SunRider: Book 1 (The SunRider Saga)

by Hohmann, Rafael

  “The book?” Finn asked, his curiosity awakening.

  Salt stiffened, eyes growing wide, then narrow. “Damn my loose sailor’s tongue! Stupid, callop-brained, t—t—t…” he spluttered. “See, now I’ve gotten so upset I can’t even properly swear!” With that, Salt turned and walked away, retreating into a conversation with a group of other Star-Children.

  During the nights Finn and Goblin exchanged words on what they’d learned and pried each other’s minds for secrets. Finn was impressed as Goblin described feats of battle against Salt and how both would bounce around the small cabin, exchanging blows. Goblin told of Salt’s incredible speed and unmatched wits. Salt also engaged Goblin in battles of the mind, challenging him to answer complex riddles and battle situations. They went over scenarios such as what if the Coalition was trapped between two forces, or how does one save an entire army from volleys of arrows, and what subtle techniques can be used to negotiate hostages. Throughout it all, Goblin always refrained from talking about Mal’Bal’s injury and the shard, leaving Finn tormented for answers.

  More days passed and Leeya’s smile, although rare, flashed in Finn’s direction as he grew in skill. They began to spar, slowly at first. Upon those nights Finn would walk home sore and bruised, often with nosebleeds or swollen fingers. Altin, still spending his waking days with Scarecrow and Mole-Face, watched him from a distance with narrowed eyes and a disgusted frown. The blond boy who Finn assumed was a friend was perhaps gone, or had never been there in the first place. Yet at one point Finn caught Altin staring at their training longingly, the Star-Child having walked in upon one of his sparring matches with Leeya. Altin watched from afar, alone without the influence of others, and gave the feeling of wanting to join. But in the end, he slunk of into the shadows, and the next time Finn saw him, he was with Scarecrow and Mole-Face.

  With Leeya’s vast expertise, Finn was forced to use creativity to keep up with her. Once while spinning his spear above his head, he reached down and pulled his wooden sword free from its sheath, swiping up. It was slow and clumsy, but it still caught Leeya by surprise. At the last moment, noticing his change in form, Leeya activated her bracer and his sword glanced off her suit-covered chest. At that, she gave him the biggest smile of all, nodded, and called it a day. Both were sweaty and Finn, wearing Old Heavy, had a bad rash covering his armpits and upper back.

  They ate a snack on the porch of Finn’s cabin and watched as rain fell, bringing the common mists of Jakitta. Leeya, sitting close, nudged his arm with her elbow and pointed a chin at the landscape. “Your smell makes the sky cry in disgust. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll switch to real weapons and retire the leather armor.”

  Finn was stunned. Not only had Leeya finally come around to allowing him a real sword and spear but she’d attempted a joke. Leeya had tried to be funny. A sudden flurry of emotion and disorganized thoughts ran through him. He stared at her soft lips and smelled the faint spice that came off her hair when she moved. His face flushing, Finn turned away and adjusted his seat, accidentally sticking one hand into a pile of dried bird droppings. He stuck his hand out in the rain and let it wash away the filth while Leeya wasn’t looking. No, instead she studied an approaching form walking toward them, shirt and pants dark with water. Finn recognized the walk and shape. It was Goblin, free from his long confinement.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR:

  Creating Trust, Creating Death

  —Come Rose, Come Teeron, return home to me, I beg thout not stolen by Kindred Three. Watch children so closely, and lock thy home tight, late night the Brothers shall come within sight. Beware your abode not built far from village, for lonely home-dwellings shall surely be pillaged. Not by man, nor by raider, neither by beast, but by Kindred Three, approaching from East.

  A prayer: Please Brothers; take gold, take silver and spoon, but not my darlings. Please Brothers; take me if you must, but not m’tender starlings.

  A second prayer: Crack not their bones in thy malformed hands.—

  -Common inscription found on wooden boards hanging above the doors in Urrimad

  The tent flap swung open and Berula staggered inside, her body bent and strange, as if in pain. Wahala sat up, watching. The Kazman servant walked over the blood-caked canvas floor—crumbling it into red powder. Berula sat on her cot and grabbed a vial of thick fluid from a table full of plants, containers, mixing bowls, cups, and bandages. With a tremble, Berula downed the liquid and laid back. On her right hand, a bloody rag covered the stump where her index finger used to be.

  “What happened?” Wahala asked.

  There was a moment of quiet as the old woman winced. “I angered the puppet enough to make it lash out. I was only cleaning it as instructed by your leader.”

  “Yet you live.” Wahala replied. “I’m impressed. One would think a slash from the Lich-Lord’s child would bring death.”

  “How can you stand being in the company of such evil?” Berula groaned, removing the rag and getting to work on the injury with a dark-green poultice.

  And that was the opportunity Wahala needed. “Do you hate him?” she asked the servant. “By his hand your city was taken, your freedom, and now your finger.”

  Berula was crying, not for her finger, but for the internal struggle within herself. Wahala wanted to smile yet she hid the emotion behind a quiet stare. The servant’s optimistic belief was being questioned. The chance for peace between the cult and the Lenovans no longer looked as possible as before. Wahala was desperate for Berula to take the bait—to be convinced there was only one way to deal with Mal’Bal: Wahala’s way. “So do you hate him?”

  “Yes!” Berula sobbed, threading her stump closed, blood running down her arm. “Yes!” The woman was sagging, caving into herself in defeat. Wahala bit her cheek. Good, now was the time.

  “We can end it together. End the evil you speak of.” Wahala sang the words, picturing them as an enticing string working its way into Berula.

  “How?” the elder gasped, finishing her stitching and wrapping it in a leaf.

  Wahala pointed to Berula’s work table. She’d been brought back from the brink of death by many tonics and poultices made there. “Use your skill for me—for us. Make a poison. Your opportunity to change the course of Lenova is at hand.”

  “What will happen if we do kill him?” Berula whispered.

  The bait had been taken. Wahala reeled in. “We might finally get the glimmer of peace you’ve so talked about.”

  The servant didn’t speak for a long time. Perhaps an hour passed, perhaps more. Then the words Wahala wanted to hear finally came. “What sort of poison?”

  Wahala closed her eyes, the rush of future victory coming over her. “Something that can seep into the skin of his head. Nothing ingested could work, neither anything coating a dart or blade—that would require a battle, and there’s none that can stand to him. Is there something we can put inside his mask? He wears the object all day.”

  Berula frowned, eyes red. “There are a few oils that can harm, some that can burn, but only one I know of that can kill. It’s only speculation based on my knowledge of anti-venoms.”

  Wahala sat straight in her cot, hands like excited spiders. “What will you need?”

  “Many of the plants can be found with ease, but the main ingredient, slime from a black Dikka Slug—that will be hard to come by.”

  “I shall have Salastine work closely with you. He or those he trusts can find your ingredients. How will the poison work?”

  Berula shuddered. “It’s rarely been made. The slug slime—upon contact with organic flesh—develops hair-thin strands of substance that bore into the body where they swell to the size of eggs and become acid.”

  Wahala’s many silver scars rang with vile pleasure of the thought of such painful revenge. She imagined Mal’Bal awaking one day, donning the All-Face mask, and collapsing to the ground in pain, body shaking as he gurgled out his last breath.

  “If you do this, you’ll save us all, Berula. It is an
act of desperation. A deed that must be done. You will save Lenova.” Wahala purred out the words, thickening the praise and anxiety of the situation. “If this isn’t done, Kazma won’t be the only city to fall.” Berula was shaking her head quietly, eyes downtrodden and mouth agape. “Now go and get me Salastine.” Wahala commanded. “He is to deliver my books for study.”

  Wahala didn’t expect Mal’Bal’s visit. Her only warning was the scampering of metal digits moving over rocks and suddenly the Golden Puppet was in the tent, no longer bruised or battered. Mal’Bal entered after the creature, his body as powerful and strong as ever. Had Wahala forgotten his stature that quickly? Without the mask, Mal’Bal’s face was exposed to the world once more. His organic flesh was paler than it’d been and the purple veins running across his skin now spread with greater definition: a spiderweb of lines curving from the corners of his features over his scalp. But his eyes: his eyes were far worse. Gone was any semblance of control over reality. The Lich-Lord’s dilated pupils held a distant look—a look of a ship that’d passed over the horizon and seen beyond the edge of the world.

  Wearing the mask for even a few moments should’ve killed him. It was not his to use, only Wahala’s right as Queen Priestess of the cult. Yet the man survived wearing it at every waking moment. Perhaps it was because he was mostly gold or perhaps because he was the offspring of a Queen Priestess and the earth itself—a mystery which none had ever been able to explain. Either way, he was alive and had been granted the visions of future possibilities—paths which could be taken: failures or successes. Wahala could tell he’d seen much. It was in the twitch of his face muscles, the curve of his lips, the way he stared through her as if gazing into a star-field. He was no longer there. No longer the Mal’Bal she’d known, but something more—an evolution, crazier than ever. The only question remaining was whether he understood what the mask had shown.

  “Wahala.” he spoke in a whisper, as if tasting the air. Did the dried blood of the tent make him thirsty? The Puppet shivered in response to the voice. There were red dots on its arm—perhaps belonging to Berula, who was not in the tent but elsewhere, serving other members of the cult. “It’s been long.”

  Wahala had thought on how she’d react when seeing the leader of the cult for the first time after her torture. At first, she’d planned on screaming at him, or playing coy and powerful, as if the pain had never affected her. Oh how she wanted to scrape her nails across his exposed skull and tear out his life. But she knew to act prideful would be a fatal mistake. No, she had to play. She had to act in a way that would undermine Mal’Bal. The long game. Yes, she had to sneak and slither on her belly, especially if she was to see him dead at her feet, poison leaking from his pores.

  “M—master.” she stuttered, eyes down. She clenched her shivering hands and pulled her legs up. The Lich studied her, his eyes there but not there. Where were his thoughts? Where was the dangerous purr that meant he was at an advantage, knew more than she did?

  “You have rested for far too long, little queen. The cult wonders as to why your pained screams have gone silent—the music made them hide in their tents. They ask if you’ve become a shadow, traveling behind their cots in the night, widening your jaw in preparation to swallow them.”

  Wahala didn’t reply but rubbed at a silver line running along her arm. A small tear came from her face and internally, she wondered whether she was pushing the act too far.

  “We can’t have you influence them, can we? They must see traitors do not pass on into martyrdom, but stay as worms bathing in mud beneath my feet. You should be fully healed by now. Come, there are many who need tending to and there are many that need limbs replaced. You will not have any reason to study any more books—you know enough words.” Mal’Bal pointed to the tent entrance and his cheeks quivered. “To think,” he chortled softly, one eye faint, the other clear, “that I have a Queen Priestess as my personal servant!”

  Wahala was surprised. Mal’Bal was still giving her the responsibility of ritualizing limbs. She had figured that he would never allow her to use necromancy again. Was he so full of pride that he still thought it a waste of his time to perform the magic himself?

  Wahala didn’t have to fake pain as she adjusted herself off her cot. Her frail body had dreaded the moment since she’d first awoken. The few scabs left on her skin cracked and secreted tiny dots of blood as her legs pivoted to the ground. Her feet found the soft leather shoes Berula had left for the occasion. Sitting up, Wahala prepared herself to stand. She clenched her thigh muscles and they responded dutifully, hesitant soldiers wary of their commands. With a pathetic whimper, she stretched out and bore her weight, standing without support. She wavered and the silver on her body glimmered. Deep within her chest, her coated-heart pounded without break in rhythm. She was alright. She was strong.

  Finally came the moment she knew must be. The bitter acid in her voice was swallowed and it sank to her core, festering with malice. “Lord,” she whispered, “I’ll bear your will. I’ve learned lord, I’ve learned.”

  Mal’Bal’s nostrils flared and his stance spoke of one who was half-listening to reality and half-listening to a tune hummed by another place. “Yes?” he stated, an invitation to continue.

  “By my servitude will I prove my loyalty.”

  Mal’Bal nodded, a little of his old self briefly shining through as he gave a manic grin. “Your servitude is a given, Wahala. Be grateful I don’t order you to drink my spit.” Then he was distant once more. “I see a moving shape, Wahala. A titan shifting across reality and bringing its hunger and weight down upon life. There are Gods too—the mask has made that clear enough, yes. Gods of fire and air. They go in a circle around the shape, yes they do.” His eyelids twitched. “It’s something—something real, or something to be made real. All roads lead to it. All rivers, as if the subjects are the center of the world. We’ll move again soon. I just need more. A little more.”

  Wahala had no words. Mal’Bal had always been unpredictable, his mood-swings as quick to change as wild ocean waves. But this was a new level of insanity and irregularity. He was one with the fog of his own mind, or the echoes left by the mask. Mal’Bal had fallen over the edge. Wahala knew only with time could she regain enough of his trust to allow for the fatal blow. But was there enough of him left to even recognize what was going on around them? It was a dangerous path she walked. One overreaching step and Mal’Bal would erupt. Then would come the whip. Then the silver. Then death.

  Her eyes darted to beneath her cot where the earth had been dug up by Salastine. The books from the temple lay buried beneath the airy soil—many of them. She had already learned nearly a score of necromantic spells only privy to the leader of the cult. If only Mal’Bal knew she’d studied more than he’d asked of her… that she had learned words he’d kept all to himself, words that many of the cult could have used throughout their lives.

  Had Mal’Bal seen a future where he died by her hands? Had the mask betrayed her? Or was he so far gone she was a blur to his eyes?

  “Come.” Mal’Bal spoke, turning in place. The physical movements seemed to awaken him.

  She hobbled outside after him, the Golden Puppet following at the rear. Her steps were staggered and her eyes shut in the sunlight without her consent. So, this was what it was like to feel warmth once more… She was jealous of Salastine, who was off in the wilderness searching for ingredients to their poison.

  Around them, the many tents of cult members, servants, slaves, and newly-inducted moved in the breeze. Men and women, uncloaked in the heat of the day, lounged around, looking bored or worn from too much rest. They were gaunt and some sickly. It terrified Wahala. Where was the order? Who was bringing in food? Surely the stocks of Kazma had depleted. Where were the hunting parties? The foragers? What remained of their supplies looked rationed. Truly Mal’Bal’s halt had damaged the campaign. And what of Mal’Bal? Was he as Salastine had told, from day to night in the center of the fallen city, donning the mask? Did
he not lead and command anymore? Why had his priorities shifted so drastically? It was as if the man was no longer a living being, but one of the golems he’d created: anti-life.

  Some of the cult members kept busy, fixing armor and weapons, forging them as well. Others carved images into branches or stones depicting the Kingdom of Rot, reminiscing of the jobs they once held. Crypt-whisperers, cave-watchers, fungal-growers, canal-maintainers, explorers and scavengers—so many positions given up so Mal’Bal could realize his dream far away from home. So many that’d died on foreign soil.

  The cult looked tired; a tired that sank deep into their bones. They needed motivation but there was none to be given. Wahala heard a song of the homeland as she passed a tent.

  Heavy stone bury me down, down, down in the dark

  Forms are a’moving outside.

  The land is dead but we are not, down, down in the dark

  Forms are a’moving outside.

  Wahala wanted to clench her fists—but she knew better. Mal’Bal the traitor. A Star-Child.

  He led her past the many men and women and they looked up, watching as if they bore witness to a ghost. There was a flicker of movement, Wahala herself barely caught it, but it was there. An older man held a fist over his heart, eyes solemn in her direction. A tribute to her. A symbol. Silver-Heart. We know what he did to you and we despise him. Wahala didn’t know whether to nod or smile. It was respect they gave her, not the fear they reserved for Mal’Bal. She was distant and mighty in her weak submission—a true queen. Salastine had been right: there were those who still supported her. Their walk continued and others mimicked the symbol, doing it for a split second and only after Mal’Bal had passed them. It was brief and dangerous, but it was a show of support unlike Wahala had ever received.