Rise of the Forgotten Sun

by Jon Monson

  “We need to take a different way, one they wouldn’t expect,” Aydiin yelled back.

  Byanca nodded and turned sharply down an even narrower alleyway. This was much more similar to the ones they had fled through in the suburbs. Trashcans lined the street, the automobile taking little care for the cans’ best interests. The noise was horrendous, the thick steel body crushing the thin iron of the cans.

  Byanca took things much slower, wincing with the addition of every new trash can. They began piling up in front of the car. The scene would have been funny if the situation weren’t so dire.

  Aydiin’s stomach tensed as he realized they could easily get stuck in such a narrow space. That would leave them like sitting ducks. Byanca seemed to have the same fear, and she quickly exited onto a somewhat larger street.

  The narrow road held promise – at the end they could see glimpses of Republican Avenue, the very road that led directly to the harbor. Aydiin smiled, almost letting himself relax.

  A truck rumbled across the road, blocking their escape. The green cabin shook as the engine idled. Soldiers descended from the canvas-covered bed.

  Byanca stopped the car, knowing she wouldn’t be able to push the truck out of the way while also dodging bullets from dozens of rifles. Aydiin gulped and his heartbeat quickened. It was over.

  “You certainly made this difficult,” an officer wearing a khaki uniform and sunglasses said as he sauntered over to the car.

  Aydiin didn’t respond. He began pulling water from the air – then he saw the dozen soldiers behind the officer raise their rifles. With that many expertly trained weapons aimed at him, he felt no doubt that at least one would hit its mark.

  “The Revolutionary Court will try you for treason,” the officer said as he approached the vehicle. “The days of your family’s tyranny over this land are over.”

  “My father is an elected leader,” Byanca said. “What you’re saying is nonsense.”

  “I know that and you know that,” the officer whispered, leaning in close. “But my men believe your father has usurped the Revolution. I won’t be the one to burst their bubble.”

  “Now if you come along and play nice, I promise not to hurt your woman,” the officer continued, this time looking to Aydiin. “You’ve given us quite the exciting hunt.”

  Aydiin didn’t know what to do. True, he could easily destroy this man’s life with the flick of his wrist. Yet those riflemen just a few spans away could easily end his time in mortality a few seconds later.

  So he opened up the door and placed his hands on his head. His footsteps crunched on the cobblestone. Time seemed to slow.

  The truck ahead began to rock and sway. A few of the soldiers turned to investigate as screams echoed from the vehicle’s interior. Then the screams died and the world grew still.

  A blade struck through the canvas covering the truck bed. The cloth ripped as it slid downwards, creating a slit. Then the blade withdrew and everyone looked onward in silence.

  Askari burst out of the truck, tackling the nearest soldier to the ground. His teeth found the man’s throat, and blood sprayed. The soldier’s scream turned into a gurgling.

  Panicked shots rang out, the soldiers clumsily turning their rifles towards the kerton. His lithe body moved with lightning speed as he dodged the shots and launched his tail into the abdomen of the nearest soldier. The man’s ribs cracked audibly as he fell to the ground.

  Byanca wasted no time in utilizing the distraction. Her elbow cracked the officer’s nose with enough force to send the man to the ground. Aydiin yelped and jumped back into the car as she threw the vehicle into gear.

  Cries of dismay grew louder as Askari’s teeth and claws created a blood bath among the squad. A dozen armed men suddenly seemed no match for an angry kerton. Yet his appearance did raise several questions.

  The others aren’t here, Aydiin thought as Byanca slammed her foot onto the accelerator.

  With speed to rival Askari’s, the car lurched forward, slamming into a soldier who had raised his rifle at the fiery kerton. The man’s body flew a few spans, bones crunching as steel made contact with flesh.

  The automobile slammed into the larger truck, and Aydiin braced himself as the impact threw him against the dashboard. His hands took the brunt of the force as Byanca kept her foot on the accelerator. The truck, now empty of soldiers, was pushed out of the way. Byanca spun the steering wheel, taking them back onto Republican Avenue.

  “You left Askari,” Aydiin shouted over the engine.

  “That kerton tracked you through the entire city,” she yelled back. “He can definitely follow us to the harbor.”

  Aydiin knew she was right, and thoughts of Askari quickly left his mind as the now too-familiar noise of angry bees became audible. His stomach fell as his eyes made contact with the source of that infernal noise.

  Motorized bicycles spilled out of the smaller streets and onto the avenue. The riders were all clad in black leather and helmets, bending low against the wind. Within moments, there were nearly a dozen.

  A rider took his bike next to their vehicle and pulled out a revolver. Aydiin summoned a water whip, wrapped it around the man’s hand and yanked it downwards with as much force as he could command. He was rewarded with the sound of both rider and bicycle crashing to the ground.

  Gunshots rang out and more and more of the bikes converged on the avenue, the riders feeling confident enough to use one of their hands to squeeze of a few revolver rounds. They all felt wild, unlikely to hit anything. Yet there were so many shots being fired, he began to worry.

  He twisted in his seat to see Askari running closely behind the careening vehicle. His powerful legs were pounding the asphalt in an all-out sprint. Aydiin had never seen the kerton move this quickly – or look this exhausted. He could tell that Askari had finally found his limit. Yet the kerton seemed determined to catch up with Aydiin, and he silently cheered his old friend on.

  Aydiin felt the vehicle accelerate, and he twisted back in his seat to look at Byanca. His wife stared straight ahead, her knuckles white as they clenched the steering wheel, her foot pressing down on the accelerator. Aydiin sent his gaze towards the harbor, which grew closer with every passing moment. Then his heart fell.

  The steam ship was pulling away from the dock. Its lines had been cut, the crew all on board. The large paddlewheel was turning and the smoke from its engine began to grow thicker. They were too late.

  He looked back to Byanca. Her eyes were narrow, and her jaw set in determination. Ahead was nothing but the steam ship, now about three spans from the dock, and beyond that, only water. Byanca shifted gears and increased her speed.

  Panic struck Aydiin as he realized what she was planning.

  “You can’t be serious,” Aydiin yelled.

  “Get ready to jump,” Byanca shouted back without looking at him.

  The vehicle hit the edge of the dock at high speed and flew into the air. Aydiin crouched, waiting for the car to reach the top of its arc. Then he jumped with all his might as the vehicle began its plunge into the harbor below.

  Shock filled him as his hands made solid purchase on the metal railing of the ship. He looked up to see Askari launch himself high above Aydiin’s head, landing deftly on the ship’s deck.

  Then he looked to his left. There was Byanca - as beautiful as ever - dangling from the railing and looking just as surprised as he felt.

  Chapter 33

  Silence pervaded the night, interrupted only by the sound of Barrick’s bare feet padding along the cobblestone road. The sound of skin on stone would go unnoticed during the day, but it seemed to reverberate through his head in the oppressive silence of darkness. He kept moving, hoping that the footsteps were only audible to himself.

  Flickering gas lamps along the deserted street cast long shadows – the perfect terrain for the deeds to be done this night. The orange flames gave the city a warmth that seemed to defy the chill breeze coming in from the ocean. Everything from the whi
te stucco walls of buildings to the green leaves growing over a nearby courtyard’s wall seemed to take in the color, contrasting with the blackened sky overhead.

  Voices approached, along with the heavy footsteps of soldiers’ booted gait. The noise seemed wrong to him, breaking the stillness that enveloped Maradon like a cold embrace. Still, the voices were enough to drown out the noise of Barrick’s own footsteps.

  He slipped into one of the many shadows created by the lamp light. Crouching low, he held his breath. There was no point in being seen.

  “Nobody likes double patrol duty,” a voice whispered as a squadron of six soldiers turned a corner into Barrick’s view.

  “I wasn’t complaining, sir,” another man replied. “I was merely commenting.”

  “Commenting is the same as complaining in my book,” the first voice responded, which belonged to a man wearing the epaulettes of an officer. “Now silence, or every criminal on this entire block will know we’re here.”

  These men were dressed in the dark blues and reds of Salatia’s regular infantry, not the white of the Sultan’s Guard. While the soldiers were trained professionals, they were a far cry away from the elite troops that guarded the palace. A smile crept along Barrick’s face as he realized there was nothing to fear from them.

  Long cotton jackets hung down over loose-fitting blue trousers. A red stripe down the side of the legs meant something that Barrick couldn’t remember. He’d never paid much attention to the significance of Salatia’s military uniforms before.

  The men held their rifles ready for use rather than slung over their shoulders. There was an edge to the way they walked, and from the words they spoke, nerves were fraying. Their eyes were sharp, peering into the shadows.

  One of the men looked right at Barrick. Their eyes seemed to lock for a moment, and Barrick’s heartbeat grew louder in his ears. He sat still, unmoving, hoping the darkness would provide the protection he’d been promised.

  The soldier’s eyes looked away. There was no look of suspicion on his face, no indication he’d seen any sign of another human being crouching in the darkness only spans away. Barrick had to stop himself from breathing a sigh of relief.

  The beating of his heart continued as the soldiers marched past. Footsteps faded, and Barrick sat motionless, unable to move. As the silence returned, the drumming in his ears ceased.

  That bloke looked right at me, he thought. Then he looked down at the jacket he’d received less than an hour ago.

  Black fabric practically molded itself to his arms and torso. It seemed to be crafted from a single piece of cloth. There was no sign of stitching or sewing.

  He rubbed his hands along his arms, the smooth cloth soothing his hands. It felt somehow intangible, as if it were a shadow that had taken a physical form. He suppressed a shudder at the thought.

  Memories of the ritual that had performed just before sunset to obtain this piece of clothing made him more than queasy. The Raven desired to provide support to his servants, but there was always a price to be paid. This was no exception.

  The jacket cloaked its wearer in darkness, providing cover in the night. As long as he stayed in the shadows, he would be invisible, protected by the darkness. It was to be his greatest asset.

  He had just put the jacket to the test, and it had passed with honors. Ideas began to come into his mind. The possibilities that went along with such subtle movement were endless.

  Motion in the orange lamplight across the road reminded Barrick that he was not alone. Three others had been given similar shadow-jackets and were accompanying him this night. He sighed audibly before continuing. It would be unwise to fall behind, especially when his comrades were shrouded.

  He continued onwards, the stillness settling back on the street. It was almost an enjoyable moment. If it weren’t for the occasional flashes in the lamplight and his worry about being left behind, he could almost imagine himself on some nocturnal adventure. He knew tonight wouldn’t end in any sort of leisurely pursuit.

  One of his companions stopped, completely visible, beneath one of the flickering street lamps. Dressed in black, complete with a drawn hood, the figure motioned for Barrick to join him in the darkness of a nearby alley. Barrick bent lower, hoping his footsteps wouldn’t be heard as he joined the others at the alley’s entrance.

  The small side street was dark, devoid of any street lamps for illumination. The crescent moon and stars above provided a soft white light, just enough to make out vague shapes. Under normal circumstances, Barrick would feel a great amount of discomfort at entering such a narrow corridor.

  In the soft light, he could make out a tall robed figure standing near a doorway. The man seemed to be solidly built, although it was difficult to tell in the shadows. One thing was clear – the man was armed and obviously guarding something.

  Barrick moved forward, knowing what his part in this operation was. Sidling along the wall, his bare feet seemed to cling to the uneven cobblestone. The cool of the rocks soothed his feet, which were beginning to sweat in his nervousness.

  He grew closer to the guard, only a few spans away now. His disbelief that the man could miss him from so close began to grow. The man was looking almost exactly at him, yet seemed to have no idea that Barrick was approaching.

  His foot stepped on a loose cobblestone and Barrick’s heart almost stopped as stone grinded upon stone. In the silence, it was almost deafening, like an entire mountain collapsing in on itself. The noise seemed to echo in the night.

  The guard noticed the noise and lifted his rifle slightly. The man was obviously on high alert. He knew something could happen this night.

  Well, everyone’s gotta find out what you are eventually, he thought. Then he Lurched.

  He appeared behind the sentry, only a few hands distant. In a flash, he whipped out a small knife he kept on his hip. With one arm, he grabbed the guard on the forehead, tilting his head back. With the other, he slid the knife along the man’s throat, opening the skin.

  It happened so quickly, the guard had no time to raise any sort of alarm. Indeed, the poor man likely had no idea what had just happened. Barrick felt a pang of guilt as the man dropped to the ground, a pool of blood forming on the stone.

  Movement in the shadows indicated that his companions were pleased. The three phantoms moved like wraiths, almost gliding into the doorway that had been guarded up until this moment. Barrick hung back, the disgust at what he’d just done settling in on him.

  Then the screaming started. They were the full-throated yells of grown men being taken to the Great Beyond. It was the sound of death.

  Shaking, Barrick forced himself in through the gaping doorway. He knew the darkness within shielded him, give him protection that he wouldn’t be able to find elsewhere. Yet he feared it all the same.

  As his footsteps echoed in the entrance hall of the dingy apartment, the sound of screaming died down. His companions were quick and efficient. They were not the kinds to extend the pains of death unless doing so fulfilled a purpose.

  He followed the hallway to a small dining room. In the short span of time he’d lingered in the courtyard – it couldn’t have been more than a minute – his comrades had been quite busy. Barrick had to fight to hold in his dinner.

  Six figures lie strewn around the floor, pools of blood soaking into the dirt. They wore the colorful robes of tribesmen – warriors from the clans that still roamed Salatia’s interior. They were likely part of the nascent rebellion against the Sultan – they were completely unaware of the forces they had inadvertently angered in the process.

  One man sat tied to a chair, his hands and feet lashed so tight that the rough chords were already cutting into his skin. Yet there was no sign of fear on his face, only resolution. It was also mixed with a fair dose of hatred.

  Barrick’s gaze turned to his three companions. Two were large – both tall and broad. They were the same men who had recently taught him how failure was rewarded within the Order. They were the perfe
ct tools for a brutal night assault such as this one.

  The third man was lean and wiry, not the type of soldier generally used for such a task. Yet there was more to the man than his appearance. Barrick had no desire to see what his father was capable of.

  Still hooded, Arathorm Fortescue approached the bound prisoner. He strode slowly, heel to toe, letting each footstep sink in. The prisoner gave no indication of any fear.

  “I know you’re probably angry,” Arathorm growled, disguising his normal voice. “Such an assault would leave my blood boiling.”

  The man sat in silence, his stare fixed determinedly on the far wall. His eyes didn’t even make contact with the shrouded figure before him. Barrick found himself admiring those nerves.

  “You may even be wondering why you have been spared when your companions have all been sent to the Beyond,” Arathorm continued.

  The man sat in his silence. His face was cold and impassive, giving no indication that he even heard the words that were being spoken. He was almost stone rather than flesh.

  “I’m giving you a chance to continue in mortality,” Arathorm continued, crouching to look into the man’s eyes. The prisoner still only stared, his eyes now boring into Arathorm. “All you have to do is tell me where you’ve kept the plans.”

  The man continued in his blank stare, although a trickle of sweat began to bead and fall down his forehead. Still, the prisoner gave no indication that he heard Arathorm.

  “Have you ever seen one of these?” Arathorm continued, pulling a dark blade from a scabbard on his hip. “These blades are forged in the Underworld, tools to be used by servants of the Raven.”

  Arathorm lifted the blade, allowing the pure blackness to be more easily seen. Barrick suppressed a shudder at the sight. He had seen the blades used in ceremonies within the Silent Chapel – one had been used only hours ago in order to obtain the shadow jacket he wore.

  “A single prick with this blade will give you a wound that will never heal,” Arathorm continued. “The cut will fester and grow until the contamination fills your entire body. The process can take months, years even. All the while, the pain will wash over you until you beg for death.”