SunRider

Prologue: From the Sky (This is the first half of the book-free here on Wattpad)

—I have seen men become Gods, and I have seen Gods become dust—

     The Priests and Priestesses walked in parallel lines, shoulder to shoulder, chanting songs of suffering. Thousands of black robes flapped like dying crows, hanging to shoulders, beaks swallowing heads. Moans and whispered chants swam in the wind, swallowed by the ashen land. The cracked earth was a dead beast, and the long line of hooded forms was the last of the maggots patrolling on bones. They were a collective, a sacred tribe, the last living history of what once was a great people, eons ago. They were... a cult. Glints came from beneath their robes—quick flashes of yellow. In devotion to the ways of sacrifice many had replaced organic limbs for ones made of gold. They hobbled and limped across the Kingdom of Rot, flesh matched by metal.

     Mal'Bal strolled at the front of the parade, his hairless head pulsing with purple veins. He was the only one who didn't wear a robe. He chose to expose his glorious body for all to see. In his devotion to pain and the hate he felt for life, Mal'Bal had ritualized and swapped each limb and organ with gold all the way to his neck. One could no longer call him human; he was something else entirely. The Golden Agony. The Necromancer of Rot. Mal'Bal the Lich-Lord.

     In his yellow hand he held a charted map marked with crisscrossing lines representing the common trails where the enchanted dead roamed. He tossed the parchment without thought or aim toward a nearby follower. The man scrambled to catch the paper before it blew away, knowing punishment would be severe if it slipped off, twirling in the gray air. Mal'Bal was confident that they would return home before their smell drew in a corpse-swarm too large to handle.

     The voices of the cult meshed and separated, becoming one, then splitting into a cacophony of noise. Harsh prayers of pain and death brought euphoria, brought ecstasy. They were lovers of self-immolation. There was predictability to their energy. When excitement built-up to crescendos of shuddering limbs and rolling eyes, there was always one or two who would stop and flay themselves. This was tradition: a part of their yearly mecca around the land. They would leave their home, the young adults with eager pale-pink skin—a glinting baby purity—following the elders who tread the steps of their ancestors. When they returned, the smooth bodies of the young would be split and broken, marked by metal. It was an elevation of status, an opportune enlightenment into a state of higher being. There was nothing more glorious. The cries grew louder and as if on cue, a form shouted and broke formation, hood falling back and revealing a shadow-haired woman. She unsheathed a scythe, the common weapon of the cult. "Oh Great One, from weakness to mastery of the flesh, behold my sacrifice!"

     The woman slammed the blade behind her right kneecap, with eyes like daggers focused on Mal'Bal's expression. She shrieked, and blood splattered the dim rocks. Mal'Bal raised an eyebrow, cruel pleasure flickering across his features. The woman, face scrunched in suffering, bared her teeth. Sitting on her rear, she plunged the scythe behind the other kneecap. She moaned and shuddered as Mal'Bal closed his eyes, savoring the woman's pain like a sponge soaking up water. He let the moment linger.

     "Bless her." he hissed, his voice a smooth poison escaping a fissure.

     Three robed men came forward, eager to please, putting golden ingots into chalices shaped like knee joints. As they did so, Mal'Bal chanted in rhythm, low in pitch. He spoke faster, voice growing harsher and angrier, demanding submission over the elements. The golden ingots shook in place, ready for a final command. Mal'Bal waved a metal hand.

     "Gasta."

     The ingots melted, forming liquid yellow puddles. Green Apex gems—stones holding dark energy—were placed within the gold as more words were spoken to solidify the material. Hooded forms brought the hemorrhaging woman her new knees, laying her back and cleaning her wounds. They worked quickly. The smell of blood would attract the dead from hundreds of miles. When the cult members had done their part, they gazed to Mal'Bal in waiting, most with blank worshipful faces. Yet hidden in the crowds some cowered, others scowled with defiance—but never openly. Not all wanted the man as their leader.

     The Lich-Lord whispered the final words to the ritual. Blood flow was sealed, gold melded to flesh, and the woman slumped back, her pain subsiding. The magical energy that left Mal'Bal was insubstantial, yet he took a break, staring into the night sky. The sky was cold and silent, unresponsive to Mal'Bal's conscience. The smattering of stars almost seemed as if nature had botched its attempt at covering the emptiness beyond their world. The lights were an ineffective veil, unsuccessfully masking that they were alone in existence. Many in the cult were content—complacent even—with the lack of more. But for some reason Mal'Bal couldn't accept the silence. His lot was temporal, and it made him angry. If he couldn't have more, no one could. He wanted to yell at his people, to command that they look up into the void, and understand. If only the dim glow from those small dots would grant them a sign, perhaps acknowledge him as correct... As if hearing his thoughts, an answer came. It was in the form of falling white lines trailing red tails. His followers paused, observing Mal'Bal's stiffened back.

     Falling stars were a new sight to Mal'Bal, one who'd seen events most mortals couldn't imagine. One headed toward him: a blinking white light shining brighter and brighter. It whistled as it tore through the stiff air. His cult yelled in exclamation, finally, finally looking up. At the last minute, Mal'Bal stepped away.

     The star—no, the small object no larger than a boot—smashed in front of him, throwing the crowd back. Upon touching the ground, it let out a pearly ring, like the loudest of church bells. Then—there was silence but for the crackling of melted rock.

     Mal'Bal, his golden body too heavy to be toppled, stood alone while cult members struggled to their feet. His wild eyes found the object smoldering by the light of red-hot earth. Many other stars fell from the sky, crisscrossing the distant horizon, no other landing anywhere near his lands. Approaching the crater caused by the event, Mal'Bal studied the piece of armor that lay at its center: a bracer. It glowed white in the night, metal popping as it cooled. It emanated the promise of dark power and confirmed all he had believed in. Mal'Bal's face split into a horrifying grin.