Dark Sun Rising

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Dark Sun Rising Page 20

by K M Martinez

Slowly, Mel unsheathed her swords.

  The creature struck, bringing its entire body down on the spot where Mel stood. Mel leapt away just in time, and resumed her hopping run toward the other side of the lake.

  But somehow the creature kept pace. Its eyeless head re-emerged to her right, slithering along as quickly as she ran. It was trying to get in front of her. Mel jumped over the last honeycomb cave mouth, past the lake, and landed on one of the smooth waterfall formations in the sand. She hoped this meant the creature would stop hunting her.

  It didn’t.

  The creature attacked, entirely destroying the rock formation she was on, sending her tumbling onto her back in the sand, the air knocked out of her lungs, the swords falling from her hands.

  She tried to get up, but found she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed. She could only watch in horror as the creature dropped its heavy body down on the sand and slithered toward her, the skin on its head pulling and contorting, shifting and changing, pulling into itself, a sweaty ball of flesh. And then, grotesquely, the thing started taking on a human form. A female form. It sprouted human arms and legs from a naked, black-veined torso. Then a head with long, disheveled hair and a pale, black-veined face. A large, deep wound gaped where the left eye should have been, and it seeped black blood. The other eye glowed red and malevolent.

  She was hideous, and Mel could hardly stand to look at her. Evil came off the woman in waves, pushing up against Mel’s body, mind, and soul. Mel knew that the mere presence of this woman could corrupt a person.

  She’s a Lost Soul, Mel thought. A strong one, too, if she shifted into that thing.

  She went through the archive in her mind, trying to remember how to protect herself from Lost Souls, but when there was one right in front of her, staring at her with red-eyed hate, it was very difficult to pull up the information. So instead she slowly reached for the swords in the sand.

  “A human,” the Lost Soul said. Her voice was a cold whisper.

  Mel’s hand tightened over a hilt. One would do. She could cut the Lost Soul’s head off with just the one sword. She could.

  The Lost Soul walked closer. “A Kale,” she said, in that same cold whisper. “I hate Kales.”

  Closer, just a little closer, Mel thought.

  When the naked woman was in Mel’s space, Mel struck. She drove her sword toward the woman’s neck. Her aim was true. But—

  But her sword stopped in midair, an inch from the Lost Soul’s neck, as if it had hit an invisible wall.

  The Lost Soul looked at Mel with a terrible smile. “Stupid girl.” And with a flick of her hand, she sent Mel flying backward into a rock formation with a power that ground her bones.

  Mel gasped, trying to breathe in air, but she was pinned to the rock. The pressure on her chest was suffocating.

  “What to do with you…” the Lost Soul said teasingly. “I could kill you.”

  The pale, dead woman ran a fingernail between Mel’s eyes and down the bridge of her nose. Then she smiled that terrible smile and hovered her hand over Mel’s forehead.

  Pain.

  Instant pain.

  The feelings of insanity Mel had been keeping at bay came alive. And another power reached inside her, an alien feeling, of another’s consciousness.

  She’s trying to possess me!

  “You will find the creature that did this to me,” the Lost Soul said, touching below her wounded eye. “You will attempt to bring it to me alive. I don’t think you will survive.”

  Mel raised her eyes to the Lost Soul. She saw the smile twist her black lips and knew the creature was giving her an impossible task.

  “But if you should succeed, it will make a wonderful pet.”

  The woman’s hand glowed red as Mel struggled to control her own will. But the Lost Soul’s intent burrowed unrelentingly, driving Mel to the deepest recesses of her mind.

  Darkness. A silhouette of a dark creature with gold eyes, its silver teeth shining with saliva. Black blood dripping from its lips. A ferocious growl… and the creature attacked.

  Then the Lost Soul put her hand down, and the dark presence receded.

  Mel fell to the ground, mind and body her own again. Her hands clenched the dry sand. The pain and ugliness of having the Lost Soul in her mind and body still clung to her, and she shook with rage and hate at the violation.

  “Now, my pet,” the Lost Soul said lazily. “Seek.”

  Mel realized the Lost Soul believed she had possession of her. Mel grabbed her blades, and for a brief moment she thought about taking her sword to the red-eyed woman’s neck again. But she knew it would mean her life.

  So instead she rose, and without looking at the Lost Soul, ran swiftly away.

  ****

  Mel ran for hours, her fear spurring her on. She wanted nothing to do with the Lost Soul. The red-eyed woman was too powerful, and the further away Mel got from the woman, the better.

  The thrum in her body pulled her steadily toward Tenebrae Transeunt. She could see the gate through the trees overhead, glowing blue in the night. The land had turned back into forest, and the thick brush scratched her legs.

  That was when she heard a man’s scream. She ducked down behind a fallen tree, sweat dripping down her back as she looked in the direction the scream had come from.

  Another yell sounded, pitiful and full of pain.

  Mel moved slowly toward the source of the sound, keeping low. When she heard the telltale screech of a Malum, she slipped beneath a dried bush.

  From here, she could see a wounded man lying in the middle of a ruined campsite. Three tents, haphazard and broken, circled a dying campfire. The man held a gored leg, and a large Malum was lazily sloshing its tongue through the man’s wounds. When the man wailed, the demon gave no reaction.

  Mel knew without a doubt the man must be Eighth Clan. But where were his clansmen? And would they be back anytime soon? Mel didn’t have a clue, but the chance to question someone from the Eighth—someone who might know where Charlotte was—was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

  She crawled out of her hiding place, her swords still in her hands. The Malum was massive; she would need to make this quick. Besides, it seemed likely there were other demons in the vicinity.

  She moved quietly toward the camp, the man, and the demon. Just before she reached it, it turned its white eyes to her and opened its mouth to screech. Mel swung her sword, slicing off its lower jaw. Black blood streamed down as the demon scrambled away and out of view. Mel started to follow, but the Malum quickly scampered away into the forest.

  Mel headed back to the man, who had stopped screaming. He lay on his side, still holding his wounded leg, resting his head on the ground as if he meant to sleep. Mel knelt down a few feet from him and studied his filthy face. He was middle-aged, with a grizzled beard and weathered skin. His dark clothes were tattered and threadbare, and his boots were nearly worn out of the soles.

  Mel poked his good leg with her sword. “Where’s my cousin?”

  The man blinked slowly, eyes clouded in pain.

  Mel repeated the question.

  “I don’t know your cousin,” he said roughly.

  Mel placed her blade flat-side down on the man’s good leg. She didn’t think she could torture him for the information, but he didn’t know that.

  His eyes widened, then he said, “I saw a Kale woman, but others took her toward the gate. That’s all I know.”

  Mel didn’t sense any deceit. She moved her sword off of his leg. “What are you doing here? Where are your clansmen?”

  The man breathed heavily, wincing as he shifted positions. Then he turned his head and vomited. When he finished heaving, he looked mournfully at Mel’s canteen, which she didn’t offer. Nor did she raise a hand to assist him.

  “We were sent to speak to a Lost Soul,” he said harshly. “We had stopped for the night when the Malum attacked. The stone my master gave me didn’t repel them as it should.” The man opened his hand to display a stone.
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  “That’s just granite,” Mel said. She was beginning to suspect that this man and his clansmen were fools. Fools playing in matters they knew nothing about. But aren’t we all?

  She felt something pull her lightly in the direction from which she’d come. Like a slight tug of a string tied around her neck. It felt unmistakably like the power of the Lost Soul.

  Mel resumed her interrogation. “Who’s the master?”

  “I don’t know,” the man said.

  Mel narrowed her eyes.

  “I swear! I don’t know him. I’d never laid eyes on him until a few weeks ago, and even then he never told us his true name.”

  Mel looked off toward the gate. The sun was coming up again, the orange glow peeking over the horizon, painting the dead lands a charcoal gray. She had been in this abyss a day now, and had been lucky to survive up to this point. She surely should have met her death by the red-eyed woman; it was only the Lost Soul’s arrogance that had kept her alive. Mel couldn’t hope that she would experience the same with the other creatures in this dead land.

  She rose to her feet, still gazing at the hazy blue light of Tenebrae Transeunt. There was still so much distance to travel, and so little time. She started to move on.

  “Please,” the man begged, desperate and afraid. “Don’t leave me here!”

  Mel’s body ran cold, but she didn't stop. There was nothing she could do for him. He had made his choice, and now he had to live with it.

  ****

  Mel ran for a few more miles before she found the other Eighth Clan bodies scattered on the ground, freshly killed. There were six of them: four men and two women. The Malum who’d done the killing were nowhere to be seen; more than likely they’d eaten their fill.

  The worn bronze weapons by the humans’ fallen bodies proved they’d never had a chance. They had been sent to treat with a Lost Soul in a land where Malum ran rampant, with nothing but bronze swords and faux stones. How could they have been expected to survive?

  Mel realized she was starting to feel pity for these people, and there was no room in her for pity. She needed to remind herself that they had done this to themselves. Besides, she had a job to do. She couldn’t let her feelings get in the way.

  As she began to continue forward, she felt a stir in the air. The newly risen sun was blacked out of the sky by a dark cloud, and the unbearable heat turned cold in an instant—so cold that Mel’s breath turned to mist.

  Sensing something behind her, she turned around, raising her sword, and swinging into—a black mist. Her sword passed right through it, and then, right before her eyes, the mist coalesced into a figure. No… a ghost. Dark and black, like everything of evil in these lands. A hazy head formed, pale and ethereal, with glowing white eyes like the Malum’s. So full of hate. Its claw-like hands stretched toward her, its mouth open wide like it meant to swallow her whole.

  Mel’s weapon had no effect on it, so she did the only thing she could think to do: she turned tail and ran.

  But there were three other ghostlike creatures in her way, fluttering like clothes in the wind. One flew directly at her… and inside her.

  Mel fell on her back, gasping for air. Cold. A coldness she’d never felt before spread through her limbs. And the ugly violation of possession pressed steadily into her head.

  No! No no no no no…

  She felt the creature take control of her body. It forced her to her feet, pulled off her veil, and dropped it to the ground. It cast Mel’s gold swords away like trash. She felt her mouth curve into a smile as it looked, with her eyes, at its comrades.

  It stepped forward… then staggered and fell.

  That’s me, Mel thought. I did that. I made it fall.

  She felt the flame grow inside her. It was always there, just underneath the surface, and now she fanned that flame. The fire burned and burned, heating her body, and burning the dark creature alive. It screamed, tearing out of her, leaving her a little weakened, but whole.

  She rose to her knees as the screaming creature melted into a thick oily substance that boiled and popped before finally settling into a thick, motionless puddle.

  The other three creatures were nowhere to be found.

  The temperature was back to sweltering, and the sun was out again. Mel got up and retrieved her veil and her swords. She took a deep breath and tilted her face toward the sky. The sun felt good on her face, and she felt her heart slow as the last bit of apprehension slipped from her.

  Only for it to seep right back in again when she heard a rustle.

  She turned toward the sound. One of the dead Eighth clansman was trying, unsuccessfully, to get to his feet. Two more were propping themselves up from their fallen positions. They were grotesque, having been ripped open by the Malum, their bloody and gaping wounds on display. And their eyes were the glowing white, hateful eyes of the ghostlike creatures.

  Their wounds apparently did nothing to hinder their movements; the first one charged toward her at breakneck speed with its bronze sword swinging. Mel parried its blade and sliced into its chest. But the wound she’d caused did no more to stop the reanimated corpse than its existing wounds did.

  She blocked another strike and kicked the creature away just in time to meet the second and third corpses. She fought using both swords, dancing around their blades, twisting and turning, rolling to empty space to avoid being surrounded. She blocked a blade directed at her side while meeting another blade aimed at her neck. Always in motion, never stopping. She didn’t let the three overwhelm her, and when she cut off the sword hand of one and sliced off its leg, the corpse fell, and the dark creature left it, screaming in anger, leaving the body motionless on the ground.

  Mel then turned her focus on their limbs. She cut off the leg of another, and it fell with a scream. But the last was avoiding her strikes. She was so focused on it, relishing the thought of killing the creature and being on her way, that she almost missed a fourth reanimated corpse running at her. She turned and met yet another blade, then angrily cut off the creature’s head. Its body fell heavily to the ground, motionless.

  As the other corpse came closer, she quickly decapitated it as well. That left only two bodies to reanimate—and both were already up and moving.

  She didn’t wait for their attack. She moved quickly and with purpose. Swinging her right sword, she met bronze once again. The bronze was weak, and the blade cracked and broke. Mel spun and blocked the sword of the second corpse with her left, then dove toward its leg and brought her sword clean through. The second corpse fell, and Mel kicked its sword away, just in case.

  The last corpse, now weaponless, tackled her to the ground. Mel used its momentum to wheel the body above her and over a ledge. It was only a ten-foot drop, but the angry wail of the dark creature told her it was enough.

  Mel sheathed her swords and re-wrapped the veil around her face. The dark, ghostlike creatures had returned, but they had no bodies to possess. They stared at her angrily, floating in the air, well away from where she stood.

  “We know what you are,” one said, its voice like the wind. “We are not afraid of you.”

  Mel gave them a long, hard stare before turning away.

  They did not follow.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The sun was shrouded behind a cloudy sky, and the world was cast in a dimness that matched the gloomy air that had descended over the camp. Four days had passed since the gruesome deaths had been discovered in the clearing, and everyone was asking the same question: Why?

  It wasn’t a question asked simply. It wasn’t a how come? with a curious, high-pitched curl at the end. It was a forceful, angry, pain-filled question. Everyone was looking for someone to point their anger and indignation toward.

  Some blamed Anton Morel. When Anton was brought into camp with the Traitor’s Mark for all to see, the responses were immediate, with many descendants spitting on him and others screaming obscenities. Not everyone was so quick to judge, but Gabe and his family were. They kn
ew he was to blame; Mel had made sure of it.

  Unfortunately, the Council had instructed them to keep quiet about what they knew until the investigation was over. Gabe and Victor didn’t give a shit about what the Council wanted, but their respect for Grandma Mari forced them to hold their tongues.

  Gabe now waited for Siva at the Clan Mayme tents. As he ran his hands through his disheveled hair, he hoped the clouds didn’t bring rain; it smelled like the skies were going to open up any second. The heat was already unbearable, and the humidity that would come after a downpour would make short tempers even shorter. His was getting shorter by the day, and his patience with the Council of Elders was running thin.

  He, Victor, and Thrash had talked about it last night at dinner, and they agreed that if the Council didn’t release any information soon, they would tell those few they trusted within the other clans. They had already spoken to Clan Kale. Victor especially was keen to share what they knew; he feared that in the absence of the truth, the Eighth Clan would point the finger at Mel.

  They were both also convinced that Rudolph Kelser was Eighth Clan. Kelser had insisted on taking the lead in questioning Anton. Kelser treated Anton like he was the victim, and not surprisingly, got absolutely nowhere with his questioning. Anton would only say he couldn’t remember, and would blame his loss of memory on head blows. Grandma Mari insisted Anton’s questioning be continued by someone else, but the Council’s verdict was still out on that. Just one other thing to add to the growing pile.

  “Gabe.”

  Siva was walking toward him. She looked a little worse for wear, but still beautiful to Gabe’s eyes. He had learned a lot about what kind of woman she was the last couple of days, and admired her strength and grace. He was there when she broke the news of her uncle’s death to her father, Sandeep Reddy. Siva’s father was a leaner, meaner version of Hemanth, but he broke down like a child when he learned of his brother’s death. Gabe stood by while Siva and her father shared their grief and anguish. He felt like an intruder and outsider… until the Mayme woman looked up at him and took his hand.

 

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