SunRider: Book 1 (The SunRider Saga)

by Hohmann, Rafael

  He continued to examine in wonder, forgetting where he was and what he was doing. From the path directly in front of his peep-hole, footsteps sounded out. A form came from beyond the forest. Stepping forward, an ancient bent woman left shadow and stood in the light of the lawn. Her long thin hair waved as if in a breeze and her light green eyes shimmered. She had so many wrinkles that it was difficult to discern her features. Yet Finn recognized her from both the stone face in the large chamber and from his dream. She smiled at him.

  “Welcome SunRider. I've been waiting for you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

  For the Cult

  —Circa 5,122 E.E. (Economic Era-The 17th Era): Stones roll down Mount Pluhm and a voice growls out across the night air, heard for kilometers around “Myza-baen! I curse your passage out of this world! May your travel to the next life be choked by the tail you have cut from my body! I curse you!” The voice was never heard again and no more rocks ever rolled down the mountain. Brave explorers who’ve summited the top of Pluhm have never found the source of the voice, but did come across the skeleton of a two-headed man.—

  The ancient tomes told her much. Methods of extracting information from the strongest of warriors, the languages of shadows, stories of demons circling the dark between the stars and beneath the trenches of the earth. Glorious dark knowledge—forbidden to her, but not for long. Soon, she would be privy to all the temple's secrets. For now, she would have to disobey orders and read more than she was supposed to.

  Wahala flipped another page in the skin-bound book. Whether it was human skin or animal, she didn't care. She was too engrossed in the words written by a long-dead Queen who'd traveled into the Land of Light for knowledge many centuries ago. In the Queen's travels, she'd found a dead Star-Child. The corpse had told a story of war, but the details of the Queen and the events of the time were not discussed. The priestess had surgically removed the Star-Child's bracer and experimented on it. Wahala read a passage.

  Scraping the remaining flesh from the device only confirmed my theory: the bracer biologically altered the body, changing the subject into something altogether not human.

  Notations:

  >Segments of the bones in the left arm have meshed with the device. I believe the longer one wears the bracer, the stronger the fusion. The first few months, it only clings. But as the months turn to years, bone and metal merge as one.

  >In addition, bone material shows more of a glossy nature instead of porous. Speculation: flexibility? Bone tensile strength? His unique ability?

  >All signs point to the bracer giving the wearer powers different to what we know as natural or magical: otherworldly.

  >Upon using forbidden necromantic spells and performing acts of ritualism, I have effectively created a crack on the bracer. The effort has nearly killed me. I am now in recuperation. I fear there is not enough gold in all the Kingdom of Rot to fix me.

  Wahala flipped the page, but the writing only guessed at the dead Star-Child's possible powers. There were no more references made as to how the Queen had damaged the bracer—neither was there any more information on the ancient generation of Star-Children that’d long ago been chosen. How had they died out? How had they been erased from history?

  “No!” Wahala hissed, turning more pages. She was unable to find any more clues. Marking the spot, she set down the book and swept her arms across the thick study desk; tossing quills, papers, books, and artifacts across the temple's library floor. Three days back and still no answer. She stood and paced, fuming. There was a way to destroy the bracers; some form of spell or some dark art. It had to be within the prohibited books. The library door opened and Salastine stepped inside. Wahala nearly threw a book at him but stopped herself.

  “I apologize.” the man said with a bow. “I didn’t mean to intrude upon your studies, my leader.”

  Wahala waved a hand, her thoughts unshared. Her mind was so preoccupied with Star-Children it took her a while to realize Salastine was still waiting. “What is it?” she asked.

  “We’re ready for you.”

  Wahala froze as a mixture of emotions ran through her, coursing inside her skin like maggots feasting on flesh. Fear and excitement battled for dominance. It was time. “Lead me.” she stated. Salastine handed her a torch, bowed, and opened the door, disappearing into a dark stone hallway. She followed, her boots clacking on the hard floor, dust tickling her nose.

  Through passageways and stairwells they walked in silence, Wahala's skin shivering in anticipation. They passed black rooms where chittering rang out and shadowed forms moved. They hurried through the plague floors, where magical bubbles surrounded them, holding back the shambling dead corpses of festered men and women. Their ancient eye sockets followed Wahala’s every footstep and their emaciated dried hands opened and closed, reaching out. Wahala and Salastine wove around the Lung Chamber, where thousands of small tunnels ran from floor to ceiling. Little eyes stared out from each one, blinking and casting red light. Deeper and deeper they went into the massive temple, into its bowels. Approaching a thin, but tall rectangular passage leading into a hallway, Salastine stopped, taking her torch. He turned to her.

  “Only you may continue this way.”

  He indicated for her to move forward and Wahala stepped past him. She walked in confidence without a word—the dark was her true and only lover; although she knew Salastine wished it was himself. It was in the way emotion seemed to arise to the surface of his otherwise blank face every time she was near him. It was in the twitch of his lips when she bore her gaze at him. How long had he admired her from afar before he’d finally stepped forward and introduced himself to her life? She clasped her hands together. Knowing Salastine held feelings for her could prove a great advantage. Already plans formed in her head on how she could use the man.

  The hallway was pitch black and alone without a guide, she had to stop, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark. Once they’d accustomed to a point where she could see a few paces around her, she continued. Minutes passed and the passage narrowed to the length of her shoulders yet grew taller and taller. The ceiling could have been a kilometer above her head for all she knew, lost in the dark where no light hit. She stopped and looked up, hearing leather sliding on stone. She squinted, barely making out movement. What was up there?

  There was a wet slapping sound as something dropped down. At first Wahala thought it to be a rope, but when she saw the suckers and the moist liquid dripping like saliva, she jumped back, covering her mouth in alarm. More tentacles dropped from the unmeasured height above, hanging about her. She could hear the rumble of wet breathing. There was a long and harsh sniff. The tentacles grew still, freezing in place. A tendril of thought entered Wahala’s mind, working its way through her like an animal tossing aside documents. It wasn’t a sapient thought, but a magical force. Wahala gasped and grabbed at her temples; her eyes watered, her memories shuffled without her consent, old recollections were pried and pushed away. As quickly as it had invaded, the force left, with only the lingering scent of satisfaction staying behind.

  Wahala blinked and rubbed her face, sitting up from the ground. She’d fallen and hadn’t noticed. The silhouetted tentacles didn’t move. She stood and approached one with hesitation, bringing her hand out to touch it. It was stone. She stood there for a while, contemplating the phenomenon. Had she been tested by the temple itself? If so, she had been found worthy of Queen-ship. She bared her teeth in a vicious grin and moved on, even more confident the path she was to tread was the correct one.

  She stepped out into a circular room. Two hooded figures awaited her there. Walking into the chamber from another passage was Salastine, also wearing a black robe. Mal'Bal had allowed her to take three cult members, so Wahala had obviously chosen Salastine. She allowed the man to pick the other two, only asking he chose the most loyal to her cause. What Mal'Bal wasn't aware of, was instead of returning home only to bring back more gold for his campaign, Wahala was also fulfilling her own agenda
: knowledge and power.

  The chamber Wahala stepped into was peculiar. In fact, it was a shallow indoor pond. Rising out of the warm water in the center of the room rested a stone slab big enough for a human to lay upon. The torches set against the round walls gave off a red light, layering them in somber ambiance. No one spoke as Wahala sloshed over to the stone slab. She took off all her clothing, exposing herself to the cult members. Her golden knees glinted in the dim light. She didn’t blush, nor did she care that they stared at her. The ceremony had no place for carnal thoughts.

  Taking her black, shoulder-length hair and putting it into a bun, she dropped herself onto the slab, laying down. Her three followers walked forward. One put hands on Wahala's feet and another upon her brow. Salastine placed his upon her soft smooth belly. Wahala watched him to see if his attraction to her would distract him. It didn’t. She was pleased.

  “Where light cannot live, in the core of the dark.” Salastine spoke. “Within the abode of pain we gather.” His voice was whispery, yet it resonated with strength. The room hummed as it detected the spell. Far beneath the temple, massive Apex gems powered by thousands of sacrifices shook at the bottom of underground lakes, responding to the chant.

  “For the cult, always for the cult.” the two others echoed back.

  “Where fester spreads and blood is wine, part of death we become.” Salastine continued.

  “For the cult, Always for the cult.”

  “Za shavazol dë culathas. To nothing we transcend.”

  “To nothing I shall transcend.” Wahala spoke. Salastine nodded.

  “Where base elements meet: darkness, water, stone, and magic; we gather for high ritual.”

  “For the cult, always for the cult.”

  “Gav-da, meî-deoth, shavazolum, baj-uah. A leader has been selected.”

  “I have been called. I shall accept.” Wahala answered. Salastine nodded again.

  “Give all to us and we shall give all to you, Wahala-zah, lady of shadows.”

  “I give all for the cult.”

  “For the cult, always for the cult.”

  “By this we pledge alliance to thee. Mudah. Vindisca. Meî-bith.”

  The three cult members pulled out ceremonial scythes from beneath their black cloaks. They glinted, sharp as snake fangs. The room thrummed. The walls shook and ripples rode outwards from the stone slab which Wahala lay upon. Her breathing intensified and the spots where the cult members had touched her grew abnormally hot. The three cut gashes into the crooks of their elbows. Each approached her, dripping their blood into her open eyes and mouth. She drank the hot fluid; a symbol of accepting their loyalty. She blinked and red tears ran down her face. From now on, they and all those who pledged themselves to her would sacrifice limb and life at her command.

  “The ritual has been accepted. We now ask for your devotion, Wahala-zah.”

  “For the cult, always for the cult.”

  “I accept. Take from me what is required.”

  Wahala closed her eyes and clenched her muscles, feeling energy seep into her from the stone slab touching her bare skin. It electrified her bones and arched her back. This was the moment, the final step in the ritual. Her mouth opened and she let out a shrill scream as her blood boiled. She could feel a strange change within her—a purple-hued leviathan awakening and sinking into the depths of her core. It was as if necromantic energy had come to life and had taken her for a host body. Her golden kneecaps were frozen and sent an ache that twisted her mind. The cult members leaned over her, their scythes lowering to her chest.

  “Depravity and ruin, wash through our souls. Take away the light. Leave us embraced within the void.”

  “FOR THE CULT, ALWAYS FOR THE CULT!” Wahala screamed, feeling her throat tear from the strain.

  The scythes plunged, cutting into her chest: piecing between ribs, digging, reaching for their target. Surgical cuts. Blood ruptured from her chest. Her cry intensified and her body shook violently. Water splashed in waves, turning red. The room resonated with thousands of voices. Blades sank deeper. Thirsty. Hungry. They found her heart. They bit and clawed, eating the organ. Removing it.

  Wahala's consciousness slipped, but not before witnessing Salastine bringing forth a golden object from beneath his hood. It already beat in time to her blackened veins, excited for its new housing. Salastine lowered the golden heart into her chest.

  “Now you are our Queen priestess, rightful ruler of the cult.”

  The library doors opened and the three cult members entered the room bearing empty trunks. Wahala swept in after them, her cloak flapping as if in an invisible breeze. Her breathing was heavy and her head felt hollow. She grabbed at the wall. “Take the oldest books. I want their secrets. Their words shall be mine to command.” she rasped, her voice wavering.

  Salastine approached her with a smile, bowing and kissing her hand. He treated her gently, respecting her state of weakness. She allowed him the gesture. “My Queen, soon you will have the necromantic knowledge of all Queens before you, along with their acolytes and scientists.”

  She smiled. “Yes, soon I’ll know.”

  “Know?” Salastine asked.

  “Know how to stop a Star-Child. Soon, I’ll know how to destroy Mal'Bal.”

  The handsome man grinned and left her to her thoughts. Their belongings were quickly packed and the group navigated through the temple to the Trophy Room. The room was a large long rectangular chamber with thousands upon thousands of golden limbs mounted on the walls. The long space went on and on for what seemed to be well over a kilometer. Arms, legs, digits, torsos, every type of extremity from ears to chins were proudly displayed. Above each inorganic part was a name written on parchment and tacked onto the stone wall. The names served to tell of each appendage’s previous owner, long passed into the void after death. But the limbs—the gold itself—was far more than one person’s alone. They were imbued with the strength of all their ancestors.

  Wahala and her group respectfully chose parts and put them into a cart. They pushed the full cart, needing all four of them to do so, and took the parts to the end of the room where a large blackened vat leaned against the wall, side-by-side with an urn. Both were as large as houses. Stairs led to the vat’s rim and below it was a press with a mold. The three men took the limbs up the stairs and dropped them into the vat. Wahala approached the urn, where a spigot faced her at eye level. Near to it, a bucket hung from a hook. She took the bucket and turned the spigot. With a hissing sound, what looked to be gray ash poured out into the container. She shut off the flow when she’d taken enough. She fingered the contents within the bucket. How many of her ancestors lay at her fingertips? In her hands had to have been a conglomerated mix of over a thousand cremated corpses.

  She climbed the steps to the top of the vat while the three men went back for more limbs. At the top, she looked inside, seeing that the golden parts were already melting. Massive heat hit her skin and she cringed, shying away. Although there was no fire to liquefy its contents, the vat glowed red and yellow, defying logic. Ancient magic still flowed strong through the ancient artifact.

  Wahala tossed the ash into the vat, honored that the strength of those before her would be imbued into the recycled gold. How many ancestors were part of her kneecaps, part of her new heart? Four more carts were deposited into the vat. Once all the contents were melted, the men worked the press, forming bars of gold. Wahala sat on the ground, her body tired and still recuperating from her ritual.

  “Rest.” Salastine called out, waving a hand. Sweat poured from his handsome face. “We’ll wake you when we’re done.” Wahala nodded, too tired to argue, and closed her eyes.

  A long time later they retrieved their steeds, attached them to their wagon, and left the temple. The animals brayed and bucked, foam coating their mouths and gems dotting their foreheads. Salastine took a chart with calculations showing the directions in which the waves of the dead were traveling. He charted a course back North into the Land o
f Light, working quickly as they knew the scent of human and animal would draw the undead in from hundreds of miles. Once charted, they mounted their beasts and rode as hard as they could. The horses, twice the size of Lenovan steeds, snorted and foamed, their muscles strained as they pulled the heavy gold. Wahala looked to the gray barren horizon. Beyond it awaited Mal'Bal, continuing his siege against all life.

  She chuckled to herself. Finally, the first steps to overthrowing the renegade leader were in place. Soon, they would abandon their foolish quest to end all life. Maybe then the cult would find its path, perhaps spreading their tradition beyond their borders. There were many opportunities for growth in Lenova after all.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

  Through the Bird’s Window

  —Heed now and perk your ear, for the song of the Ralain the Swordmaster, m’dear. With a swish and a twirl he cut the moons, and with a stab and a jab he formed desert dunes. Naught might nor speed could best his skill, all armies and beasts Ralain would kill. ‘Til one day Ralain met the Shade of De’Mort, in battle, in love, the both did court. With a hiss and a swipe they kissed and fought, from Lenova to the Southern Kingdom of Rot. On beyond those aster-purple spines, that blocked those dead lands from our verdant pines. Ne’r to return, the watchmen said, they’ gone to die facing the dead. Believe the words that come from my mouth, that on wintery nights a sound haunts the South. Of Ralain’s blade finally breaking, and of him and the Shade last breath a-taking.—

  -song unknown, date unknown