The dead have always moved in droves, tirelessly treading the gray soil in loose armies. But after smelling our flocks…four centuries—four centuries wandering the uncountable hallways and corridors of our temple, not daring to walk outside lest we be torn to nothing. Their hands beat at our walls for so long, the noise became part of us. What blasphemy: only on the first day of the year is one chosen one to die at the mercy of the corpses. To die by their hands at any other time is sacrilegious, a blot upon our ancestry. We were therefore imprisoned.
With the size of our home unknown, spreading far below us into the ground, there are still thousands of kilometers of hallways and passages left unexplored. Many a man and woman have dedicated their confinement to mapping the temple. Most do not return. I imagine their mummified corpses rest far in the dark beneath our feet, flies birthing on their cheeks. Four centuries of launching our flaming arrows and tar upon the waves beating on our walls. Millions, we must have killed millions. And now, after so many Queens have died without stepping foot outside, the numbers of the dead are small enough to once again control through necromancy. I have spoken the words which we didn’t have the means to speak before. Pia-pun, abardeth fa-laram. Return to your dark and your hunger. Not here, not here. And the other words: Fugo-neh. Burn peacefully.
And now our people thrive once more. As I write, groups of explorers leave the temple and use ancient maps, travelling to the East, the West, and the far South Outposts. Lifetimes ago they contained records, storage, and small colonies. I doubt any of the colonies live. Without the temple’s support, they would have fallen many years ago. I myself, in the interest of feeding our lack of knowledge, travel North, to lands uncharted, where the clouds thin out and break, exposing a sky with color we do not have a name for.
I Zul’Ska find myself walking upon plants. Here the land feeds itself and grows, still alive. It’s a deep contrast to our home, a place transcended into its decay. Perhaps in a time far in the future when the sky has met the earth and all the dead have turned to dust, new life will rise from the rotted meat of our home.
Far-off to a grove of budding trees I spot a small village. It is spry and energetic and the families are fresh with the sweet air. I will speak to them cautiously, for their ways are not our ways, and greatly offend me.
I Zul’Ska keep away from the people of Lenova—as is what they call this place. We do not get along. They see life where we see potential for beautiful end. They believe and waste their energy making great strides in religion. Fools, there is but death. Many of them are afraid. They say something strange has come over their land—a threat from the sky. Bracers.
The text is too faded to read.
Here also the text is too faded to read. The only words made out are: controlling the people, sweeping across, the battle rages on, many follow him and others follow the one who, the people establish a king, and powers from the bracers.
I Zul’Ska have come to sit with one who stays out of the fight between the bracer-wearers and the Lenovans. He has a bracer but does not use its power. We don’t like each other, but have agreed that I shall use necromancy on the item to better understand its properties. This is a threat that can harm both our peoples.
I Zul’Ska return, bearing with me the bracer of a fallen Star-Child who’s been killed in the battlefield. I’ve learned much, yet still know little. I miss the dark and the cold and do not enjoy the strangeness of this land and its culture. They are a fragile people and quick to put faith in others.
—Is it strange to say I trouble sleeping? No longer do dead hands beat at stone walls, the noise a drone in my ears, lulling me into my dreams—
The time spent with Dristan, the bracer-wearer who doesn’t use his power, has given me insight. Using the most complicated of phrases in the necromantic tongue and sacrificing years of my life-energy for the research, I’ve found an odd anomaly within the soul of the pieces. It’s hard to describe—as if the objects are attached to strings reaching out into the dark: somewhere not up or down, but somewhere outside of here—the Beyond Gate, a place farther than life and death. This terrifies me and I shall tell no one save for this journal.
I left the Star-Child and entered the battlefield to steal the sample which I have now, the entire arm with bracer attached is carried in my travel bag. I will go home and further analyze the piece.
-End of Journal-
Wahala closed the book with arms trembling. The information she’d gathered was far more knowledge than she’d ever possessed of her people’s past, a murky shadowy history full of legends and little facts. She sat back in her cot, trying to not draw the attention of Salastine, who was working with Berula at the table, finishing the poison. They were carefully extracting the Dikka Slug’s slime and mixing it in a wooden bowl. It gave the room a sour smell.
She separated her thoughts out like spreading papers across the floor. There had been Star-Children in the past—that was confirmed. There had been a great war with the Chosen, something that changed the entire political nature of Lenova—perhaps established their lineage of kings. The Star-Children were killable—that was a fact she particularly enjoyed. And there was some sort of ethereal connection with the bracers and something called the Beyond Gate. The name alone set Wahala on edge and brought anger to her throat. There was nothing after death. To see a Queen Priestess’s words state of something more was sacrilege.
She clutched the ancient volume to her chest, the centuries-old book cracking like a fragile husk. This book—carefully stolen from Mal’Bal’s belongings by Salastine—was now her most prized possession. How long had the Lich-Lord been holding this information, this history passed from Queen to Queen? What other secrets did he know that she didn’t? Had he even read the books? Wahala had a hard time imagining the cult leader sitting in front of a fire and picking up a tome. Her thoughts would have continued if it were not for Salastine, who stood and faced her with a small smile.
“It’s ready.” he whispered.
Wahala’s heart lurched. The poison.
Salastine licked his lips, pensive. He looked perturbed. Drawing close, he sat on the edge of her cot and stared at Wahala. She could tell there was a great longing for her in his eyes. Even scarred with silver stripes, the man couldn’t resist her.
“I’ve never ritualized.” he spoke. His words were true: not an ounce of gold covered his body and not a scar marked his handsome features. “Ritualization is for those deemed worthy by the Queen alone, called upon only on select days or special times. Mal’Bal might have changed our ways, but he’s not changed me. I refused to cut myself in his honor.”
The words brought shame to Wahala. She’d ritualized for Mal’Bal once. Her knees were given up. How foolish of her.
“I watched you when we were children.” Salastine spoke, his eyes soft and full of emotion. “We were the same age, but didn’t meet. An irony, as there are only so many safe places to go in the temple. You’d walk by my chamber doors with your mother, the High Acolyte, every morning. I still remember the fire in your eyes. Even then I knew you were special.”
Wahala felt a sudden vulnerability. Why was Salastine speaking to her like this? At this time and place? In the background, Berula stayed quiet, scraping the near-translucent poison into a small container with a lid.
“I was always a follower.” Salastine whispered. “I followed the rivers underground as a boy, curious as to where they would go, I followed our traditional ways with dedication and joy, and I followed you with my eyes. And now, even after all we’ve been through—ever after Mal’Bal—I can finally follow you as my Queen.”
His smooth, slanted cheeks were like stone, giving him a fierce expression. Wahala was overwhelmed. “So now I ask you permission to ritualize for the first time.” From the pocket of his black hood he removed a large gold nugget the size of an apple and reached back, producing a cast in the shape of a hand. “This gold came from the limbs of my father. Will you allow me to cut?”
Wahala
nodded and Salastine smiled through his fervor. He pulled out a scythe, inhaled slowly, and grew calm. He didn’t make noise as he sawed off his left hand, not even whimpering as blood sprayed and soaked his front. He did it with a sense of pride Wahala hadn’t seen since the old days when she was a child and bore witness to ritualizations done in front of the previous Queen. Salastine was the truest member of the cult Wahala had ever met.
She didn’t allow his bleeding stump to leak for long. Putting the nugget into the cast she spoke, “Fugo-a-gasta.” The nugget superheated and melted, filling into the shape. Wahala’s energy drained from her. It was a significant amount, but not enough to blur her vision with weakness. Before the gold could overflow the cast, Salastine dropped an Apex gem into the liquid and Wahala closed the shape with the other half of the mold. She spoke words of solidifying and words of flexibility. Once done, she pulled the golden hand free of the cast. Salastine brought out his arm, face pale with lack of blood. She finished the ritual by connecting the limbs, the Apex gem sucking life from organic and bringing it into the inorganic. Wahala fell back, her head hitting her pillow. Salastine was wide-eyed and open-mouthed, staring at his new hand with the joy of a child receiving a gift.
“My Queen…” he warbled.
“Is the poison packed?” Wahala choked out, her eyes already fluttering. She was still so weak. To think she’d performed the ritualisms for all the Lenovan recruits up to her torture.
“Here it is.” Berula spoke, standing and hobbling to their side. Her face was pruned and she glanced to the container in her hand with the look of one who hated what she’d created.
“Then go.” Wahala spoke to Salastine. “Prove your loyalty to me. Find a time when Mal’Bal has his mask off. Sneak into his room in his sleep as you sneak around the camp: with the stealth of shadows and the cunning of a scorpion. Use your new hand to rub the oil into the mask. We shall have our revenge. We’ll finally return all to its proper place.”
“And of the mask? When it’s finished, you won’t be able to use it.” Salastine warned.
“It matters not. It’s a worthy sacrifice if we’re to kill the Star-Child Lich.”
“And of the Star-Children that follow him and wander our camp?”
Wahala scoffed. “If we can kill Mal’Bal, we’ll have no problem assassinating them as well. Worry over them after the Golden Agony lays writhing at our feet.”
Salastine took the poison from Berula’s hands. “I’ll circle the camp like a vulture-snake, waiting for the perfect time to strike down. For you, my Queen.” He gave one final look to Wahala, his face trailing the echo of another time, of another possibility. Wahala turned away and closed her eyes.
Wahala was awoken by an unfamiliar cult member. Mal’Bal had sent word she was to go and tend to the Star-Children. Rubbing at her eyes and still feeling the exhaustion of the ritual, Wahala reminded herself that until the assassination had been completed she had to remain the ever-so-humbled servant. Told the Star-Children rested from the heat of the day in a shared tent, Wahala stood, her weak body aching where the silver conjoined with her skin. She left the tent with dread, wondering what it would be like to interact with the eight Ventri, as called by Mal’Bal. Since the moment of their arrival, she hadn’t seen them except for occasional glimpses as they walked past, laughing loudly and pushing at each other. They were arrogant—as if they owned the place. No one dared tell them off, for if they were anywhere near as powerful as Mal’Bal…well, death would come swiftly. Wahala had desperately tried to gather information on them through Salastine and others who worked under him, but all she’d accrued was that one held the name of Portious VoidGrasper, leader of the eight, and he didn’t like the golems wandering the camp.
She found their tent, a dome-shaped abode draped in lavish furnishings plundered from the collapsed Upper-District. Upon entering, she was greeted with the overwhelming smell of perfume. Nearly tripping on a thick rug, Wahala forced herself to not sneer at hanging silk ribbons, elaborate vases, and the gem-laced furniture where laughing Star-Children laid back, covered in jewelry.
“Ah, the servant Mal’Bal promised us! I told you we’d be pampered for our support, didn’t I?” a voice called out, in a rich snotty accent.
The Star-Children cheered and one threw coins into the air. The one who’d spoken—Wahala assumed it to be Portious—was lounging on a maroon sofa, swirling a cup of wine. He motioned the wealth in the tent. “Your people didn’t dig deep enough to reach the largest of coffers and those dreadful golems could care less for money.” Portious looked pleased with his own voice. “With our various powers, it would have been a crime to not take it for ourselves wouldn’t you say, slave?” He sat up, staring at her in curiosity. “You’re an odd-looking one, aren’t you? I’ve only now gotten used to the golden limbs, but your silver skin—it’s intriguing.”
Wahala gave a brief nod, acting humbled. Internally, she repeated over and over the exact necromantic words to catch his flesh on fire—although the spell would kill her if she tried it. She didn’t have the strength to achieve such a feat.
“This is wonderful and all, but when is Lord Bal going to continue his campaign?” one of the younger Star-Children spoke. He looked no older than twenty. “I want to fight! It’s so fun when I make them turn on their own allies and strike each other.”
“Oh hush little Simek.” Portious cooed, his voice slathering the air in fake caring. “We’ll bathe in the blood of the populace soon enough. It’s only proper they learn to fear us. A noble lord can’t subjugate rebellious citizens, can he?”
“I hope when the war is over and Mal’Bal rules the land he’ll grant me control over the Opal Dominion. Do you think he’ll do that, Portious?” another Star-Child asked out, picking at her teeth.
Wahala fought a snigger. Although a Star-Child himself, Mal’Bal had lied to his own, stating they could each be lords of their own kingdoms. They clearly didn’t know Mal’Bal’s true intentions of eradicating all life—including eventually their own. Observing the eight Ventri, Wahala couldn’t help but see them as a group of spoiled brats. Powerful, but non-the-less childlike.
Wahala was kicked in the back and tumbled to the ground. A few of the Ventri sniggered. Some didn’t even notice, but instead played with their wealth. “Get me food slave. I’m hungry. Does this army have nothing to eat? You all look starved!”
It’d been the youngest, Simek. Wanting to disembowel him on the spot but staying her hand, Wahala stood and bowed deeply, speaking through clenched teeth, “Yes oh Chosen. I shall fetch food.”
She left the tent—none of the Star-Children even noticing her departure—and walked to where the cult had set up a supply station. Men and women crowded around it, arguing and doing what they could to convince the station workers to part with some extra food. In the background, the many Lenovan slaves watched on silently, wishing they could come forward and beg but knowing they would be killed. They of all people looked the thinnest. A small Kazman boy, only skin and bones, stared at her silver stripes with dim eyes.
Wahala didn’t have to push through the crowds to get to the counter—the people separated around her, staring with shameless fascination. She was the heretic branded by Mal’Bal. She was the Queen Priestess shunned and downtrodden. Many, but not all, put their fists to their chests and backed away, disappearing between the tents.
“I need food for our Star-Children guests.” Wahala commanded. The station workers bobbed fervently and began to prepare her a package. They went to the large stack of crates behind the wagon which was used as the counter and rummaged for their better supplies.
As she waited, anxiety hit Wahala. Tonight. It would happen tonight. Mal’Bal would be dead. What then? What sort of rebellions would arise? Would the people immediately turn to her, uniting as one in loyalty? And what would she do? Would she take them straight back to their home? But what of the Star-Children—not only the Ventri, but all the rest roaming the land? She remembered her fight with the
spry silent girl in Kazma. She’d been powerful, that one. Was she dead? Mal’Bal had boasted to the people he’d killed four Star-Children on his own in the battle, but Wahala had the feeling the man was lying. Star-Children. Her anger toward those fiendish bracers roiled within her stomach and her lips pulled back.
Thinking they’d infuriated her, the station workers handed her the food and backed away, fear written across their faces. Wahala didn’t comfort them but merely turned and stalked back to the Ventri tent, mentally preparing herself for a full day of abuse.
The day passed with such sluggishness and anxiety that whenever her hands weren’t busy, Wahala bit her nails. The Ventri were the messiest people she’d ever met. They spilled precious food all over the floor and then, distracted, would step on it, laughing at one another’s crude jokes. By the time they’d finished their meal, most were heavily drunk, and the others—moody. Trying to clean their mess was an endless task. Wiping seats and refilling their cups with wine only angered her. Being pushed, kicked, and pinched only stoked the fire of hatred she felt for Star-Children. And when one vomited on the floor after too much alcohol, she stared at the dwindling sunlight, thinking that soon, within hours, she would be in control.
By far, Portious was the worst of the lot. He was the biggest braggart, the vilest in his eating habits, and the most abusive. Occasionally he would try to trip Wahala for a quick laugh and at other times he would try to reach for her, his cheeks flushed and his breath bitter with wine. When that happened, she excused herself to light candles in the tent. The sun set and Wahala’s pulse picked up. Surely Mal’Bal had returned to his chamber after a full day of wearing the All-Face mask. Soon he’d be asleep. She was sure at that very moment, Salastine was shifting through the shadows of the rubble, watching with the poison in hand.
SunRider: Book 1 (The SunRider Saga) Page 35
