Berula was nowhere to be seen. Wahala had glimpsed her earlier tending to a cult member’s injury but that was all. No, for this final night Wahala was alone in her mind, waiting.
The hours passed and soon most of the Ventri were asleep. Only Portious and a fat Star-Child whom she didn’t know by name were awake, singly softly about a wench with one leg. The night deepened and the air chilled. Wahala was on an island, staring out at the horizon, waiting for a sign. Her nerves were on edge and she’d altogether stopped caring for cleaning. Instead she sat in a chair, facing the outside with both hands wringing in her lap.
The camp had quieted in the night so when the scream rang out, it echoed freely between all the tents.
“DIED! SOMEONE HAS DIED!”
Wahala sat up so quickly, her chair fell backward, clattering to the ground. The Ventri awoke groggily, confusion squinting their faces. Tent flaps were opening and people were coming out, whispering to themselves. This was it. She’d finally done it! Wahala scoffed and jumped from the tent, running toward the edge of Kazma. She knew where to go even before the voice yelled out again that it was at Mal’Bal’s chambers where the death had taken place. The voice, coming from a sentry, shouted out again, awakening the entire populace. Wahala was not the only one running, now many others sprinted forward as well, talking to themselves.
The Lich-Lord was dead?
Who had done it?
No, it couldn’t be! It was impossible! The Golden Agony was invincible!
Wahala neared the entrance tunnel leading to the buried bank. She looked around for the body. Where was Mal’Bal? The mask? Salastine? A form moved in the shadows of the entrance and Wahala nearly cheered. She smiled and took a step forward, pushing through the crowds to get to the front. She was going to kiss Salastine—the man deserved that much for his incredible skill. But then she froze and without control of herself, fell to her knees. For the one who stepped out of the dark was Mal’Bal, grinning like a lunatic.
The crowd gasped. Immediately Wahala was at her feet again, pushing back. He hadn’t seen her yet. No, no, no! The plan had failed. All that work!
“It seems my home had a snake.” Mal’Bal spoke out, his eyes dim, yet bright. He stepped to the side and the people shouted. Behind Mal’Bal was Salastine’s corpse, missing its head. Blood soaked the earth around it in a wide puddle. Still clenched in his new golden hand was the All-Face mask, poison gleaming from its inside. Something scampered from the dark: the Golden Puppet. In its limbs it held Salastine’s head, clutching it softly like a toy.
“I have many eyes!” Mal’Bal roared. “And I have many ears! I thought I had many loyal!”
Wahala was shaking in place. No… not again… she didn’t want to be caught again…
“It came as a surprise when I heard witnesses testify of two who plotted against me!” Mal’Bal cackled, kicking Salastine’s body. He showed the mask to the crowd. “Poison!” he yelled.
The crowd muttered to themselves and seemed to collectively crouch lower to the ground. In his current mood, Mal’Bal could lash out at anyone. The Ventri were drunkenly stumbling toward them from a distance, dazed looks on their faces. Wahala was gasping, her eyes watering. Two plotters: Mal’Bal knew of her. And Salastine, poor foolish Salastine!
Mal’Bal was stomping forward toward her. It was over now. Wahala knew it. There would be no whip, no silver; only death. The cult would be the Lich-Lord’s forever until the day he ended Lenova and turned on them, eradicating all life. She closed her eyes, but was pushed to the side, Mal’Bal brushing past her as if she was no more than a bush. Wahala’s eyes shot open.
Mal’Bal shoved aside two cult members and grabbed a form, lifting her by the neck. Berula—the old servant had been hiding at the back of the crowd. Wahala couldn’t speak. Berula croaked and struggled feebly. Mal’Bal brought her to the front of his chamber and raised her high, rage turning his face purple.
“I was told these two had been sneaking out, acting suspicious. Collaborating! Luck finally came when this one whispered of my death, thinking herself alone in a field but not knowing one of my golems hid as a mound behind her!”
The crowds turned in place, staring at each other. Mal’Bal used his golems as spies?
“DO YOU THINK ME STUPID?” Mal’Bal roared. Everyone jumped. In the blink of an eye, the cult leader’s face relaxed and he stared at his Golden Puppet with love. “But we took care of it, didn’t we? There is one whom I can count on.” The puppet scampered side-to-side, stroking the hair on Salastine’s bloodied head.
Mal’Bal turned to Berula, face still smiling. He relaxed his grip on her neck. Wahala knew what would happen—knew exactly what Mal’Bal was going to ask. Adrenaline roaring through her veins, she whispered out necromantic words under her breath: “Still thy tongue.”
“Was there anyone else in on the plot, Kazman?” Mal’Bal asked, his voice a deadly song. “Tell me and you’ll be set free. You’re no threat to me. Why should I harm you?”
Berula was opening and closing her jaw, unable to speak. She made no sound as sweat dripped from her wrinkled face. Her frustration grew and tears ran down her cheeks. She turned her neck, gazing at the crowd. She found Wahala, hiding behind another cult member. Their eyes met and Berula focused in as if pleading with her. What of the peace we could achieve? What of all the time I spent healing you? Wahala stared back, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.
“No one? Only you and him?” Mal’Bal hissed. “You won’t say a word?”
Berula was fighting his grip now, her gaze in Wahala’s direction unmoving. Mal’Bal’s face turned to rage once more. He spun in place and stomped off, dragging Berula behind him. The crowds followed numbly, their eyes wide in terror. Berula was scratching at Mal’Bal’s golden arm, her nails breaking. He didn’t let go.
They walked to the center of Kazma’s ruins, where once the DozDum Pipes had stood proud. All that was left was a black pit leading deep into the bowels of the earth. Mal’Bal stopped at its edge and pinned Berula with his foot. He was breathing heavily, his emotions unchecked.
“Oh servant, taste your own concoction.” he spat. He smashed the mask over Berula’s face. The woman writhed in agony, still without sound. Feeling the spell draining her energy, Wahala was forced to end it. Immediately muffled shrieks rang out across the rubble and the people winced, many looking away.
Wahala couldn’t imagine the amount of pain Berula must have felt, having her face and internal head-parts melted by poison along with being assailed by visions of every possible future. Mal’Bal held her down, grinning manically. Eventually Berula stopped struggling and Mal’Bal stood. He grabbed her body with one large hand and tossed her into the pit, mask and all, gone from the world. The Lich-Lord’s temperament changed and he smiled to them.
“The rot has been cut out.’ he spoke happily. “And I now know where we’ll go next: into the dawn of anti-life, into the belly of the earth-destroyer.”
Wahala fell against a rock, hollowed out. She was tired, very tired. The faces of her two conspirators were burned into her mind. Did Mal’Bal know she was involved? Or was he so far gone in his lunacy that the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind?
“Go back to your tents.” Mal’Bal commanded. “Tomorrow we pack and leave this place. The campaign continues.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN:
The Pit
—In all known records and accounts, no mortal has ever been resurrected. Neither has there been any proof of a valid way to achieve such a feat. The closest event in comparison is the strange developmental cycle of the people in the city of Crossover. Throughout time, the populace of Crossover has developed a strange resistance to illness and disease: when one grows too ill to recuperate, their body enters a state of incubation and their skin thickens greatly. After three weeks, they shed the skin-cocoon they have developed, their bodies now free of sickness and immune to whatever had ailed them. Footnote: Although able to survive even the most virulen
t of illnesses, the people of Crossover still die of old age. The oldest citizen in recorded history lived to the age of two-hundred and four.—
-Excerpt from Development of Magical Cures and Secret Remedies, page 2
The shade within the fighting pit chilled Finn’s skin. He stared at Leeya, who from high above, gave him a supportive nod. Tightening the strap around his waist from where a wooden sword hung, he readjusted the grip he held on his practice spear. Ahead of him to his right and left, both Goblin and Salt prepared themselves. Salt looked exited and blew kisses to the crowd. The man held both a net and a curious wooden sword shaped like a crescent moon. Goblin only carried a practice replica of a falcata, sticking with the type of sword he’d used in Kazma. The boy rolled back the sleeves on his shirt and Finn could see a large scar around one wrist. Finn frowned. Why was the scar familiar? The answer was on the edge of his mind.
Finn couldn’t believe he’d been challenged—none-the-less by his best friend. Making the situation more ridiculous was Salt, who had happily accepted the three-way fight. It was a situation Finn didn’t want to be in. He stepped in mud and pulled his foot free, feeling gunk enter his boot. In the pit was a perpetual smell of sweat and blood, as if the walls had trapped the residue of all previous battles. One advantage Finn had, was that without Old Heavy, the practice weapons felt light. It was strange to think three months ago when he had come to Jakitta, the spear and sword he now held had been clunky and awkward. Perhaps he stood a chance.
He was grateful the fight would be a no-powers-allowed brawl. With Salt being the Coalition leader, Finn assumed the guy had some wicked ability in store. Above them, Petreamus raised a hand. Finn tensed and bent his knees, weeks of practice with Leeya flashing through his mind. Stances, angles, which muscles to clench, which way to lean…
“Ready?” Petreamus called. The crowd cheered. Finn’s eyes wandered to the scar on Goblin’s wrist. No, his friend hadn’t collected that in the battle for Kazma. In fact, it was a scar similar to the one Salt had. Finn startled. It was the scar of one who had tried to put on a second bracer. But that meant….
“Fight!”
Finn grabbed his spear with both hands, pointed it toward his opponents, and looped the tip in a circle. He remembered Leeya’s words to never throw his spear in close combat unless it was necessary, but instead, use it to poke and prod. He had to let his opponents tire out and when the time was right, come in with the sword to finish the job.
Goblin charged him, twisting his blade back over one hand, then the other, switching his dominant side. Finn adjusted his stance accordingly and readied himself. Goblin was smiling at him, exhilarated at the chance to compete against his friend. Finn in return, couldn’t help but to smile back. “Don’t trip, vat-pig!” he called out. Instead of replying, Goblin twisted his body in an arc, ducking left-to-right beneath the spear, and broke through Finn’s defense. He pushed Finn’s spear to the side, coming close enough to hug. Finn was shocked. Goblin was incredible.
He backpedaled furiously, using his weapon to block a downward chop, and again to block a wrist-flick that caused Goblin’s falcata to leap and bite in quick strokes. Finn could hear Leeya’s training in his head and feel the old stings of his sparring matches. He crouched to one knee and rolled his spear, distracting Goblin’s eyes. Then, popping the weapon up, he smacked Goblin under the chin. The blow was solid and had a lot more force than Finn intended, yet Goblin hardly seemed to notice it. Finn rolled away before he was struck across the face and jumped up, spinning his spear above his head in a wide loop and bringing it down. Goblin dodged away and suddenly Finn was falling to the ground, tangled in twisting confusing lines. Salt’s net! His instincts screamed for him to move and Finn rolled away, tangling himself even more. A curved wooden blade cut across where he’d been. It was Salt himself, giggling like a young boy. Instead of continuing his attack on Finn, Salt leapt toward Goblin and they began a series of complicated moves too hard for the eye to follow. It was clear they knew one another’s attacks.
Finn spat out mud, which covered every inch of his body, and struggled like a suffocating fish, desperately trying to free himself. By accident, he’d gotten both of his feet stuck through holes in the net. The tough string had twisted around his legs and over his face, cocooning him in a strange shape. He stopped, calmed his breath, and analyzed the knots in the net. Immediately he was able to detect how he’d been twisted up. With a few select yanks, he pulled himself free. He grabbed his fallen spear and shook the net in his spare hand.
Salt and Goblin were faced away from him, fighting around the edges of the pit, pushing forward and backing up. The crack of their swords rang out over the cheer of the crowds above. People were yelling at them, but in the heat of the moment, the words sounded like the cry of birds. Heavy sweat dripped from both sword-fighters. The heavy wooden weapons were getting to them. Finn on the other hand, felt as if he’d barely finished his morning stretches. He sent out a prayer of thanks in Leeya’s direction for having tortured him with Old Heavy for so long.
Bounding forward, Finn came up behind them and tossed the net out. It spread open over the air and landed on the two, tangling Goblin’s sword and Salt’s head. Unable to stop their movements, the two drew close and were wrapped together. Finn readied his spear and jabbed, letting out a laugh of triumph. Salt though, wrapping his arms around Goblin, used the boy as a shield. Finn’s spear hit Goblin’s chest and the end shattered, numbing Finn’s hands. Goblin, too busy punching Salt in the face, didn’t even notice. Salt took the blows like a maniac, guffawing and sticking his fingers in Goblin’s ears—who cringed and yowled. The fight was ridiculous and Finn didn’t know whether to laugh or feel endangered.
Goblin was the first to break free. He came out of the net and kicked Salt away, worsening the knots that trapped the Coalition leader. The gypsy boy spun to swing a fist at Finn, but Finn pulled out his sword and jabbed it like a sting, aiming for Goblin’s face. Everything he’d hit Goblin with had proved to not affect the boy in the slightest, but perhaps if Finn poked his eye… Goblin smacked the sword to the side so hard, it exploded into fragments. Finn stepped back, waving his arms. His mouth hung open. How had Goblin become so… strong?
His friend darted forward and soon they were launching fists and kicking out. Trained by Leeya on hand-to-hand, Finn fought with confident aggression, sliding around Goblin’s basic moves and pounding him on the mouth. It was like punching a stone. Goblin advanced, and so Finn did the most desperate thing he could think of: he tried to copy Leeya’s move when she’d fought Antina. When Goblin ducked a punch, Finn jumped up, putting one foot on Goblin’s bent knee. Grabbing his friend’s head and running up him, Finn spun and landed on Goblin’s shoulders. He froze, shocked that he’d been successful, and let out a giggle. He put his fingers in his mouth, sucked on them, and stuck them in Goblin’s ears.
Goblin yelped and threw himself backward. Finn tipped off, hitting the ground and losing his breath. Salt was suddenly there, bear-hugging Goblin from behind. Using the net, Salt tied the gypsy boy’s arms back to his feet, leaving him immobile. Throughout it all, Salt yelled at them both.
“Sniveling, thin-armed babies! Wet-behind-the-ears, snot-swallowing, dense-skulled trolls! Yer rears are larger than yer heads! Yer not fighting, yer flirting! Weak plucked-chickens, crow-footed, soft-kneed, putrid-smelling…”
He continued, advancing on Finn, who didn’t even have the chance to stand back up before Salt was dragging him by the feet toward Goblin and tying him as well. Laying back-to-back in the mud and incapable of moving, Finn felt Goblin shaking in fits of merriment. Finn knew he had lost, yet he joined in, a stupid grin on his face. Salt stepped back from his handiwork and wiped his muddied hands on Finn’s shirt. He gave a nod and huffed, sticking his chin out. He winked at Finn and looked to the top of the pit where Star-Children were in danger of falling in from laughing too hard. Petreamus wiped at his eyes, face red. He waved a hand. “Salt wins!” Even Finn chee
red.
The Coalition leader pulled out a small knife—this one with an actual blade—and cut them free. The three shook hands and Finn held on to them, refusing to let go. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re telling me what’s going on right now. I’m sick of waiting.”
Salt looked to Goblin and nodded. Goblin smiled. “The-shard’s-changed-me-Finn. It’s-as-if-Mal’Bal-has-given-me-a-bracer-power-even-though-I-don’t-wield-one.”
Finn opened and closed his mouth. Goblin lifted his shirt and showed his chest. A small green nub stuck out from the center of his body. Around it, his skin looked leathery. “It-affects-all-of-me. Hit-me-all-you-like. I-don’t-even-feel-it.”
“That be true.” Salt agreed. “He’s one of us, yet not as well. We don’t rightly know what to call him.”
“But Mal’Bal’s power…” Finn blurted. “Didn’t we conclude it was to bring life to gems? How could he do this?”
Salt sighed. “We don’t think he meant to Finn. It could be some strange phenomenon–a chance mutation—that came from the injury. Maybe it was a mix of many factors. Mal’Bal’s power, the life imbued in the shard, Petreamus’s healing… who knows. We have little knowledge of the bracers. Perhaps Goblin is an organic golem.”
Finn opened and closed his mouth, finding it difficult to process his friend’s change. He pointed to the scar on Goblin’s wrist. “Talking about bracers, what happened?”
Salt snorted. “Well we figured if Goblin was going to stick around and be part of the Coalition, why not finish the deal and make him a Star-Child? It didn’t work. Like those who’ve tried wearing more than one bracer, Goblin was unable to keep one on.”
“But he doesn’t have a bracer!” Finn argued.
“I know!” Salt spoke. “There’s something far larger than we can understand happening to all of us Finn! Powers that make no sense are sweeping this land!”
SunRider: Book 1 (The SunRider Saga) Page 36
