his own fate.

  With a deft movement, Finn slid the bracer on his left wrist, opposite to Goblin’s wristband on his right arm. The bracer gleamed in the sun. Without warning, his entire body stiffened and an electric shock coursed through him. Something was within him, burning him from the inside-out. His veins were full of lava.

  Finn let out a scream, falling to the ground and convulsing. Visions of stars, black space, and faces shot past his eyes. He saw the Crust from on-high and a writhing black mass in the depths of a far-away abyss. He watched vat-worms tunneling and a friendly man with a curved sword laughing. He saw waves of lava swallowing an army. He glimpsed a dark obelisk and lands of gray where shambling bodies walked aimlessly for eternity. He saw another man—full of rage and made of gold—scream at him. A mountain in the shape of a spider crawled across an ocean of grass.

  The visions came as a blur, pushing through his conscience at incomprehensible speed, memory of them flaring and fading. A word came to mind, repeated over and over until he lost conscience, falling to the ground: yours, yours, yours.

  There was a pulse as the bracer tightened and grafted to him. Finn's body ceased its movements. The wind picked back up and nearby, the remnants of a fossilized man blew away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN:

  My Devotion

  —Circa 4,622 E.E. (Economic Era-The 17th Era): Scientists from the House of Phure find sediment evidence along the beaches of the SeaLake confirming that near one-million years ago, Lenova was temporarily swallowed by oceanic waves, terraforming the landscape. F
aint magic still clings to the ancient sediment, too frail to be tampered with. The slightest human touch dissipates evidence. Through it, a few radical scientists make the claim that Lenova and the world of Sirramar is many millions of years old and used to once house far more potent wild magic.—

  Wahala watched the Lenovan village of Castor burn. Screams rang out into the sky as an oblivious sunset turned the land orange to match the color of the flames. Creatures such as the villagers had never seen before wandered the streets, tearing flesh from skin and ravaging the land.

  Looming rock golems, their backs and chests huge and thick, their heads hunched low and forward, crushed the simple homes with merciless blows from their fists. Oak-tree wicker men with roots wrapped around glowing hearts, faceless heads, and moss beards, collected bodies. Hooded humans with limbs made from gold plundered private belongings. But of all the monsters roaming about, killing the villagers that ran and gathering the rest into town square, the worst was Wahala’s master, the changer of cult tradition, one who spat upon everything Wahala had dedicated herself to: Mal'Bal!

  With his bracer activated, forming a magical suit around his body, the leader tore a child from the arms of her father and tossed the youngling to the golems. Chanting and prayers of sacrifice were shouted in the act. Although some had argued for using them as slaves, Mal’Bal had temporarily decided that the children and elderly were of no current physical use to the cult: they were to be disposed of. Their moment of passing was to be relished. It was the piercing of the veil between life and the beyond. Sacrifice brought a brief glimpse into the blank yonder: endless nothing. It was why cult revered pain over all other feelings: the stab of agony was the strongest of tastes, the only echo to be taken into the void.

  Wahala half-watched from the shade of a fountain, chewing on an apple and reading a necromancy book she’d been assigned to study. Her master approached Castor's town square, where the remaining villagers awaited their fate. Some wept uncontrollably while others stared off to the distance, lost to reality. Yet a few glared at the cult leader with defiance. One such man, straw hair parted in two, forced himself to his feet. He jabbed his bound hands toward Mal'Bal, showing no fear. They were the hands of a mill-worker. “Foul demon! You’ll suffer at the mercy of Almus for what you’ve done!”

  Wahala clicked her tongue and shook her head. The villager was a scrawny fool. His brash tongue would be his end. He was brave—Wahala admitted—brave to a point of stupidity. She fingered the next page of her book, repeating ancient words under her breath to memorize them.

  Somehow controlling the heavenly bracer—catalyst to the cult’s fate—Mal’Bal mentally commanded his helm to retract. The frilled skull-like piece sank back, split apart, and slid away to his neck. The villagers shouted at the sight of the cult leader’s true features.

  The mill worker's eyes went wide. “What are you?” he whispered out.

  Mal'Bal ignored the question. Instead, he drew close to the man. “Almus.” he growled out. “Your God is false. Only his name exists.”

  The man shuddered, disturbed by everything Mal'Bal was. Wahala could tell it pleased the cult leader. The Lich-Lord motioned for cult members to hold the man in place. Around them, villagers begged to be spared and released. “What do you devote to your God? Time? Money? Flesh?” Mal'Bal’s voice was a dangerous sweet tone.

  “My life.” the mill worker stuttered. “I devote my life to Almus, master of on-high.”

  Mal'Bal purred, coming even closer. “Devotion. I adore devotion.” He reached out a hand and a cult member brought forth a small locked chest. The man eyed the chest nervously.

  “My followers are devoted. I’m devoted. Have you seen our proof? Wahala, come forth!”

  Wahala’s heart lurched. What did Mal’Bal want with her? She dropped her apple and book and stepped forward, face like stone. She spoke no words. Mal'Bal pointed to her knees. “Her devotion to me and me alone.”

  Wahala held her scowl in check. Her knees had been sacrificed to an ideal. Standards Mal’Bal had never followed.

  The mill worker was sweating—cracking. Wahala could see the fear creeping in. “Will you show me your devotion?” the Lich-Lord whispered. The villagers went silent. So did the cult members, and—maybe in everyone's imagination—even the roaring fire of the burning buildings.

  “My devotion?” the man stuttered.

  “Yell out the name of your God.” Mal'Bal commanded. “Call out to him in worship. Let’s see if he answers.” The mill worker opened and closed his mouth in silence. “CALL OUT TO HIM!” Mal'Bal roared, spit flying out of his mouth all over the man's face.

  “Almus, Master of on-high! Bring forth thy light and exuberance!” The man stood rigid and with teared-up eyes heavenward. Around him, villagers shook in terror. Mal'Bal stared at the sky, fists clenched. “Come on…” he growled. “Come on.”

  Wahala frowned. To whom was Mal’Bal talking to? It was as if he wanted to see the villager’s words come true. Had his obsession with death and the lack of anything beyond sank that deep into his core?

  “Just prove it! Just mark me wrong.” Mal’Bal half-chuckled. His eyes were wobbling and his eyelids shaking. Wahala’s frown sank lower. Just how insane was her master?

  “Almus…” the villager groaned out, pleading.

  “It isn’t, it isn’t…” Mal’Bal repeated under his breath, his voice almost holding a touch of tortured agony. Then he suddenly snapped back, wiping sweat from his forehead and looking down to his victim. Mal’Bal’s cheeks were flushed. He looked to the cult member at his right, still holding the locked chest, and motioned for it to be opened. The cult member brought out a key.

  “Almus, the Father of the seven God-Kings, allow my pastures to flourish and my children to sing praise to thee...”

  The chest opened. A golden ingot and a chalice came to light. Mal'Bal picked up the two items, one in each hand. Clenching them in his fists, he turned back to the man.

  “Almus, the deliverer of peace...”

  “FOR DEATH!” Mal'Bal screamed, his voice far louder than the villager's. The mill worker stuttered and continued. “...release the bonds of suffering from these hands...”

  “FOR DEATH!” Mal'Bal screamed again, overwhelming the man's voice. The man was shaking, panic quivering in his eyes.

  “...so I may labor in thy presence and forevermore...”

  “FOR DEATH!” Mal'Bal bellowed in the man's face. The villager staggered back and stopped his prayer. The cult members tightened their grips on him. All eyes were on Mal'Bal, fearful and worshipful alike. Wahala’s skin tingled.

  “You see,” Mal'Bal whispered with a shrug, his voice as quiet as a mouse’s footsteps. “there’s nothing out there. You feel it, don’t you? You hesitate, your words fumbling in fear. My devotion’s greater than yours. Let me share it with you. Hold him still!”

  Mal’Bal kicked the man's legs and the mill worker fell to his knees. Mal’Bal began to chant in rhythm, his voice rising and falling, growing in volume. Fresh tears came to the villagers’ eyes and they wailed out. Urine trickled down the mill worker’s legs and Wahala stepped back in disgust. Nearby, the stone and wooden golems held their ground, still as statues.

  Mal'Bal put the golden ingot into the chalice and lifted it above his head. “Gasta.” The ingot melted into liquid. There were no fumes, no indication of heat. The process had been pure magic. All awaited with bated breath.

  “My devotion.” Mal'Bal said, one hand shooting out and grasping the man's jaw. He pried the mill worker’s mouth open with two large fingers. The man flailed but was held in place. “I give it to you.” Mal’Bal poured the liquid down the man's throat, shoving his face against the man's.

  “FOR DEATH!”

  Mal’Bal stepped back from the floundering mill worker. Cult members released their grips on him. The villager choked and bubbled, thick wet noises coming from his spastic form as he fell over. The man's eyes rolled back and his limbs danced about.


  Mal'Bal pointed to a cult member. “Take three others and bring me more gold.” He looked to the dying man. “And I’ll need Apex gems. I have an experiment to perform.” Mal'Bal grinned, teeth bared like a wolf. Wahala frowned, wondering what the leader was up to.

  “Lich-Lord.” one cult member called out, his ragged black clothes flapped in the hot wind billowing from the burning village. “What of the others?”

  Mal'Bal faced the remaining survivors of Castor. “Give them knives. If any feel like living, let them ritualize claim their God as false, and prove themselves as members of our fold. The rest—those defying, fearful, or the ones who can’t bear to join us—throw them to the flames.” The villagers of Castor shrieked. Wahala knew the sound was music to Mal’Bal’s ears. Her master turned to her. “Wahala, you’ve practiced for long enough. By now you should know the words to the rituals.” She nodded and Mal’Bal purred, “Good. Then then prepare limb casts and liquefy gold for those who cut themselves.”

  Mal’Bal disappeared into the depths of the village and Wahala walked back to the fountain to retrieve her discarded apple and book.

  A quiet cult member approached her. He was tall, rugged, and sported the hint of a beard. He was like a strange, beautiful animal appearing from nowhere; handsome if Wahala allowed her emotions to think for themselves, but she didn't.

  “Queen Priestess.” he whispered to her.

  Her eyes widened. For him to call her by the title was sacrilege. Mal'Bal had disbanded the high order of Queen, the long-held traditional role of leader: thus, not allowing anyone to usurp him. After Mal’Bal’s mother died giving birth to him, the 20-year process to choose a new Queen had been halted in its eighteenth year, when Mal’Bal had all the possible successors killed.