Children of the Sun

by Linda Winstead Jones

  The sentinels varied widely in age and experience. A few were mere boys, some were scarred veterans with weathered skin. Some were thin and lanky, others sported bellies that marked them as well fed. All were well armed.

  It was bothersome that a stranger—like him—could so easily join them, but Sian was not concerned. Ariana, if she used her empathy correctly, if she concentrated as he had taught her, would’ve been able to spot a dark intruder at the outset.

  A less-than-cheerful sentinel tossed Sian a biscuit and some dried meat. The offering was unappetizing, but he took it anyway. With a wave of his hand, he could make the simple food appear to be a feast, for him and for the somber soldiers around him. They needed a bit of cheering up. But such an act of enchantment would give him away. He wasn’t ready for that to happen. More truthfully, Ariana was not ready to see him. Not yet.

  Soldiers, Sian among them, rolled up their bedrolls and ate their meager breakfast. He had been so tempted to move closer to Ariana last night, to look upon her simply to assure himself that she was well.

  That was a lie. He knew she was well. Her most trusted soldiers surrounded her, and the night had remained quiet and still. To move closer just to look at her, and in doing so take the chance of giving away his presence, would be foolish.

  So he had done so only twice.

  He watched Ariana step into the forest with a bundle in her hands. She should enjoy her moments of privacy now, while she could. When they reached the mountains, there would be no convenient stands of trees for cover, not for long stretches at a time. When the battle was more certainly upon them, he would not allow her to secret herself even for modesty’s sake.

  He knew she was safe now, and still he waited anxiously for her to reappear. When she did, stepping almost haughtily through the same space in the trees where she had exited the camp, Sian cursed.

  Fool woman. What was she thinking? She might as well ride along this road alone with a target painted on her back. She might as well ride headlong into the fray, shouting, “Here I am!”

  Ariana was no longer dressed exactly as the sentinels were. No more rough green uniform for their leader, no. She had surely made the outrageous outfit herself, but when? Early on, before he took to sleeping in her bed? During those hours while he’d been lost in his research? While he slept? He did not know, and in truth it did not matter.

  She wore white trousers—white!—and pale brown boots. Her blouse was loose and feminine, and allowed freedom of movement. The blouse was also white. The vest she wore was made much like a sentinel’s with pockets in the front and plain buttons for fastening. This vest, which was also white, was adorned with ornamental sparkly things, as if she were headed to a blasted party. Her hair was loose, blond curls falling over her shoulders and down her back, wild and untamed as if she had just risen from his bed. She wore no hat, though he would not be surprised if there was one waiting nearby. If so, it would probably sport a tremendous white feather or a silken rose.

  Sian took a single step forward, but he forced himself to stop. If he revealed himself now, Ariana would send him away. Probably not alone. Had any of these sentinels heard that the wizard Sian was not to leave the palace unescorted? Unlikely, but not impossible. It was a chance he could not take.

  Ariana stepped into the stirrup of her horse—which thank the heavens was not snow white but was instead an ordinary gray—took her saddle and looked over the men, her soldiers who watched her so closely. She had to know what a spectacle she was making of herself. She had to know that if she rode into battle dressed like this, she would not last long. Every enemy combatant would be guided to her simply by the uniform she wore.

  She rode forward gently, until she and her horse were positioned in the middle of the camp. Men surrounded her. Sian pulled the brim of his hat down so she could not see his face when she glanced in his direction.

  “Many of you are asking what it is we go to fight,” she said in a voice that was clear and loud enough to be heard by everyone. “You’re afraid, and I can’t say that I blame you. I’m afraid, too.”

  Heaven above, she did not look at all afraid.

  “I will not lie to you,” she continued. “I have never lied to you. There are monsters waiting for us at the end of this road. For all I know they are lurking along every step of this trail we travel. I do not know what form they will take. I don’t know if they will look like monsters or if they will look very much like you and me.” Morning sunshine glimmered on her blond curls and her glittering vest, making her look as if she were more than human. She was a blazingly white angel, come down to earth to lead these men to their deaths.

  Every man in the camp was captivated by her, in a way they had not been on the day before.

  “I have been told that I’m going to die in this war.” She did not shake in sharing this news. She did not shed a tear or tremble, but the way she mindlessly caressed the cord at her throat told him she was not unaffected. She reached for that connection when she needed comfort, he had discovered.

  A few soldiers whispered “no.” Some shouted. She ignored them all. “Perhaps that is true. Perhaps not. Only time will tell. I plan to fight very hard, and if it is my time to die I will take with me as many of the monsters as I can.” There was a harshness in that promise that touched Sian to the bone.

  “I do not know if you are meant to die as well,” she said, her voice less soft. “I do know that every man here is destined for this battle, just as I am.” Her horse nickered, danced on nervous hooves, and turned about. “Every man here is a hero, or soon will be. If darkness wants to take this land and the good people who live upon it, if the monsters want your friends, your families, your loved ones, then they will have to come through us to take them!”

  A shout went up from many of the soldiers. Sian felt a shiver pass down his spine.

  “No, my brothers, I do not know what form these monsters will take, so I tell you this. In the days to come you must learn to see not only with your eyes but with your hearts. You must learn to see the evil in those we face before they choose to show it to you. And you must pray for God to be with us,” she added in a lowered voice that still carried quite well, as if her whisper were carried on the wind to every ear.

  “I won’t think less of any man who chooses to leave us now,” Ariana said, her voice rising again. “All we know of what lies ahead is frightening and uncertain. It is the stuff of nightmares.” A few men mumbled at that statement, but no one made a move to escape.

  “But I promise you this,” Ariana said as her horse danced skittishly. “If you stay with me, if you ride into this battle at my side, I will fight for each of you as if you were my brother. From this moment on you are my brothers, each and every one of you, as if we shared blood. Come with me and together we’ll make history.”

  Merin appeared at her side, and he handed Ariana a hat. A fucking white hat. At least there was no feather. Or rose. She slapped the hat on her head, took control of the reins, and spurred her horse onto the road. She raced away, and the soldiers—every one of them—scrambled to follow. Not one man headed back toward Arthes. Not one.

  Sian was among those who scrambled, and as he did so he felt an unexpected pride. Had he ever criticized Ariana as being too weak for this destiny? Had he ever called her a mere girl who was unfit for the prophesy which named her?

  She was a general as fine as any other, and the men who followed this general would die for her if need be. They loved her. They would be legend before this war was over. Whether they lived or died, whether they won or lost, they would be legend.

  White hat and all.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was days before they reached the first village, and by then the soldiers were more than ready for combat. Ciro rode his horse down the center of a narrow, dusty street, and watched. This could not rightly be called combat, he supposed. His soldiers were, well, his soldiers. The villagers made for poor opponents.

  What Ciro observed was rather
like watching an unfair sporting event. His legion consisted of armed hunters; the villagers were the helpless prey. His soldiers were wrestlers of bears; the villagers were large, helpless, drugged rabbits. There was no hunger to compare to that of a man without a soul. Ciro knew that hunger, but at least he had a way to assuage it for a spell. His legion did not. They suffered the hunger, but not the ability to take another soul. They tried to quench the maddening appetite with the screams of those they terrorized, with blood, with the fear they created and enjoyed so well.

  Fynnian’s soldiers were ruthless, but they did not possess the frenzied fury of Ciro’s Own. Did he even need Fynnian’s men? Perhaps eventually he would need their numbers, but those he called his Own were special. They alone could terrorize all of Columbyana.

  The screams of the villagers did not affect Ciro at all, though he noticed that the man who rode at his side, his spineless wizard Fynnian, occasionally flinched. He did not mind watching one of his soldiers cut off the head of a screaming villager, but when one of Ciro’s Own decided to take a taste of a kill, Fynnian turned his head away.

  Fynnian was a fool. He thought Ciro didn’t know what he’d done, and why, but through the Isen Demon, Ciro knew everything. He knew that Fynnian had chosen him because he thought him weak, and also because an infected prince would offer access to the highest position of power in Columbyana. He knew that Fynnian had used his beautiful daughter to bind the future emperor to him. Perhaps his trickery had been effective in the early days. Perhaps it had even been necessary. Now that Ciro had his army, he no longer needed a wizard who planned for the rise of darkness and then did not have the stomach for it.

  Ciro’s eyes were drawn to a public inn. They were drawn there by a light he recognized very well, a light which shone so brightly it overpowered the lamplight and the flames from many torches. His stomach rumbled, and he smiled. There. It was there, awaiting him.

  He stopped before the inn and dismounted easily, leaving Fynnian to see to both horses. The wizard did so quickly, and then he followed Ciro into a large public room, where several of those who had been infected by the Isen Demon had congregated.

  Fynnian cringed as he realized what had happened.

  Ciro’s personally called soldiers had dragged many of the villagers here for the sole purpose of torture and eventual death. They enjoyed their work. They fed on the fear they created. It was a poor substitute for their lost souls, but it satisfied them for a while.

  One older woman remained untouched. She trembled and cried and prayed—silently and aloud—and her eyes were closed tightly against the heinous scene before her. The soldiers had instinctively known that this one was meant for their leader. The demon himself had spoken to them, instructing that the old woman not be touched. Not only had they not harmed her with their blades or their teeth, but her prim white nightdress was not stained with even a drop of blood. She remained completely pure.

  The light of her soul shone as brightly as Rayne’s. This woman before him was no beauty, and she had lived many years, years which showed on her face in wrinkles and sagging skin. Her scraggly hair was gray. Her bosoms drooped.

  But Ciro didn’t care about her appearance. He cared only about the light. Was he finally strong enough to take a pure soul? There was only one way to find out.

  The woman he sought had been bound to a post at the foot of the stairway that led to the second floor. Her arms were trapped behind her back, and her legs were lashed to the rough wood of the pillar. Her head was down, her eyes squeezed shut.

  Ciro walked toward her slowly. She did not know he was coming. She did not realize that anything had changed until the noises that had filled the room began to fade. His soldiers watched. Their victims died or else enjoyed a moment’s rest while the man or woman who tortured them turned their attention elsewhere. There was a touch of hope revealed as the old woman’s head snapped up and her eyes opened wide, but when she saw Ciro coming toward her, she knew there was no hope. Not for her or anyone else in this village.

  He grinned at the woman with the pure soul, but she was not soothed by his expression. Instead, she shuddered and then screamed.

  Ciro grabbed a handful of wiry gray hair, which was not yet entirely silver but working its way in that direction. Looking at her closely, he realized that this woman had probably once been beautiful, but her best years had passed long ago. All that remained of consequence was her soul, which was pure and white and strong. Very, very strong.

  Could he take it?

  He held the woman in place as he pulled her head back and touched his teeth to her neck. Her pulse was quick and strong, and the blood beneath would be as sweet as that of a child when he tasted it. What he wanted most, what he craved, was her soul. It was his.

  He bit into her, and blood filled his mouth. The soul he desired was so close he could almost taste it. So close he could almost take it. But she fought him. The soul did not flow into him as he wished. It only took a moment for Ciro to realize that he was not yet strong enough to take what he desired.

  With renewed vigor, he tried again. He bit deeper, and reached for the woman’s soul. It was right there, teasing him, flitting away from him, refusing to flow out of the old woman and into his empty body.

  Ciro lifted his head and looked into the old woman’s dying eyes. “Give me your soul, woman,” he whispered. He wasn’t yet strong enough to steal a white soul, but with permission, surely he could take it from her. He moved his mouth closer to her ear. “Offer it to me now.”

  She shook her head.

  “I will make your death a quick one, if you offer me what I want.” He spoke the words softly, into her ear. “Say it aloud. Say, ‘I give you my soul, Prince Ciro.’”

  Again she shook her head, and she whispered, “No.”

  Ciro sighed, and licked a few drops of blood from the tear in her throat. She didn’t have much time left to live, which meant she didn’t have much time left in which to offer him what he craved. She was not going to give him what she wanted, not to save herself.

  He smiled at her, quite genuinely. “Give me your soul, and I will spare those in this village who are not already dead.”

  Her dying eyes flickered for a moment, and Ciro thought perhaps he had won. And then the old woman glanced beyond him to the bodies of the dead and dying which surrounded her. He saw the moment when she realized that it was too late to save anyone.

  Her eyes met his, and surprisingly, she returned his smile. “Devil, man, beast. Whatever you are, whatever you have become... you can take my life, but you cannot have my soul.” She closed her eyes, and in spite of the horrors that surrounded her, in spite of the fact that she was dying, her expression transformed into one that was oddly peaceful. She tilted her head back and offered him what was left of her throat.

  Angry, Ciro took it. He drank every drop of her sweet blood. He gnawed at her throat as he had in the early days, tasting flesh long after she was dead. Tasting flesh long after he felt the soul he craved slip away from her and from him. He ate until his mouth and his stomach were filled, and yet he was still hungry.

  He turned away from the dead woman to find his soldiers, the ones who were tied to him and the demon, watching. Many of them were covered in the blood of their victims. Others wore no more than a splatter of blood here and there. He would have taken one of their souls to quench his thirst, but they had none left. The victims of their violence were either dead or nearly so, and he had no desire to touch their wounded bodies and take a battered soul.

  He wanted so much more.

  Ciro walked toward Fynnian.

  “Did you?” the wizard asked breathlessly. He was curious and excited and afraid. Had the monster he’d created reached new heights? Was he powered by the ingestion of a pure soul? The others in this room knew of the failure, as they were connected, but Fynnian did not. He did not feel what Ciro, the Isen Demon, and those joined to them felt as one. “Did you take it?”

  Without changing his foot
step or his facial expression, Ciro grabbed Fynnian’s shirtfront and pulled the old man to him. Without ceremony, without a word, he buried his teeth in the wizard’s throat. Fynnian fought, but it was no use. He tried to plead, to beg for mercy, but Ciro barely heard the words. He took the tainted soul he needed into his own body, took enough blood to ensure that Fynnian would not survive the feeding, and when that was done, he dropped the wizard’s almost-dead body onto the floor of the inn.

  Ciro walked out of the building feeling somewhat better. Not as well as he would have if he’d been able to take the old woman’s soul, but still... a bit better. He was stronger. He grew stronger with each passing day. The day would soon come when nothing could stop him.

  Two of his most loyal soldiers followed him out of the inn. “Next time, leave a few children alive, at least for a while,” Ciro said. If he’d had young ones to barter with, the old woman would’ve gladly offered her soul in exchange for their lives. It was not the same as taking that which was not offered, but it was a start. With the power of a pure soul added to those he had gathered over the past few months, he would be significantly stronger. He was certain of it. “We’ve taken everything we can from this village,” he said as he mounted his horse. Beyond the partially opened door, he saw one of Fynnian’s fingers twitch against the blood-spattered wooden floor. “Burn this building,” Ciro said as he led his horse away. He surveyed what was left of the village, the site of his legion’s first battle and the site of his latest defeat. He had so wanted to be able to take that soul for his own, but the night was not finished, and he had tasks yet to accomplish.

  “Burn it all.”

  ***

  The sentinels no longer seemed downhearted. Wisely, they were still afraid of what awaited them, but none had turned away from Ariana and her destiny.