SunRider: Book 1 (The SunRider Saga)

by Hohmann, Rafael

  “It’s one of the new Star-Children.”

  “Is he strong? He doesn’t look it.”

  “He’s probably an Accessory. Bet he hasn’t activated his power yet.”

  Suddenly, Finn wanted to be in his cabin, alone and drawing no attention. Turning and leaving, the words of the other Star-Children following in his wake, Finn hurried off.

  As the days passed, Finn was more alone than he had ever been before. At least as a cave-diver, he’d not known the pleasure of friendship. Now with the experience taken away, he was left a shell. He had expected Altin to have stuck with him, especially after what they’d been through, but instead, from the moment Altin had awoken, he’d done everything he could to not associate himself with Finn. In fact, he spoke of Finn as if he were handicapped, telling the other Star-Children Finn merely found his bracer and had no power, making him an outcast and not a true member of the Coalition. From that moment on, Finn was shunned left and right. It was as if the Coalition was waiting, expecting him to slink off into the night and disappear. They wanted him gone. He didn’t belong.

  Finn’s desperate desire to learn drove him to ask a lone Star-Child, who sat watching a distance sparring match, how to activate his bracer. The wrinkled older man turned his head and his glazed eyes met Finn. Immediately Finn was assaulted with the desire to throw-up. He had no chance to ask anything else as he stumbled away into the bushes, gagging and trying to not fall over.

  After a lonely meal in his cabin—food mysteriously appeared in baskets in front of each home every morning, a power Finn attributed to one of the Star-Children—Finn went outside determined to find Altin and the group he spent time with. He had to develop his potential. He had to learn to fight. Finn had grown so desperate in his solitude that he’d taken to watching bouts from a distance and then trying to copy the moves within the secret confines of his room.

  He met Altin lounging under a tree with two other Star-Children. When they saw him approach, Altin looked away as if embarrassed while the others gave predator smiles. Finn felt it best to speak first. “May I train with you three? I want to learn to fight.”

  “Heard you’re not one of us.” one of the boys spoke. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

  “Bet you’d die practicing.” the other said. “Why don’t you bring me some food? Maybe if you get me something nice I’ll teach you not to cry.” The boy laughed at his own stupid joke.

  “Just get out of here.” Altin spoke in a cold tone, a far-away look to his eyes.

  One of the Star-Children opened a large pouch at his waist and whistled. The bag wiggled but nothing seemed to come out of it. Suddenly, it was as if Finn had been pelted by multiple small sharp rocks. He grabbed at his arms and jumped. Red lines were already forming. The boy whistled again and this time Finn swore he saw near-invisible tiny blurs come from the pouch. Again he was struck across his skin by what felt like many rocks. They stung and left a horrible itching sensation. Were they bugs? Perhaps some form of projectile? Finn backed away and the boy whistled again. Hit a third time, Finn was forced to run away while peals of laughter followed him.

  After a week of horrible neglect, Finn stalked Altin late into the evening, waiting for a chance to catch the long-haired older boy alone. He wanted to meet with Altin at a time where the other Star-Children weren’t around to influence him. As Altin went back to his cabin to sleep, Finn blocked him off, stopping in his path. Altin paused and eyed him coolly.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Why are you being this way?” Finn asked back, trying to not show how hurt he was by Altin’s actions.

  Altin shrugged. “Why do you assume we were ever friends, Finn? We stuck together because we were outcasts. I was forced into the situation and so were you.”

  “But after fighting together, escaping Kazma, making it here—don’t you care?” Finn hissed, anger creeping into his voice.

  “We’re not the same, Finn. You don’t belong and we all know it. I finally found a place for myself. Unfortunately, you happen to be in it.”

  “I’ve never wronged you!” Finn fought back.

  Altin clenched his jaw. “So? Life’s tough! Get used to it! When an opportunity to grow stronger comes by, you take it!”

  “And you don’t think I’m trying to seize this opportunity?” Finn snapped back.

  “I’m not talking about you!” Altin growled, walking past and forcing his shoulder into Finn.

  Finn was left alone in the darkening path, watching as someone he’d assumed was his friend walk away. That night he had nightmares of swirling faces: outpost miners and Kazman citizens moaned at him, asking why they’d died.

  Leaving his cabin late in the afternoon, the idea of leaving swirled through Finn. He struggled to fight it away.

  He’d only seen Salt twice since the day they’d first met. Both times, the man appeared to train the Coalition on battle drills, using Star-Children that’d once been part of militaries to help teach. With Salt’s hands-on-deck discipline and his loveable humor, he controlled the crowd as a shepherd to sheep.

  Because Finn had no practice, he stuck out like a gem in a vat-pig’s slop. His marching, his weapon holding, his stance—were all atrocious and earned him quiet laughs from the others. Altin, guided by his new friends on how to do the exercises, did fine.

  As each day passed, Finn’s loneliness grew stronger. So when he left his home one morning and saw Leeya limping outside, Finn nearly shouted for joy. He ran as fast as he could to her side, shocked at her weakened nature. Her beauty was still there: her hair was back in its ponytail, side-swept and with slight waves, her lips were still elegant lines, and she wore her same dark leather clothes—but her skin was a tone paler and her eyes were carefully guarded. A cloud surrounded her and she barely acknowledged Finn’s presence.

  She’d lost her home and family.

  Finn’s throat contracted. She’d already been an emotionally-closed person; with the fall of Kazma, how would she react?

  “Leeya, I’m pleased you’re awake.” He spoke the words cautiously. “For a while I thought that I—I mean we—had lost you.”

  Leeya studied her surroundings. “Is this Jakitta?”

  “Yes.” Finn replied, keeping his pace slow to match her.

  “It’s less than I imagined.” she stated flatly.

  “Leeya… I’m so sorry about what happened.” Finn spoke out, feeling pain for her. He knew exactly what she was going through. He’d seen Nozgull destroy the mining outpost within minutes. His hand moved forward to grab her arm and he forced it to stop and lower back down. “How are you?” He knew the question was stupid, yet didn’t know what else to ask. She was silent for a long time.

  “Mal’Bal’s wound has made me infertile.”

  Her words froze Finn in his tracks and he stumbled. Leeya’s slow walk and hunched shoulders spoke volumes: a cry for help—yet there was no show of emotion. Finn wanted to rush over and hug her. He wanted to fix all that’d happened. No one deserved such loss. No one deserved to carry such a burden. With it came rage: rage for all Mal’Bal had done to Lenova and to them personally.

  “I’ll kill him.” The words escaped his lips without permission. Leeya stopped. She turned around and her eyes blinked.

  “We’ll kill him together.”

  The statement brought a strange sense of bonding over them, two emotionally hurt forms standing alone, yet not.

  “I swear to you Leeya, I’ll stay by your side and fight until we’ve righted the injustice done to us.” The promise came without waver.

  Leeya nodded, as if her mind was still far away. She shuffled off and Finn joined her. Together they walked side-by-side, silent and united.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE:

  The Shadow in the Bed

  —Lords and Ladies bow and twist, learn thy fancy and flick thy wrist. Bend at waist, praise thy dancer, enjoy your night free from the necromancer. The Golden Tyrant cannot see, the defiance within me. Lords and
Ladies bow and twist, learn thy fancy and flick thy wrist.—

  -Secret dance performed by the many slaves of Mal’Bal, tune sung quietly late in the night as cult members sleep and enslaved couples dance, remembering better days.

  Something was burning within Wahala. Something that festered. Rage gripped her with more power than the pain from her torture. Her humiliation. Mal’Bal had made her a symbol to the entire cult. The Star-Child.

  She screamed and howled as Berula wiped her wounds and picked at excess silver with small tweezers. The noise escaping her haunted the camp and rang out across Kazma’s ruins, echoing through the ears of her people. Her shouts of agony made them cower and fear her. She was the scarred witch in the gore tent. The shadow of a failed coup. She was the disgraced Queen Priestess. Silver-Heart. Her noises must have been music to Mal’Bal’s ears, a lullaby to help him sleep at night.

  “Don’t move so much, Lady Wahala. I’ll end up stabbing your skin if you don’t hold still.” Berula chided as she dipped her instrument in a bowl of warm water to clean the blood.

  “What skin?” Wahala spat, her eyes gripped shut. “Touch me again and I’ll split your bones in half with necromancy!”

  Yet Berula went back to work wiping and prodding, doing what she could to fix the ghoul that’d once been Wahala. Berula didn’t flinch at the words and Wahala didn’t follow through with them. They both knew why. Wahala needed Berula and Berula needed Wahala: both to live.

  “I’m almost done.” Berula commented. She dug her tweezers against a mound of hardened metal that'd lumped above her tailbone. Wahala screamed again, her wails going through the thick tent canvas, shaking the poor Kazman slaves and new recruits.

  “Alright. That’s all I can do.” Berula spoke, standing away from Wahala’s cot. “The rest must mend with time. Your muscles are still far too frayed to allow you to stand. Here, let me bring a mirror for you to see the improvements.”

  “No!” Wahala groaned, rocking back and forth. “I don’t want to see again! I don’t want to!”

  “Lady Wahala, it’s far better than it was. Once the scabs heal, all that’ll remain are the silver stripes running across your skin. It’ll be an exotic beauty.”

  “Don’t try to comfort me! I’m no fool! I’m a monster! Look upon me!” Wahala shrieked the words, trying to lift her head. The motion was far too difficult and she sank back. Berula walked away.

  “See? You can’t stand me! Fear me, Berula!”

  The slave came back with a mirror. She clicked her tongue at Wahala and shook her head. “We must both accept the state of life we’re in Wahala. Don’t speak like that. You sound like the Lich-Lord.”

  The words froze Wahala with her mouth half-open. Berula held up the mirror and Wahala’s reflection stared back. Facing her was an alien gaunt face. The black storm of sorrow and fury rolled behind shadowed sunken eyes. Her cheekbones stuck out like knives and her once-silky hair looked as if it could crack like dried twigs. Silver stripes glowed on her skin, running in lines along her entire body. Scabs, bruises, and blood blisters pocketed every segment of her, yet there was no scar where her abdomen had been torn open. Where Mal’Bal had violated her with his golden hand, reaching, reaching, plucking out her heart. Her once proud beautiful golden heart. Now silver. Below gold. She was a monster, hardly resembling the Wahala that’d once been.

  “Hide me.” she spoke in the ancient necromantic language; words she’d learned in her temple studies when she’d disobeyed Mal’Bal. Her malformations disappeared behind clean beautiful skin. Her face was no longer skeletal. She was beautiful. But the eyes… the eyes didn’t change.

  “Lady, don’t use magic!” Berula gasped. “You need the energy to recuperate!”

  Wahala let go of the spell, her consciousness threatening to leave her. It was no use. There was no point in hiding how she looked; who she was: the last of an old tradition. She’d let her mother down. No, the dream wasn’t her mother’s anymore. It had been hers.

  “Get me water.” Wahala hissed.

  Berula disappeared, her feet treading on the red flood of the tent. She reappeared with a cup. The old woman held Wahala’s head while she drank.

  “Too bad we don’t have any of the duck I can smell outside. It seems some of the cult members have found another of Kazma’s food storage facilities. Do any of them grow their own crops or do they sweep the land like a plague, taking all nourishment and growth with them?”

  Berula’s question was worded in a way that made Wahala sound as if she was no longer part of the cult. An outcast. An individual in the same status as the Kazmans.

  “At home, we have animal farms and crops grown underground, lit by glowing lichen. We’re not simple barbarians with no skill or culture.” Wahala’s words sounded distant to her, as if she spoke of another people.

  “Do they dance, sing, love? I don’t think I can imagine it.” Berula asked, facing the tent flap.

  “We’re raised strict. But there are times…” Wahala winced and gripped the edge of the cot, a wave of pain washing over her. When it subsided, she continued. “when we celebrate our strength. Our race. Our ancestry and history.” Wahala’s voice cut out as she again thought of the past. Mal’Bal had cut it away from them. Gone: gone were the traditions and the way of her people. Star-Child.

  “We laugh and we love and we kill. We were a family overcoming the danger of the Kingdom of Rot.”

  The elder smiled softly. “What dark names you have. Was it all Mal’Bal?”

  “It was him that brought us to this accursed land, Lenova.” Wahala spat the words.

  Berula became somber and looked away, perhaps into the depths of her mind. “If not for him… If we’d known of your people so far to the South in the deadlands… perhaps friendship instead of war…”

  Wahala scoffed. “We’re not ones who ally themselves with the blind. Your people hold false beliefs and praise omnipotent beings in the sky that don’t exist. There’s nothing more than pain and death. It’s final and perfect.”

  “But you laugh and love.” Berula spoke, a gleam to her eyes. “We’re not so different after all.”

  “We’re nothing like each other! Blasphemous, weak, trash! You’re all a waste of resources! Your children are slugs, squelching in their filth! The women are squabbling crows and your men are easy to shatter! You all deserve death!” Wahala’s rage smashed over and over against the old slave but Berula didn’t waver, nor did she grow angry. Instead, she gave Wahala more water when she went into a coughing fit, mid-rant.

  “You’ll see, Lady Wahala. We can become friends and we can stop this suffering. But rest now, I must leave to tend to Mal’Bal’s puppet. The Lich-Lord had demanded it cleaned.”

  Wahala couldn’t reply. She didn’t know how to react to Berula’s courtesy. Instead she fell into a deep and restful sleep.

  Wahala was shaken awake. Berula stood above her, concern on her face. “Quickly, awaken! You have a secret visitor!”

  Wahala blinked her eyes. An outline of a male form could be seen from beyond the tent wall. It hovered there as if halfway ready to run at the slightest sound.

  “Salastine?” Wahala croaked.

  “Yes, my Queen.” the voice whispered back.

  Wahala smiled, her excitement rising. “You live! Did Mal’Bal not kill those loyal to me?”

  “Many of us live, my Queen. We are a shadowy people. In fact, Mal’Bal’s actions have given us far larger numbers than we could have ever dreamt of.”

  “Then where are they, Salastine? Only you speak to me, no others draw close. How come I have neither heard nor seen your people since Castor?”

  “Your people, my lady. They watch from afar. They are cautious—too aware of what would happen if they were caught. They wait for you to prove yourself to them.”

  Wahala made the move to argue but Salastine stopped her. “Don’t worry. After the assassination, your supporters will flood to your side.”

  Something stirred within Wahala.
Something she thought she’d never have again. Hope. Frail, easy-to-shatter hope. Yet she held herself in check. It was too soon to think about what could be, far in the future. Mal’Bal was strong and growing stronger every day. She was lower than the weakest member of the cult. She couldn’t influence anyone, much less her entire people. She couldn’t fight Mal’Bal herself either—that was an impossibility. Neither could she openly do anything without inciting Mal’Bal’s suspicion—perhaps causing more torture. She was stuck in a cot, prisoner and slave. There was nothing she could do but think. Already her frail hope was crumbling.

  “My Queen?” Salastine called out.

  What could she do then? She couldn’t think Mal’Bal to death. Neither was she yet strong enough in her necromantic ways to fight him with magic. She didn’t know enough. Wasn’t experienced like Mal’Bal, who had—against all rules and regulations—studied many forbidden books from the day he became cult leader until now. Yet an idea hit her. One risky enough to not cause another torture, but execution. The thought led to another and another, until sticky webs of a plan emerged—a means to winning; played from the shadows, manipulated through cunning, worked over by patience. Wahala smiled wide and she knew the action must have been horrifying. But it was alright: her scabs would heal. So would the cult.

  “Salastine. I need you to remain low.” Wahala spoke with whispered control. “Play the humblest of servants and the most loyal of cult members.”

  “Y—yes, my Queen.”

  “What’s Mal’Bal up to?”

  “He awaits your recovery so as to use you publicly as his servant. He’ll shame your title and status! I can’t bear to think of it without wanting his blood! He also sits within the middle of Kazma, wearing the All-Face mask all day—your rightful artifact! I’m afraid he’s trying to master its power and bear witness to all possible futures. Lenova’s armies are sure to come and he wishes a perfect campaign. But the mask isn’t for him. It wasn’t meant for anyone but the Queen Priestess. It warps his mind and carves furrows into his thoughts. I’m afraid he grows madder than ever before. He’s never been fit for leadership but with his growing insanity…”