Dawn of the black sun, p.1
Dawn of the Black Sun, page 1
Dawn of the Black Sun
Timo Burnham
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Please read!
Prologue
The wind stirred up a cloud of dust and hurled it into the Exile’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut as the tiny flecks battered his skin, pressing his lips together to prevent more from getting in his mouth. As the gust died down, he did not even try to wipe away the dust. There was no point. More sand and dirt would be sent his way any moment. He pulled his now-tattered traveling robe up in front of his face, forming a pitiful barrier as he continued towards his destination.
It is just ahead now.
He braced as another gust hit him, a few larger sand grains stinging the soft skin of his ear as he pushed the last few steps to the edge of the oasis. It was a shallow depression in the mostly flat and empty expanse of the Barren Lands. It would not do much to stop the sand from being blown in his face. But that was not what he cared most about. The Exile moved towards the deepest part of the bowl, aware now of just how parched his mouth was. The idea of even a few drops of water gracing his tongue drove his exhausted body forward with desperate energy.
He passed a shrub, its growth stunted, leaving it only a few branches, reaching out as if begging for nourishment.
Begging. How weak and pitiful. The Exile would have spat if his mouth had contained any moisture.
A few more steps and he finally reached the very center of the oasis. It was low enough here that the top of the bowl cast a merciful shadow over his body. He relaxed and fell to his knees, reaching his hand down, expecting to feel soothing wetness. Instead, all he felt was more coarse sand.
No.
He began digging, using what strength he had left to claw away sand. After a few scoops he reached the layer of dirt underneath, but it was just as dry. He dug feebly at the hard crust. It might as well have been stone for all the progress he made.
The Exile fell back, breathing hard from the exertion.
How weak, how absolutely helpless I have become. Self-loathing twisted inside him like a poisonous viper. As pitiful as that shrub was, it was still better than him. It had found a way to survive. He would not. The Barren Lands would kill him as it had many others.
I should just end it here. My blood is better off nourishing that plant than it is wasting away inside me.
But he did not even have a knife that he could use to slit his wrists or throat. He would not be granted the dignity of ending his life on his own terms. It would be slowly drained from him, one dry and burning moment at a time.
He was about to close his eyes and lay back when movement caught his attention. He turned, expecting it to disappear like the many other mirages conjured up by the merciless heat of the sun.
The figure of a man appeared fully over the lip of the bowl and began stumbling down the interior.
The Exile’s exhaustion and hopelessness was forgotten for the moment, replaced by curiosity. He tried to remember when he had last seen another living soul other than the few far-off glimpses of the native Barrenlanders.
Weeks? Months? The endless sand, the constant wind and the ever looming sun all combined to make time so hard to track. Each day was just as miserable as the last.
The newcomer was a little closer now, and the Exile could see he had the dirty face and hair of a Barrenland veteran. But his traveling robe caught the Exile’s attention. It had no sign of wear and had only begun to gather dust recently.
He hasn’t had it long. He took it from someone.
At the man’s waist, protruding from his robe, was the black handle of what must be a sword.
The man’s eyes landed on the Exile and he paused, hand moving slowly towards his weapon.
The Exile held his arms out in a welcoming gesture. “Friend. You’ve come here for water? That is why I’m here as well.” His voice was a rasp, but he managed to get the words out.
The man did not remove his hand from the sword, but he slowly continued his descent until he stood on ground level with the Exile.
“Unfortunately, there is none for either of us,” the Exile said. “At least, none near the surface.”
The man was standing still, but he had not yet relaxed, and he watched the Exile as if he had barely heard the words.
He is not friendly.
The Exile was weak and pitiful compared to who he had once been, but he could still recognize when someone was preparing to attack.
“Don’t worry. I have some with me. I’m happy to share.” He turned his back on the man and crouched, freeing his arms from the sleeves of his robe at the same time. He reached for the ground as if grabbing a flask, but filled his hand with sand instead.
A slight vibration in the sand alerted him that the man was moving. The Exile spun, throwing the sand at his attacker’s face just as the man drew his sword, its black blade as dark as cloudy midnight.
The sand caused his attacker to flinch, but he recovered quickly, slashing with the sword.
The Exile ducked, narrowly avoiding decapitation. He stood, pulling his robe off his shoulders and flinging it at the man.
The sword came back, shredding the tattered cloth like it was made of air.
Still, the distraction gave the Exile enough time to close the distance. The man saw his mistake and tried to reverse his swing, but the Exile caught his wrist, jerking it downward and then shoving it in towards his opponent’s body.
There was a soft popping sound and the man dropped the sword, falling on his back and clutching his broken wrist with his good hand. His mouth was open in a scream, but no sound came out.
He looked down at his defeated enemy, bracing as a wave of exhaustion from his momentary effort washed over him. It passed and he felt disgust take its place as he watched the man curled in the sand.
The Exile was a shell of the great man he had once been. He was starved, dehydrated, and almost ready to end his own life to escape from this terrible place. And yet, even with a weapon made for killing, this man had still failed.
He turned his attention to the sword, squatting down for a closer look. Both the hilt and blade were the same color, a black so deep that it felt like it was sucking in the harsh sunlight. Even the wrapping around the hilt was a matching shade of black. He had seen many swords before, but he had no idea what strange material this one was forged from. His brow furrowed as he focused on the blade’s long, curving edge. At first, he thought the heat was causing a strange mirage. He blinked, then looked again.
It's not a mirage. It’s…the sword. The edged side was indistinct, as if it were slowly dissolving into smoke.
A warning in the back of the Exile’s mind told him not to touch the weapon, but he ignored it. What do I have to lose?
With a final glance to make sure the other man was still in too much pain to pose any threat, the Exile lowered his hand and lightly curled his fingers around the hilt. It felt solid, like any other sword he had held before. He tightened his grip, lifting it up and hefting it in his hand.
Suddenly a sharp sensation shot up his arm, through his neck, to his head. The Exile dropped to his knees, gasping in pain. He tried to drop the sword, but his fingers remained clenched around the handle, no longer obeying his commands. Then he felt the presence in his head. Something was inside. Something was attempting to destroy his mind and take over his body. The pain grew and grew until he thought his skull would burst open, scattering his brains across the sand. He screamed in agony, gouging his own skin as he clawed at his face with his free hand.
The pain began to fade, taking his other senses with it as his consciousness was slowly smothered. The world became more and more indistinct, leaving nothingness in its place.
No!
The Exile fought back, throwing every bit of willpower he had against it, this strange invader. At first, it seemed like an immovable mountain, completely unaffected by his attempts. Very slowly, he felt sensation returning to his body. His vision cleared, then his hearing returned. He gasped as he felt the pain in his head again. It was not as strong as before and seemed to be lessening with each beat of his heart.
Chest heaving, he looked down at the sword in his hand.
What are you?
“Chaos. Death. Darkness.”
He tensed and looked towards the man still clutching his wrist in the sand.
No. He didn’t say anything.
The Exile searched his surroundings, but there was no one else besides them.
“You are strong. The strongest I have yet encountered.”
He frowned. The voice seemed to be in his head. But it was not his own. He looked down at the sword again.
Is it coming from that? Is the sword speaking to me?
“Though it is hidden, I can sense your ambition. Your anger and your need for revenge. These are desires I too shar
It really is the sword. The Exile narrowed his eyes. Why should I trust what you say?
“I need you, as you need me. You will be my wielder, and in turn I will give you power the likes of which you have never known. I see it in your heart. I know how much you hate your own weakness.”
He studied the blade, still not fully convinced this was not some kind of trick.
“Carry me for a time. See if I keep my word. If not, then simply discard me.”
The Exile lowered the sword towards the sand. Can I discard you right now?
He willed his fingers to open and this time they did, dropping the blade on the ground. The voice was gone and the Exile was acutely aware once more of how starved and fatigued he felt.
He bent and picked the sword back up, the uncomfortable sensations of weakness dulling as he did.
That’s you. You’re doing that.
“As I said. I can offer power like you have never known before.”
No gift is ever free. The Exile glared into the shiny blackness of the blade as if it was a person he could intimidate.
“No. But in our situation, my gift benefits myself as much as you.”
The Exile thought long and hard before finally nodding. Very well. I will carry you. The moment you try to betray me, I’m leaving you buried in the sand where no one else will ever find you.
The Exile could almost sense the sword smiling, as if he had given just the answer it had expected.
“Very good. And as I promised, here is your power.”
The Exile sucked in a sharp breath as his hyo—which had all but closed from his fatigued and malnourished state—opened wide, filling his limbs with energy. He straightened, flexing the muscles in his arms, grinning at the strength he felt there.
Much better.
Movement in the corner of his eye caught the Exile’s attention, and he turned, seeing that the man had finally gotten to his knees. He looked at the Exile with sad, desperate eyes, his broken wrist held limply in his good arm.
“Please,” he croaked. “Please. Just a drop of water.”
The Exile looked from the man to the black blade in his hand. Let’s see what you can do.
He took two steps forward and slashed, removing the man’s head from his shoulders so quickly and cleanly that his body stayed in its begging posture.
The Exile felt a rush of pleasure and smiled.
He looked at the head, laying on its side, staining the sand with the last of its blood.
Well, he won’t be needing that nice robe anymore.
Chapter 1
Eons ago, the world was a cold and empty place. There was only one being, a Spirit so vast that it covered all the earth. This Great Spirit wanted to bring life to the barren world, and so it made the first of three creations, lesser spirits to wander the spiritual plane. The Great Spirit used itself to form these smaller spirits, and though it was still great, it had become weaker.
The second creation of the Great Spirit were the dragons, creatures half of the spiritual plane and half of the physical. Being of both planes, the dragons were able to move between them at will. These beings were said to most closely resemble the Great Spirit, though they were still lesser in strength and size. With the creation of the dragons, the great spirit was weakened once again.
The final creation of the Great Spirit were humans, beings to inhabit the physical plane. The humans were weak and easily harmed, but the Great Spirit gave them the unique capacity to work together and build with their hands. Eventually the humans multiplied and spread out across all six provinces, leaving behind monuments to their ingenuity and—
“Old man Engi says this version of the story is wrong.”
Ryu looked up from where he had been playing with the tattered end of his shirtsleeve and scowled at his younger sister. “Why are you interrupting the story? You’re the one who wanted to hear it.”
Marasi glared back at him. “Just because I ask questions, doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear the story.”
Ryu rolled his eyes and went back to picking at his sleeve. “And you never run out of questions.”
“Why do you care?” Marasi said. “You don’t even like stories.”
“I like stories,” Ryu replied. “Just not your kind of story.”
“Yes. You like stories about war and blood and death,” Marasi said. “I like happy stories. I like stories that make you ask interesting questions.”
“Yes, questions,” Ryu muttered.
“Ryushu,” his mother, Anisi, said. Though her tone was soft and her face relaxed, he knew from the use of his full name that she wanted the arguing to stop.
“Maybe you should go out and check on your father while Mara and I finish the story.”
Ryu let out a huff, standing and pushing his cushion back under the low table.
“After the meal, we can read more of the accounts of the northern battles,” his mother said. “And I will make Mara promise to save her questions till the very end. How does that sound?”
Ryu smiled and nodded. It did sound good, but he made sure to cast one more glare at Mara to let her know he was still annoyed. Then he smiled at his mother and left the hut, stepping down from the small porch, feeling the cool evening ground with his bare feet. His family’s hut was far enough from the edge of the cove that the ground around it was dirt, instead of sand. Building anything on top of sand was a terrible idea. He knew from the many times he had tried with sticks, rocks and mud.
Ryu stepped forward, treading on a partially buried pebble that sent a painful shock up his foot, despite his calluses. The discomfort brought his thoughts back to his younger sister.
Questions, questions. How does she always have so many? Ryu stared blankly east. And why do I care so much?
He remembered a time when they were both much younger. A time when they would play together out on the edge of the Sleeping Sea all day long. Ryu would find a bit of drift wood and pretend to be a warrior fighting in the Silver Army against the dangerous Dho tribesmen. Meanwhile, Mara would pretend to be an explorer, searching for shells in the mud on the water’s edge and proclaiming that she had discovered a never-before-seen sea creature.
Despite their different objectives, they never fought or disagreed.
Now that Ryu was seventeen and Mara fourteen, things had changed. Neither of them wanted to just play anymore, although when no one was watching, Ryu still liked to swing a stick at imaginary enemies.
Mara was much more interested in stories and books these days. Every time a merchant or trader’s wagon came rolling by, she would beg their parents to buy one of the books that was offered. Despite the high cost, Ryu’s father had purchased several. Both he and their mother seemed to think that books and reading were important enough to part with their hard-earned coin.
Ryu did not particularly like reading—though his mother had still made him learn—but he did enjoy listening to the accounts of the many battles that lead to the eventual uniting of the six provinces into the great Silver Empire. He would picture the fighting in his head, the emperor himself on one side with silver hair and eyes gleaming, leading his men forward. On the other side were his enemies—Ryu always imagined them as ugly brutes with eyes that glowed red—showing just how horrible they were. He knew it was not true, but it was his imagination, and he liked things to feel as exciting as possible.
The two sides would meet on a battlefield somewhere in the harsh northern lands of Dho, clashing together in an intense melee. The emperor would be at the heart of it all, dancing amongst his opponents, cutting each down without ever being so much as grazed. Eventually the Dho chiefs and their tribesmen would fall, and the emperor would stand proudly, holding his bloodstained silver blade up towards the sun while his men chanted his name.
Ryu would never admit it, but sometimes he liked to imagine himself as one of those men, cheering on his emperor and basking in the victory. He would not admit it because the idea was silly. The fighting had been over for many years. A few small bands of fighters from his home province of Oroto, and two of the neighboring lands, Dho and Shinowa, had tried to mount a new resistance, but they had been quickly squashed. The six provinces were now united under one emperor, and the silver-haired man who had accomplished that near impossible feat was gone, taken by an early death, leaving his son to rule in his place. Ryu would never be able to experience what took place in his imagination. If only I had been born a few decades earlier. Then I could have been one of those soldiers.
