Fury's Gauntlet - Book Two in the SunRider Saga

Chapter One: The Rot Within

—Fear overwhelmed them, and the Gods pushed themselves to fabricate. Energy was molded in ways unfamiliar to the universe. The mold: a method. Methods to kill other Gods. They would not find themselves attacked in their sleep, vulnerable like unto Abealon. No, they would guard their backs and lash at any attempt to destroy them. Thus, paranoia set, a virus spreading from God to God. Creations were abandoned, leaving the heavens in darkness. As this occurred, Miza-Tirith sat upon his throne and laughed, watching the fratricide commence. —

-Domolov, the Three-Fingered Cleric's Historic Book of Speculative Deity Theology, page 43,901

Wahala shrieked in the necromantic language, forcing physical energy to manifest through the power of her words. "Spita muî-mudah!" Six soldiers—their armor the color of twilight—howled as their leg bones splintered and folded like hinges. Wahala gasped, falling against a pillar the width of a wagon.

A slap to the cheek sent Wahala sprawling, her jaw going numb. Mal'Bal, in all his golden-bodied splendor, loomed over her, sweat coating his head, the only organic part to his titanic body. His large feet fractured the dainty blue tiles decorating the floor. He scowled, using his arm to block broadsword attacks from three men. He kicked them back and flicked his wrist, launching a scythe down the corridor. It buried itself into the chest of a tall officer who'd been sending wave-after-wave of soldiers against the cult's pressing attack. With quick practiced word, Mal'Bal liquefied his left arm. Gold lines, like calligraphy trails in the air, snapped forward and forced their way into the mouths, ears, and noses of the three recovering soldiers. With a flick of his arm, their heads burst like melons, staining the pillars. His arm returned to normal.

Panian soldiers littered the long corridor like fallen leaves in an Autumn forest. Theirs were not the only bodies. Dark-robed cult members sprawled in their own blood, like mutilated crows with clipped wings. Mal'Bal's advanced force, which had pushed through Pania's defenses to enter the city's most sacred chamber, lay wasted with not a single survivor. Only Mal'Bal, Booxa, and Wahala herself still lived to continue the fight in the heart of the citadel. In the far distance, past many chambers and walls, the faint echo of war rumbled like an earthquake.

"YOU DO NOT USE YOUR NECROMANCY WITHOUT CONSENT!" Mal'Bal roared into Wahala's face, his eyes pinpricks of uncontrolled fury. The madness clouding his mind since he'd first donned the All-Face mask at the beginning of his campaign had given way to the clarity of battle-rage.

Before Wahala could respond, Booxa's slimy voice cried from behind a pillar on the other side of the corridor. "The lead general, my Lord!" The rat-like Booxa crouched low to the ground, cowering in his robes. The black garments, far too big for him, made him look like a child; although Wahala guessed him to be in his forties. The only gold on his body were his toes and fingers, simple digit replacements, nothing large or extravagant. He was a coward, unwilling to ritualize anything of significance. What a terrible choice, Wahala thought. Of all cult members loyal to Mal'Bal, he'd chosen the most annoying and aggravating to be his second-in-command. Wahala had a feeling Mal'Bal had made the decision purely to anger her.

At the end of the corridor, twilight-colored soldiers amassed into ranks, forming walls of armor. They shuffled and bounced on their heels as dogs did, pulling on leashes before a great hunt. Behind them, a red-suited man with a beard to his chest brandished a sword and shouted commands. The dozens of soldiers synonymously raised loaded crossbows, aiming them at Wahala and Mal'Bal. Booxa yelped and crouched lower behind his pillar, arms over his head. Wahala dove for cover. Mal'Bal scowled and pushed next to her at the last second. A volley of hissing bolts clattered throughout the hallway, sticking to every surface.