SunRider: Book 1 (The SunRider Saga)

by Hohmann, Rafael

  Finn shook his head, not wanting to accept everything he was hearing. The world he’d wanted to explore, the wonder and magic—it was all being threatened.

  “I didn't want to be a Star-Child.” he whispered, grabbing his bracer. “I only put it on so I could have the power to protect my friend.”

  The horse whinnied and an orange bird flew past, dropping a feather. Piscus caught it and wove it into his straw hat. He gave a sad smile. “Then you’re a special case, Finn. One who wants power for righteous reasons, words hard to believe.” Piscus faced the road. “I don’t know whether all the rumors of Star-Children are true. But if they be so, a word of caution my young friend: you won’t face others as kind as me or as oblivious as the people of Pittance. You’ll see darkness and pain. You’ll see corruption. Ready your heart and remember the words you’ve spoken. You don’t wear the bracer for power, but to protect the ones around you.”

  Finn didn't reply. Instead, he watched the dark bracer glinting on his wrist. Goblin’s wristband seemed simplistic side-by-side with it.

  “We arrive at the village of Pittance.” Piscus spoke out. “Get ready for your first step beyond the Crust.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  Machinations

  —Circa 5,610 E.E. (Economic Era-The 17th Era): Finn SunRider, at the age of ten, saves thirty-two miners from a tunnel collapse by wedging his leg beneath a boulder. It takes three days for miners to uncover the tunnel and save him. Miraculously, his leg heals and Finn SunRider is reprimanded by House Crumm for wasting resources on his life. He is told he will never pay off the debt. In retaliation, SunRider sneaks into the Hub and burns all documentation of his debts. Unfortunately, he does not burn the duplicate copies of the documents.—

  “Lich-Lord. It’s time.”

  Mal'Bal paused his gory work, wiping the blood from his face as he knelt on the ground. The dirt floor within the tent had been churned into maroon mud and clung to the golden man’s knees and shins. Bone shards and torn clothing were strewn about, as if thrown without care. Flies clumped in large black piles from walls, their collective weight sagging the canvas. Their buzzing was the ecstatic scream of a million flesh-eating dots.

  Mal’Bal studied the cult member that’d approached him, watching to see if the man would grimace. The cult member, sensing a test, remained frozen without emotion. Sweat collected on the man’s brow and his eyes flickered to the red mess strewn about the tent. Mal'Bal let the discomfort drag until the man looked ready to flee. When he’d been thoroughly amused, Mal’Bal nodded.

  “Indeed, it’s time. Assemble our people.”

  The man left the tent and Mal'Bal returned to his work of splitting skin and snapping bones. The noises were wet and loud in the thick heavy-aired tent. Flies collected and scattered in the movement, drawn to the sickly-sweet smell. In the dim light, most would mistake the place as the entrance to some hellish portal.

  A cat-like form moved in lithe calculated movements, emerging from the shadows at the back of the tent. “Wahala,” Mal'Bal purred, “do you marvel at my creativity?”

  Wahala, unlike the messenger, did cringe at the sight; her face a mix of disgust and annoyance, unafraid of what the leader might think. It made the man smile and chuckle.

  “Your project should be...finished at another time, my lord.” she stated, holding a hand over her nose. Wahala's eyes roved over the state of the decay-filled tent. She’d seen dismemberment and gore, but nothing of this scale.

  Mal'Bal broke another bone, revealing gold beneath white. Blood and marrow coated his fingers. He raised his arms wide, facing the woman. “Do you view me as a toddler playing with his toys, Wahala?”

  The words were controlled and happy, but Wahala knew better than to let her guard down. Mal'Bal was the most dangerous when he seemed the calmest. “I believe you must focus outside, Golden Agony. The campaign’s about to continue. The cities of Metés and Vestés...”

  Mal'Bal waved a dismissive hand and returned to his work. His knees adjusted in the red filth and he pulled at the gold within the corpse. Splitting an arm in half, he let out a grunt of approval. Inside, as if chaliced by bone, was a golden limb, jointed by an Apex gem.

  “This experiment is an inspiration, Wahala. The Queen Priestess who thought of it didn’t try it out. In fact, she was too insane to do so. Days after her inauguration, she killed herself. Her untested project brings me much curiosity.” Mal’Bal’s gaze bore into Wahala. “And you bring me curiosity as well.”

  Wahala froze. “What do you mean?”

  Mal'Bal tore another golden limb free from its organic prison. He examined it in approval and grabbed at the dead man's ribcage. The corpse hardly resembled the mill worker anymore. “You were common.” Mal'Bal spoke softly, “Fleeting, like this man. But the closer you came to me, the more I exposed what was beneath the skin.” There was an explosive wet sound and a plain golden rod, thick as a stick, came loose. “Metamorphosis, Wahala. You’re my dark butterfly, like my puppet born from an organic cocoon. You show far more drive than the rest of our people, especially since we’ve been here. Something has lit a fire underneath you.”

  Mal’Bal yanked at the golden rod, standing and putting his weight on the corpse. The noises that ensued made Wahala turn and look away, her body shivering. Mal'Bal sighed, loving every macabre moment. With a final pop, it was over. Blood flowed in every direction, expanding in a puddle, turning mud into swamp; washing the entire floor of the tent in red.

  Wahala and the cult leader gazed in wonder at the figure facing them. Wahala took a step back—for standing in front of them was a Golden Puppet the size of a man. with stick-figure limbs and a featureless oval face. The entity was bathed in the blood of birth. Its joints, made of green Apex gems, swirled with the fog of power. There were no dents, carvings, or complexities to the being. It was plain, golden, and terrifying. It didn’t move, but stared at Mal'Bal, a sense of perverse love floating between the two.

  The cult leader stepped back from his handiwork. “My child, Wahala, is as important as the campaign. Whatever I deem entertaining is what becomes priority. Not what you believe to be important.”

  The Golden Puppet lifted an arm. Intricate razor-thin fingers wiggled and danced like tapping daggers, as if the creature was learning to move for the first time. Wahala imagined feelers on a bug. The hand spun in a full circle, not hindered by the limitations of ligaments and tendons. Without feature, the puppet was impossible to predict. It could be happy, curious, or murderous. There was no emotion to gauge; no thought process. If Wahala were to come up behind it, it’s head would look the same as if from the other side. What was forward could be backward. Mal'Bal had created a monster to be feared.

  “But the cult, Mal'Bal—as a leader, that’s your duty.”

  Wahala snapped her mouth shut. She’d said the words out loud. She hadn’t meant to voice the thought.

  Mal'Bal spun in place, his face scrunched in rage. “THE CULT GIVES ITSELF TO ME! TO ME! THAT’S THE CULT'S DUTY!”

  He marched to Wahala, shoving his face up to hers. She could smell his breath—like fetid meat, as if he'd been feasting on the corpse at their feet. Behind him, the Golden Puppet leaned toward them, its head cocked to the side—ready to defend its creator. Wahala's eyes went wide with open fear. Mal'Bal sniffed, as if trying to smell her terror. He then stepped back, calm as ever.

  “Why do you advise me, handmaiden? Do you question my leadership?” He spoke the words with the happy perkiness of a child. “Do you imagine your wisdom greater than mine? Were you born from the earth?”

  “N—no master!” Wahala stammered, feeling lost by his instability. She assumed a meek posture.

  Mal’Bal grabbed one of the puppet’s arms and raised it, clicking his tongue with a frown. “No, no, no.” he sighed. “Can’t have this at all. Better give an edge to these limbs—sharpen them like razors. Then you’ll be perfect.”

  The man turned to leave the tent. “I’ve raised you to be more than a
common cult member because of your mother’s old role as head acolyte. Yet you stand in the shadow of example Wahala. You forget, I am what you all strive to be.”

  With the flick of a tent flap, the leader was gone. The Golden Puppet stared—or seemed to stare—at Wahala for a moment longer, then followed his creator, scampering out on all fours like a spider. The creature's limbs moved in an agitated blur, causing Wahala to shudder. She was left alone in the tent, nearly ankle-deep in gore. Within her, familiar emotions stirred: anger and outrage.

  Mal'Bal had delved deep into his own madness and manic journey. Who could say what he wanted? Was it truly the death of all living beings and creatures? If so, then he, more than anyone else, was the greatest threat to the cult. Sacrifice might be in their culture, but not their own genocide.

  Wahala could care less if the other races were killed, but her own people? No, Mal’Bal needed to be stopped. Usurped. If she had what Mal'Bal had, she would be a great leader. The cult taught there was meaning to destruction: order and enlightenment from self-sacrifice. Had Mal'Bal only wanted to spread the cult's ways—the belief of nothing beyond death—whether by force or invitation, Wahala would have gladly followed him into Lenova. But no, the man had seen fit to destroy all life. Wahala knew if Mal'Bal had his way, he'd decimate all creation, taking the cult with him and leaving a black world of rot where only anti-life walked. Nothing would be born, nothing would decay. There would be no existence left. If Wahala could be leader though... the cult would be saved.

  She left the tent—a place symbolizing exactly what would become of the rest of the world if Mal'Bal continued. Around her, the cult—far larger due to Mal'Bal's forced recruiting—gathered around the Golden Puppet and his master.

  How many of their new members were sincere? How many would turn and stab Wahala’s brothers and sisters as soon as they got the chance, avenging Lenova’s fallen cities? Wahala made eye contact with Salastine and the handsome man gave her a curt nod, disappearing into the crowd like smoke. As she strolled forward to stand by the cult leader's side, occasional whispers rang close to her ears.

  Queen Priestess.

  M'lady.

  Heiress.

  It fueled her to walk with head held higher and eyes burning with desire. The cult belonged to Mal'Bal. But there were some—some that belonged to her. They could feel her loyalty to tradition.

  With the crowd gathered, many eyes gawked at the golden creature caked in blood. Was it like the golems treading within their camp, without sentience or free-will? Or was this entity different? Mal'Bal smiled to his people, ignoring their questioning stares.

  “Do any of you know of the power of my mother?” he asked loudly. The crowds stayed silent. “She led as Queen Priestess, overseeing her acolytes, the cult, and our safety.”

  Wahala's heart jumped. What was this about? Why was Mal’Bal speaking of the old Queen? Was her desire to rule uncovered? Had Salastine been exposed? Mal'Bal brought forth an intricately-carved wooden mask. Innumerable amounts of eyes had been cut into the dark brown wood. The mask itself looked to be a large, sideways, lidless eye. The crowd gasped. Wahala was stunned. It couldn't be...

  “The All-Face.” Mal'Bal stated with a triumphant nod. “The mask worn by the Queen Priestess herself to gaze into the future and see all possibilities for our cult. With this artifact, we’ll march forth in perfect uniformity! The future will be ours to control for we’ll know all paths!”

  The crowds stirred. Those recently initiated didn't know of the sacrilege Mal'Bal had done. To remove the mask from the holiest of shrines within the temple, bring it to the Lands of Light, and use it even though he was not appointed as oracle? It was unheard of in the history of the cult. It went against the structure of leadership and power. Bugs crawled under Wahala’s skin. All she’d known was being desecrated. It had all changed when he’d donned the bracer from the sky. The people of Lenova whispered of him, some calling him a Star-Child. If that was what Mal'Bal had become, if that was what he claimed to be, then he was no cult leader, but a heretic. A crime only fixed by death.

  Rage ran like pressured fire from Wahala's head to her feet, then back. The bracer. Star-Children. Mal'Bal. She would put an end to this madness. She had to.

  Mal'Bal raised a hand and his many golems strolled about the crowds, standing five times the height of a man. The cult leader pointed to the twin cities of Metés and Vestés, which rested less than a kilometer away. Distant ant-like forms scurrying about: bringing forth bastion defenses such as catapults and torsion engines which fired crossbow bolts the size of horses. The machines peeked from over the tops of the parapets. Farmers and villagers ran through the gates into the safety of the large stone cities. The massive roofed bridge which rested one-hundred meters above the ground and across the top of the walls of both cities, serving as a highway for trade, was now full of soldiers readying their weapons. Unlike Castor, Wahala knew this battle would take a heavy toll on the cult. But if they won, the resources and people captured would more than compensate for their losses. In fact, it would increase their strength tenfold.

  “We’ll lay waste to life!” Mal'Bal screamed, his blood-encrusted golden body gleaming in the sun. Near him, the Golden Puppet fell into a spider-like position, ready to crawl forward in blurring speed.

  Two dozen slaves taken from the countryside brought forth an open golden litter where rested a black chair. The massive weight pressed on strained hands holding metal handles, pushing the men into bent tortured forms, their collective groans ringing out. Mal'Bal climbed on the platform and sat, leaning an elbow on one knee. The Golden Puppet, showing incredible strength, put itself beneath the litter and lifted it on its own; leaving the liter-carriers open-mouthed and in shock. Mal'Bal's eyes gleamed in anticipation; his pupils but pinpricks. He pointed to Wahala and she stepped forward.

  “Have you been studying the dark techniques?” he asked her.

  The cult leader was referring to the necromancy books he’d tasked her to read, teaching her the arcane magics of how to graft golden limbs. She’d become his sorceress, his acolyte—yet the title of acolyte had been tainted. No longer was it the ancient traditional role of serving the Queen. No, there was no Queen, only a usurper.

  The task, like most of Mal’Bal’s tasks, was a test. Wahala knew Mal'Bal's cunning—her given responsibility not only freed up his time and energy so he wouldn’t have to perform the ritualisms himself, but they held her in check. The man had given her a taste of status to only better control her. Better use her. But why? Because her mother had been an acolyte herself?

  Wahala could play the mental game. She would use the role to her advantage.

  “Master, the books you’ve given me have been a great fountain of knowledge. But...” Mal'Bal leaned in closer, waiting. “I fear to better perform the ritualisms quickly and with effect, I’ll need more knowledge. Knowledge we’ve left behind in our temple.”

  Mal'Bal's face was impossible to read. He gave heavy breaths, nostrils flaring in excitement for the blood-fest to come.

  He must wonder the true purpose of the request, Wahala calculated. He’s no fool. He knows manipulation like he knows killing. But he’s distracted by the battle.

  “Allow me to take a small group back to our home where I may gather more books and bring back more gold for your campaign, Lich-Lord. We run low and many wish to ritualize their limbs. In addition, master, the gold could be used as a weapon of bribery against the weak Lenovan people.” She was pleased with her excuse. For having made it up on the spot, she’d done well.

  Mal'Bal stayed quiet for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing. Wahala's heart beat faster.

  “I was expecting your aid in this fight, handmaiden.” Mal'Bal hissed. Wahala held back on saying a single word, waiting for the cult leader. “I shall have to perform the ritualisms myself. It’ll be a waste of my time and energy. Go, your words ring of truth. Bring me back more gold. Take only three with you.”

  Wahala gave a deep
bow, holding in her excitement. Instead she showed gratitude. “Master! Thank you for this opportunity! I’ll—”

  Mal'Bal cut her off. “Don’t think me a fool, woman.” Wahala froze, mouth half-open. “You’ll read only what you’re allowed to. Don’t dare access the volumes which only leaders may read. You are but a cult member.” He grinned. “I can taste your greed, Wahala. Remember your place.”

  Wahala bowed lower, swallowing the anger and disgust rising to her throat. His foolish pride! His arrogance! Who was he to change the structure of the cult?

  “I apologize, Lich-Lord. I but thirst to one day become like you. I strive forward in your vision.”

  Mal'Bal smiled, his eyes like that of a snake. “Don't you all?” He dismissed her.

  With a flourish, he pointed toward the twin cities. The cult spun in place, brandishing their scythes and screaming in enthusiasm. Stone and wood golems moved forward to the front; a wall of anti-life obedient to their master's will. Their gem hearts glowed from the power of Mal'Bal's bracer.

  The cult leader activated the item and a black suit grew about him, cloaking him in otherworldly-metal and glowing runes. He kept his face free to the air.

  “FOR DEATH!” he screamed. The cult howled into the sky as a reply, marching forward and pushing past Wahala, who stayed in her bowed position.

  Mal'Bal donned the All-Face mask. His body clenched and he shrieked into the air, every possible future rushing into his mind in an incomprehensible wave. He fell back into his seat, shivering. His breathing grew wild and he moved as if mad, his body jerking. The artifact would show him how to win the battle, if he could control it. Wahala doubted it would cooperate to its fullest effect—he was no Queen Priestess. Yet, Mal'Bal had proven to be more than a mere man...

  A small breeze, like the brushing of a cobweb, glanced past Wahala.