The Sun Dwellers (The Dwellers Saga)

by David Estes

  Scattering my bow and arrows like a bundle of sticks, I draw my thin sword and slash it hard across the back of one of Trevor’s opponents. When he drops, I jam it into him again, ensuring his demise. When I pull my blade from him it’s slick with the blood of revenge, but it’s not enough. I jab it at his other opponent, the one who’s now missing a hand. He’s just staring at his severed wrist, babbling something, when my blade enters his gut. His eyes jerk to mine, as if surprised, but then he falls, dead before hitting the floor.

  Behind Trevor, Tristan swings his sword once more, this time connecting with the murderer, a brutal killing stroke.

  Trevor drops to his knees, his eyes glassy and fixed on mine. I cough, a choking sob that hurts my throat and head and soul, raise a hand to my chest, mouth Thank you, as tears run over my lips and tongue.

  His lips curling into an unexpected, beautiful and heart-wrenching smile, Trevor says, “Finish this,” and then collapses to the floor. I know there’s no saving him and yet I rush to him, try to pull the sword from his back. I’m crying and groaning and straining with all my might to extract the damn sword—why won’t it budge?—which is compacted in bone and muscle and Trevor. Oh God, why another friend, why not me? Why do I live while others die?

  On the edges of my vision I see Tristan whirling and spinning and fighting to keep the guards off of me. While I’m mourning my dead friend, the fight goes on. There’s no time for mourning.

  I pull myself away from my dead friend, who saved me and Tristan, who always helped to keep the mood light when everything was so dark, who my mom trusted with her life, who was willing to die for what he believed in.

  I’ll never forget you, Trevor, I silently promise. I stand and rejoin the fight, the hot coals of revenge burning in my heart.

  Chapter Twenty-ThreeTristan

  He’s dead. Despite all our differences and his sometimes annoying, sometimes funny jokes, the weight of his death rests on my shoulders like a coil of thick, metal chains. I feel like I should take the blame, assume the responsibility as the leader of my group, but I know that’s more self-loathing than I deserve. For the blame lies not with me, but with my father, the black-eyed snake. Through the net of guardsmen that surround us, I can still see him. He hasn’t moved from his perch. His legs are still crossed lazily, as if the turmoil, the violence, the death around him is just part of normal, daily life. When he yawns, I snap.

  I charge the line, intent on breaking through or dying in the attempt. Instead of fighting back, the guards merely block my strikes with their swords, wary of me but not afraid. Not willing to harm me, which is probably my father’s orders. He wants to break me before he kills me.

  I back off, bump into someone, whirl around, and find that it’s Adele, her face tearstained but not defeated. There’s an intensity in her green eyes that makes her appear dangerous. A huntress. With a single nod she tells me she’s ready to fight. And so am I.

  But before we’re able to attack, a garbled yell shoots from the back of the room. I whip my head in the direction of the sound. One of the guards has collapsed, having been stabbed in the back by an unexpected foe.

  Roc.

  Sword gleaming silver and red, he stands behind where the guard fell. He makes eye contact with me just as one of the men turns toward him. No, no, no! Not another; not my best friend; not Roc.

  Bonk! Something whacks the soldier in the helmet, knocking him off his feet. Roc didn’t move, so it must’ve been—

  “Tawni!” Adele yells, spotting her behind a pillar. “Run! Get out of here!”

  There’s a look in Tawni’s eyes that tells me she’s not going anywhere. As if to prove it, she hefts something over her shoulder and chucks it with two hands, narrowly missing another guard.

  That’s when all hell breaks loose.

  The guard that was nearly hit by what turns out to be an apple-sized metal ball—who knows where Tawni got it—charges toward her. Roc, who seems to be filled with more courage than all of us combined, steps in front of the guard, who’s nearly twice his size, and swipes at him with his sword. The guy dodges the blow casually, professionally, and then slashes at Roc’s head. He barely ducks under it, his eyes big and wide and scared. He’s just realized he’s way out of his depth. Tawni continues launching metal balls at anyone wearing red, hitting a few, but mostly missing.

  I sprint toward where Roc is now blocking heavy killing blows, trying to use his quickness to keep his opponent on the move. Although Tawni and Roc have eliminated a few of the guards, there are still at least twelve upright and fighting—three of which bar the path to my friend. The clang of metal on metal rings out behind me—Adele’s got a fight of her own.

  How has everything gotten so out of control? I wonder. The world is falling apart at the seams, and we—a few teenagers—are supposed to stop it? How we ever thought we could succeed, I do not know. But now all that exists is fighting and death and using my last breaths to reduce the size of my father’s guard force.

  Holding my sword with my left hand, I extract a throwing knife from my belt and snap it at the centermost guard, hitting him in the throat. He falls backward, breathing more blood than air until he dies. I still want to get to my gun, but, strapped to my ankle, it’s too far away. Why didn’t I holster it higher up? So stupid.

  The other two men close from each side, spinning their swords like batons, clearly well-trained in the art of sword fighting. I fake a swing at one, go for the other, who blocks my attempt and counterattacks with a three-cut combination, which I parry while stepping back to avoid a slash from the other guy.

  Feeling a presence behind me, I risk a glance back to see Adele cut down one of the four men she’s fighting. Considering our disadvantage in numbers, we’re doing pretty well. A sliver of hope rises in me, just large enough to delude myself into a vision of victory where dozens of dead guardsmen lie in red piles on the floor; my father shrinks back, cowering in his throne like the coward that he is; me, stabbing him through the chest, my mother’s name on my lips—Jocelyn Nailin—as I kill my last remaining parent.

  When hope rises, that’s when things tend to fall apart. A hard lesson.

  One of my foes gets inside my sword range, slices my arm, which sends icy, searing, real pain through my nerves and nearly makes me drop my sword. I manage to switch my grip to my other hand, however, warding off his next stroke. But then I trip on something—no, no, not something; Trevor’s dead body—and stumble backward. The guards are on me faster than a starving man on a stale loaf of bread, their sword points under my chin.

  Before I die, I have to see her once more. I turn my head and her sword is knocked from her hand, as five—or is it six?—guards surround her. I can’t watch this, can’t watch her die—kill me first, for God’s sake, do it! DO IT! The scream is in my head, but I hear it echo throughout the room as if I really did yell.

  Then I realize it’s not an echo; it’s Roc, yelling “Do it!” and “Kill me!” repeatedly. I follow the sound between the legs of the guards who have me at their mercy. Past them, Roc lies in a similar position to me—on his back, weaponless, blades at his throat—and is screaming his head off, his gaze to the side. I trace the line of his gaze to where Tawni is backed up against a pillar, on the verge of death, just like the rest of us. Roc doesn’t want to see her die any more than I do Adele.

  I close my eyes, try to picture the good memories of my life: my mother, singing my brother and me a gentle and soothing lullaby before bed; playing tag and hide-and-seek with Roc in the palace gardens, finding him tucked away in the dead center of a thorny rosebush, no clue as to how he got in there; Adele’s face, the first time I saw her, the first time I kissed her.

  “Enough!” my father screams from only ten feet away. My eyes flash open. “Enough,” he repeats. “While admirable, your heroics are fruitless. You’re beaten. Accept it. You’ve had your fun and now it’s my turn. Guards! Bind them!”

  What? He’s not going to kill us, just tie us up? At
first the airy bubble of elation swells up in my stomach—my friends not dead; Adele not dead—but then I realize: he wants to destroy our minds before destroying our bodies. Psychological warfare: my father’s favorite. The bubble pops and I’m left feeling sick.

  Strong arms lift me, roughly twist my arms behind me, shackle my hands together. Around me, my friends are getting similar treatment.

  “Relieve them of their weapons,” my father orders. A guard on each leg, they start low, removing the knife lashed to my calf, the handgun from my ankle holster, the series of various-sized knives from my belt, the bow and arrows from my back. They already have my sword. I glance over at Adele, who’s not making it easy on her guards, squirming and insulting them as they carefully search her. Grinning, one of them grabs her breast.

  “Leave her alone!” I shout, which is unnecessary, because Adele kicks the guard in the groin, dropping him to his knees, and then, before the other guards can step in, slams her heel into his face, rocking him back.

  “My nose!” he screams, blood gushing between his fingers. “She broke my freakin’ nose!”

  A rush of pride courses through me. That’s my girlfriend.

  Adele

  “Bravo,” President Nailin says, clapping slowly. “Son, you’ve picked a real firecracker. Too bad she’s a filthy moon dweller.”

  Tristan turns away from me to face his father, says, “You wouldn’t know filth if your face was covered in mud.”

  “What did I say about your temper?” the President says.

  The guards work on tying my feet together, determined not to let me break anymore noses. Next time I’ll use my head, I think. When I glance over at Roc and Tawni, Roc’s already bound and weaponless, feet and hands clapped together with thick rope. The guard who’s searching Tawni is as big a pervert as the one I had, his hands still lingering mid-thigh, caressing behind her legs and moving up…

  “Knock it off, horn dog,” one of the other guards hisses. “She was throwing those cannonballs, she doesn’t have any weapons.”

  The perv guard stands up, smirking, and gives Tawni a quick final pat down, being sure to hit only her curves. I want nothing more than to run to her, kick the sick smile off his face, but my feet are tied now, and I’d only serve to fall on my own face if I tried. Tawni just takes it, her eyes closed, her face expressionless. I hope she’s found a happy place to go, somewhere far, far away from here.

  Tristan’s still trading terse remarks with his father. “You’re killing innocent people,” Tristan says, trying to reason with the unreasonable. Perhaps somewhere inside he still hopes his father can be rehabilitated.

  “I had no choice. They were going to rebel. You know as well as I do that the New City depends on the natural resources the Lesser Realms provide.”

  “The Lower Realms, Father. Not lesser.”

  “You’re a fool, Tristan. You’ve given up everything for a girl, and a moon dweller, no less. You could have ruled the world!”

  “At what cost? The blood of so many is on your hands. You killed Mom? What the hell is wrong with you?” Until this point there’s only anger in Tristan’s tone, but upon mention of his mother, a hint of profound sadness creeps in.

  The President smiles, his teeth bright white under the glare of the spotlight. “You don’t know what she did, Son. When you hear it, you’ll hate her. You’ll know that she had to die.”

  “I’ll never think that,” Tristan says. “Anything she did, she did for the right reasons.”

  “Even if she did it to you?” his father says, his evil smile returning.

  Tristan

  I’m scared of what my father will tell me about my mom. In my memory, she’s perfect, and that’s how I want to keep her. Anything he says to tarnish her reputation will only make me hate him more.

  As we shuffle down the long corridor, our tied-up legs only able to take miniature steps, I wonder what she could have possibly done to me that would make me angry at her. All she ever did was love me, care for me, try to give me a good life, provide a buffer from my father. Regardless of what my father says, I vow to forgive her for it, if forgiveness is even necessary.

  My thoughts turn to Adele, just a step behind me. These are my last moments with her, for I know my father will kill her or me, or both of us. He’ll do it in front of each other, forcing us to watch, destroying one of our minds while he destroys the other’s body. But I’ll not go down without a fight. They’ll have to hold me down with four men, one for each of my limbs, or I’ll break through, rip my bonds to shreds, kill everyone in my path. That’s what I’m feeling now.

  The corridor ends and I realize where we’re going: the council room. Although my father holds most of his one on one and smaller meetings in the throne room, he conducts larger meetings with his advisors and vice presidents in the council room.

  We enter the room, which is large enough to hold a couple of hundred people on lofted risers, which look down upon a square flat area in the center. Typically my father would walk around in the middle, waving his arms and shouting speeches about the rights of the sun dwellers and new taxes he’s planning on imposing. The sun dweller vice presidents would cheer and clap and shout their agreement with his every idea. Now the room is empty and silent, save for us and the sound of our footfalls on the wooden steps descending to the center, which I’ve always called the pit.

  Approaching the pit, my father veers off to the right, takes a seat in the first row. I start to follow, but the guard behind me nudges to continue down. I pause but then obey, wondering what my father has in store for us. Whatever it is, it will be messed up, something only a madman would derive as punishment for disobedience.

  When I reach the pit, I look back and up, expecting the rest of my friends to have been ushered down, too, looking forward to one last chance to get close to Adele, to perhaps tell her how I truly feel before it’s all over.

  I frown when I see how things have been arranged.

  My father, still sitting in the first row, is flanked by a guard on each side, followed by Adele and Tawni on opposite sides. Another guard caps things off on each end. The next two rows behind them are filled with more guards. And coming down the steps to meet me in the pit: Roc, his face whiter than I’ve ever seen it, clutching two swords awkwardly with his bound hands.

  It doesn’t take a mining engineer to figure out what the plan is.

  We have to fight each other. Not like our fun and spirited training fights, but a real fight. And knowing my father it will be to the death.

  Adele

  I can’t watch this. It’s too much. If my hands weren’t tied behind the chair, my feet clamped tightly together, I’d jump up, give my own life in an attempt to save them. I close my eyes when the President’s voice cuts the air beside me.

  “Now for tonight’s entertainment,” he says, almost gleefully. “Son of the President against servant. Friend against friend. Traitor against traitor. However you chop it up, this has real potential for the dramatic.”

  “I think you mean son of the President against son of the President. Did you forget that Roc is your son, too? No, I won’t do it,” Tristan says from below. I open my eyes. Based on the fierceness of his eyes, I know his words are a promise.

  “We’ll see about that, you stupid boy,” the President says. “But first, I promised you a story, did I not?”

  He stands, a big man with a small mind, ready to deliver the psychological knockout blow before the real fight even begins.

  “Your mother…” he says, starting slowly. He pauses, looks at Tristan and then directly at me, his eyes lingering on mine. (It creeps me out if I’m being totally honest.) “…was a bad woman.”

  “Shut your mouth!” Tristan growls from below. “She’s dead at your hands, can’t you let her rest in peace?”

  The President smiles. “I could…but I won’t. Now, another outburst like that from you, and I’ll slit your little girlfriend’s throat.” The cold edge of a steel knife slides along
my throat, as one of the guards demonstrates the truth of his threat.

  Tristan’s face reddens, but he closes his mouth.

  “As I was saying, Jocelyn Nailin, my wife—God rest her soul—was a bad woman.” He pauses, stares at his son as if daring him to refute his remark, continues. “Do you remember the gift I gave you for your fifteenth birthday, Tristan? The trip we took? Don’t say it out loud, for not all in this room are privy to our little secret, although I suspect you’ve already told your friends.”

  Tristan only nods. The earth dwellers. He’s talking about when he took the whole family to the New City.

  “A worthy gift, if I do say so myself,” Nailin says. “Well, your mother—ah, your mother always was a feisty one—she didn’t appreciate me keeping things from the people. As you know, she threw a temper tantrum and I had to put her in her place.”

  “You abused her,” Tristan says through a clamped jaw.

  “Abused, punished, call it what you want, but she deserved it. She was meddling in things she didn’t understand. Anyway, I thought she had gotten the message to butt out, but as it turns out, her meddling was only just beginning.”

  He sighs, looks at me again. “You see, she started visiting with one of my top scientists, a genius, a man who always seems to deliver when I need him to create something for me.” His eyes are the same color as Tristan’s, I realize suddenly, but they look so different, so much darker and full of hate, whereas Tristan’s seem to invite me in, almost sparkling with goodness. Strange how two identical sets of eyes can give off such opposite vibes.

  He continues: “Your mother, the weasel”—he raises a finger as if to warn Tristan from refuting his insult—“went to my scientist, and said I needed him to build something for me. None of this was true, of course, but he believed her, because why wouldn’t he? What wife goes behind her husband’s back and lies to his employee?”