Rock and mortar collected in mountainous mounds, forming vast landscapes of broken buildings and collapsed infrastructure. Pylons and wooden catwalks stuck out at odd angles like broken bones protruding from skin, pipes were intestines displayed for the air. Debris the size of city blocks formed cliffs, latticed with holes where tunnels and homes once were. Massive segments of the Upper-District lay in radical angles, leaning precariously, threatening further collapse. Much of the Lower-District lay far beneath them, crushed and pushed into the ground, forming a layered nest of destruction. The air was choked with the smell of dust. Wahala looked to her left, where a beautifully designed fountain from the Upper-District still poured water at a weakening trickle, mysteriously having survived. Throughout the ruin, golems near and far lifted boulders and walls, searching for people, useful objects, and whatever else Mal’Bal had commanded them to find.
Wahala’s vision blurred in and out and she winced as strange whistling filled her head. She hoped the wooden golem that had knocked her down had met with an ill demise.
“Gather into groups of six. You’ll each be assigned one of my creations.” Mal’Bal spoke to someone beyond Wahala’s sight. “Round up the fugitives of Kazma. We must replenish our armies, after all.”
“Wise you are, oh Lich-Lord.” the voice of a cult member spoke out, “Having left the Eastern gate free, you protected your investment of lives. I hope plenty see sense in joining us instead of choosing death.”
Mal’Bal grunted. “While you’re out, hunt for those within our army that used the opportunity of battle to run from me. Kill them. Cowards don’t deserve life.”
“Yes, master. As you wish.”
Wahala listened as the cult member’s footsteps retreated. Another approached Mal’Bal. He was a new recruit; one they’d picked up from a small village nearby. The man rung his hands nervously.
“Lord, the golems have excavated the remains of the Neck. They’ve found a deep hole leading to the belly of the earth. It’s all that’s left of the pipes. Near to it lays your puppet-servant.”
“Good.” Mal’Bal purred. “I’ll have the golems bring my child to me. Use the hole to dispose of all the bodies.”
“We mean to stay here?” the new cult member stuttered.
Mal’Bal backhanded the man, sending the cowering figure rolling down a pile of rocks. “Don’t talk back to me, you’re only here to receive orders.” the Lich-Lord spoke, voice calm like a father disciplining a son. “But yes, we do plan to stay. For at least a while.”
Wahala’s mind struggled to hold on to the slipperiness of reality and focus on what was happening around her. Mal’Bal was putting a pause on his campaign and gathering new troops. What was his reasoning to slow down? Losing momentum could be fatal to them. What if the king sent out his armies?
“Only one more of you may approach me. I have other business to attend to.” Mal’Bal commanded.
Was there was a line of cult members around them, waiting for their turn to talk to the Golden Agony and request guidance? How long had men and women been walking past Wahala, looking down upon her weak unconscious form? How humiliating. From the corner of her eye she saw twelve men approach Mal’Bal. They weren’t in black robes. Instead, they wore an assortment of torn ragged clothing. Many had missing teeth and earrings dangling from their lobes. They were dirty and unkempt.
“Mighty Star-Child,” one of them spoke. “we’re but common highway robbe—scavengers. We’re honored to be in your presence.” His voice was hesitant and stank of failed praise. Mal’Bal didn’t reply so the man continued. “Please, great one, master of all, destroyer of kingdoms, accept us into your fold. We have much to offer your cause.”
“You wish to be enlisted?” Mal’Bal asked. The man dipped, his companions doing the same.
“Yes, oh yes! We’re great as a unit, stealing the very lives from under the nose of our prey without them noticing. We know the lands round about and can pose as fugitives, drawing in your enemies.”
Mal’Bal was silent for a while. The tall cult leader kept his arms folded and he studied the group. “I assume you ask for payment in return?”
The robber bowed his upper body so low it threatened to tip. He waved his arms like windmills, making his appearance even more ridiculous. “But only a small fee m’lord. Naught much more than one gold piece per week.”
Instead of beheading the lot of them as Wahala would have predicted, Mal’Bal swept his gaze over her injured body and focused on her face. “While you were back in our homeland, did you gather gold?”
Wahala had to refocus her mind before nodding her weary head. “Y—yes.” she croaked. “I brought some.”
Mal’Bal turned back to the band of highway robbers. “You may join.” he spoke with a wave. He waved again, dismissing the crowd. Wahala heard many footsteps recede as people dispersed upon the Lich-Lord’s command.
“You let them steal from you?” Wahala rasped. “Their price is far too steep for what they offer.”
Mal’Bal smiled, not looking at her, but instead to the horizon. The reaction was strange, a far transition from his usual behavior. “They will serve their purpose. And when they’ve done so, they’ll either be dead by my campaign, or by my hands. They are fodder. When they lay broken, I will loot my gold from their corpses and return it to our coffers. They don’t know it, but they’ve sold me their lives for nothing.” The leader sighed. “Other thieves, murderers, and crooks have asked me this. I’ve denied none. For that, Wahala, I am wise.”
He motioned to the destruction. “Behold their stupidity. They didn’t even know the language carved above them, telling me exactly how their precious city worked.”
Wahala furrowed her brow. She hadn’t known the meaning to the runes either. How had Mal’Bal known? How many languages did he speak?
He turned to her and crouched, resting his arms on his knees. His face was pensive. It terrified Wahala. He was so… controlled.
“Oh, my dark butterfly.” he whispered, licking his lips. “You’ve done it, haven’t you?”
Wahala’s heart smashed against her chest. Her golden heart. It could feel the power from Mal’Bal’s necromancy prodding at it—scrutinizing. He could sense it.
“What did you do within our temple, Wahala? What forbidden rooms has my little snake slithered into?””
“M—master?” Wahala choked.
“Answer the question, Wahala.”
The control in his voice, his half-lidded stare… what had come over the man? Wahala had never felt more vulnerable in her life, had never felt as close to death. She knew she couldn’t lie to him. She knew he was too cunning, too alert, to be fooled. Had he known all along, since the beginning, what her plans had been? Had he known of her intentions before she’d known them herself? What was his scope? His vision?
Mal’Bal sighed and motioned with a hand. A smaller rock golem came forward. It wrapped its oblong arms around Wahala and lifted her with no effort. She hissed in pain as her body was moved. Her muscles coiled and tightened even further.
“You’ve betrayed me, Wahala.” Mal’Bal spoke. “Usurper. Heathen. Heretic. Fearful of change. Queen Priestess.”
When he said the words, Wahala closed her eyes. She’d been uncovered. There’d never been any chance. Perhaps Mal’Bal was too powerful—too knowing—to ever be stopped. She had Lenova as an example to her master’s ferocity and strength. He was a force of nature. He was the embodiment of death. The only question remaining was in what method would she be executed.
The golem walked and Mal’Bal kept pace, strolling beside her with his arms behind his back. The crunching of their feet rang out as they traversed the ruins of Kazma. They passed by a human arm sticking out from beneath a stone. Blood caked the entire area. Wahala, one who’d seen gore all her life, suddenly couldn’t stomach the sight. She looked away, into the bosom of the golem.
“You wanted my power. You wanted me gone. Why?” Mal’Bal asked.
Wahala, knowing there was nothing
left to lose, scoffed. “We’ve walked with, tamed, and fought monsters; yet they all pale in comparison to you, Mal’Bal. You’ve changed our ways! You’ve spat upon all we stood for! You ended our traditions! Your birth killed your mother, the last Queen and within the twenty years before another could be chosen, you killed all the acolytes—the possible successors.”
Mal’Bal barked and let out a small smile. “With growth comes change, Wahala.” His gaze roamed over her. “The Queens were weak. They had no vision. You were one of the many too fearful to accept that. You couldn’t adapt. Now, you must face your consequence.”
Wahala gulped and clenched her jaw. They left the ruins of Kazma and walked the vast plains of tents that were home to Mal’Bal’s forces. The cult taught that death was glory: a release from futile existence. Wahala would return to the void, cease to exist, and finally be at peace. No matter what happened, she would accept it. She would be noble in her martyrdom.
The golem crouched and they entered a large hexagonal tent. It was Mal’Bal’s gore tent, where he’d birthed the Golden Puppet. The golem lowered her onto the red-stained canvas floor, leaning her against the tent’s central supporting pole. Mal’Bal entered after her and closed the tent flap. She was bathed in warm darkness. The sweet, sickly smell of decay overwhelmed her senses, pushing its way down her throat and churning her stomach. It overpowered her and made her dry-heave. She pushed with her foot at a bent spinal-column resting nearby. Mal’Bal walked behind her and crouched, pulling a rope from beneath his robes and binding her arms together, tying her to the pole. He went to her legs and tied them also. Up close, the man reeked of rot, his smell equal to the tent. Tiny bits of putrid flesh clung to the small crevices and joints of his golden body. Had he been bathing in corpses?
“What is this?” Wahala asked, feeling feverish. Her abs and her lower back clenched and unclenched.
“Prepare yourself, little Queen. I’ll make an example of you to the public. They’ll see what happens when someone second-guesses my leadership.”
Then Wahala saw the depths of Mal’Bal’s eyes, beyond the carefully-layered wall of tranquility: a chasm of pure black. Mal’Bal took the persona of a demon, a terror, a God. He was in absolute control. He held Wahala’s feeble fate in his hands. Body vibrating in time with her burning muscles, Wahala faded into the dark, her last vision being of the Lich-Lord standing and smiling down at her, his grin growing wider and wider until it split into a chasm, swallowing her up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
An Idealist
—The creation of lead dentures allowed many in Lenova to have full sets of teeth once more and helped promote a greater practice of oral hygiene. House Regilus spent years assuring that the weight loss and joint pain many felt soon after implanting lead dentures was due to old age settling in. But the populace caught on that lead poisoning was rampant among the elderly. Threatened with the termination of their House, the nobles of Pania invented Soot-Shine, a charcoal-based drink with magical properties that nourished and cleaned teeth. There were no ill side-effects apart from occasionally black-stained teeth. The inventor of lead dentures was pulled out of his home and buried alive under all of his rejected product, leaving a slimy mess of saliva and toxic metal for the cleaners of Pania to deal with the next day.—
-Excerpt from The Evolution of Baser Lenovan Technologies, page 88
Finn, holding his reins with his one uninjured arm while balancing Goblin on the horse, slid sideways, tipping toward the dirt road rushing beneath him. He jerked back up, his body as weak as a bag of liquid, bouncing and wiggling with no sense of control. His chin hit his chest and his eyes fluttered as he tried to stay within reality. The pain in his body had faded, which Finn took to be a bad sign. He could no longer feel his chest where Mal’Bal had kicked him. Neither did his dislocated left arm send jabs of electric shards into his brain, telling him something was wrong. Blood soaked his leather pants and matted the horse’s mane and saddle—Goblin’s blood. The flow had slowed, which meant truly, his friend was dead.
The emotions that’d drowned him since the collapse of the Neck now sucked all the energy from him, leaving him a husk that could blow away at the slightest breeze. He didn’t know how to feel anymore. Was it rage or sadness leading him on? Or perhaps the memory of his friend, smiling at him as he returned to Pittance?
“I-can-talk! I-can-talk!”
Tears welled in Finn’s eyes and he sobbed, his vision blurring to nothing more than smeared color. Fear ran through him for Leeya, where to his left, she lay in the same position as Goblin, carried by Altin, who fared worse than Finn. Both Star-Children bled from multiple wounds, yet Leeya, whose side had been torn open by Mal’Bal’s hand, looked to be dead as well. The only sign she was alive was that blood continued to flow from her wounds, indicating her heart was working weakly. But for how much longer?
Altin turned to Finn. His face was so covered in dried blood, his featured were masked, making him nearly unrecognizable. His left eye was swollen shut and the other was blood-shot.
“Finn.” the boy croaked. “There’s a commotion ahead.”
Finn blinked the tears from his face and focused on the road in front of them. They were approaching a group of people blocking the path. Horses grazed nearby, their coats covered in sweat. The half-packed luggage strewn on the road indicated they were Kazman survivors. Among them were three soldiers, their armor battered and scratched. Finn and Altin were forced to slow their pace.
The three soldiers held between them a cloaked figure. Finn’s tired eyes widened. The figure was dressed in black. It was one of Kazma’s invaders. The soldiers beat at the man, punching his head and stomach. The figure tried to block the attacks but was kicked to the ground without mercy. Around the group, civilians cheered and spit at the cowering form.
“Please!” the cloaked man begged, “I ran away before the attack began! I had no part of it!”
“He lies!” one of the civilians shouted.
“Why’d you do it?” a soldier asked, smashing a stone against the man’s foot. The cloaked figure howled and grabbed at the broken appendage.
“Stop!” Finn croaked, not able to take the sight. He was tired, so tired of seeing pain. The people finally noticed him and Altin. They gazed upon them and someone whispered out “Star-Children.”
“I see your kind still lives while our families lie beneath the rubble of our once great city.” one woman spoke, the spite in her voice surprising Finn. Why was she directing her anger toward them? “Should you not be back at what remains of Kazma, fighting for us? What good is your power, oh Chosen?” She spat on the ground in front of them. The others around her nodded in agreement.
Beside him, Altin barked out a laugh. “We could be asking the same of you, cowards. If your families lie in Kazma, why are you so far from them? Did you leave them behind?”
The woman froze and her eyes flickered in pain and fear—with embarrassment.
“What are you doing to this man?” Finn asked one soldier, indicating with his chin to the prone figure holding his mangled foot.
“Interrogating him.” the soldier growled. “And you better move along and not interfere.”
“Or what?” Altin asked, his one open eye shining with anger.
The soldier took a step back and swallowed. “You look half-dead.”
“And do you think that gives you an advantage? Do you plan on fighting me?” Altin hissed, his voice low.
The soldier bared his teeth. “Be on your way then. We’ve already been hurt enough by your kind.” He turned and kicked the form on the dirt. “And his cult.”
Cult? Was that what Mal’Bal’s forces were? It made sense to Finn—the robes, scythes, strange deformations and replaced golden limbs…
“I told you!” the man cried out, “I was forced into service! I hail from Sodomona! It was join or die! I left before the battle! I didn’t kill anyone!”
“You joined them!” the soldier shouted. “You are one of
them, then! Do you see us wearing robes? We’re not like you—easy, bendable, weak-hearted! Again, I’ll ask you: why attack us?”
“It wasn’t me!” the man groaned. “It was the Star-Child, the Lich-Lord Mal’Bal! He travels the land and ends all in his path! He has no mercy nor no end!”
“What does he want?” another soldier asked. The cult member winced as a blow was aimed for his side.
“D—death! Only death! He doesn’t care for power or money!”
“All tyrants care for power and money!” a civilian yelled.
“How’d he do it?” the third soldier asked, crouching in front of the cult member and pulling out a knife. “How’d he destroy Kazma? Tell me or I’ll cut off your face!”
The robed man exploded into tears. “I don’t know! I don’t know! All I heard was he understood the runes carved on the Upper-District! He knew the ancient language as if it was his own! He knew of the DozDum pipes! I left before the army charged into your city, I swear!”
“He lies!” one of the civilians shouted. “His scythe is caked in blood!”
The cult member shook his head vigorously. “No! No! The blood’s my own! I fell upon the weapon as I fled! It wa—”
His voice was cut short as a bolt stabbed through his right eye, ending his life. His body flopped to the dirt. The soldiers jumped back, pulling out swords as the civilians shouted in fear. Finn spun in horror, turning to Altin—who held his crossbow, his body shaking from anger and exhaustion.
“This was taking too long. We must pass through. Where’s the next town?”
One of the soldiers dropped his sword and raised his arms to the air, his eyes full of terror. “E—EldenBurrow, lord. ‘Tis only three more kilometers East of us down the path.”
Altin nudged with his chin. “Move.” They did, giving Finn and Altin a wide berth. Finn, speechless at what had transpired, followed. They cantered forward, their horses whinnying in complaint. Behind them, the group of Kazman citizens watched them leave.
“You killed him!” Finn spoke, working up the words.
SunRider: Book 1 (The SunRider Saga) Page 25
