The Sun Child trilogy: Bk 1 Rise of a warrior

Prologue: The Forgotten Prophecy

In a world so far, yet so much like your own, there reign six gods. At one time their power was in your world, but when their people were driven out by humans who valued their horns and feathers more than their friendship, they left with them. In their new realm they divided the world into four parts, Sky, Earth, Sea, and the Underworld. Most of their children were minor gods and goddesses, but there were times when they would bring into the world demi-god children, half god and half mortal children who greatly influenced the lives of “Na Únami”, their name for themselves meaning “The People”.

Humans called them Winged-Unicorns, but they found it very degrading and unimaginative. They were built like fine horses with long spiral horns sprouting from their foreheads. They also had long silken wings growing from their shoulders where a human’s arms would be. Being shape- shifters (meaning they could shift from one animal or human shape to another), they could make their wings into arms. On Earth, they used this talent to hide from humans who wanted to capture or kill them. They could out live any human at nearly 200 years.

The rarest of the god’s mortal children were the Karkans, or almost-gods. They were full-blooded gods born from the womb of a mortal mother. They had the barest traces of mortal blood in their veins that kept them mortal. They were born in times of great turmoil in the herd to help restore peace. First there was Kamir, a Karkan son of Cirrós and Na Unami’s first leader. And then there was the greatest of them all, Yésu, the Karkan son of Taros. He was the one who salvaged the last of their kind and opened the portal for them to escape.

Often their coming was foretold hundreds even thousands of years ahead in prophecies. The prophecy of the Sun Child was one of the most anticipated and most disregarded ones. Told by the prophetess of the ancient goddess called The Voice, the prophecy ran; A child of gold with a fiery eye, Swifter than the light he runs by; A warrior, a healer, a leader he’ll be, A powerful figure with the gift to see; swift as a coursing river, with all the force of a great typhoon, with all the strength of a raging fire, mysterious as the dark side of the moon; He’ll drive out evil with a just hand, He’ll bring back the Lost Ones and unite the band; A dreamer of dreams, a lover of art, A humble figure with a hero’s heart.

But years past and the prophecy had not been fulfilled. Over 1,000 years past and “Na Unami” regarded the prophecy as nothing more than a silly dream. They forgot the Voice, her temples were abandoned, her prophetesses and priestesses were released from their duties. But the words of the gods are not to be taken lightly. The prophecy would not be fulfilled for 2,000 years; by a son from the line of Yésu… this is his story. Ok, my story. My name is Tíkára ün na Ímaráe, which, in your human language means “Spirit of the Gods”. You can just call me Spirit. Everyone else does. I know that I am not human like you, but I have feelings, just like you. Even though my story might seem strange to you at first, read a little closer. You might find that we might be more like than you think…



Chapter 1: Power of the Rising Sun

I’ve always been open to the world around me, but most of my people had closed in on themselves. They stopped believing in things we had believed in for centuries in the past. They no longer believed in the dryads of the trees, or the naiads of the waters. They hadn’t been seen for centuries, so my people thought they no longer existed. But I knew better…

Spirit’s keen eyes pierced the deep waters; he knew she was down there. He knew that Máki was nearly invisible in the water, being a naiad, but he could find her. The tip of his long earth- brown tail tapped side to side, the rest of his golden body stayed immovable as stone. He reached up with one hand to brush aside his long brown forelock, never taking his eyes off of the water. His eyes, normally a chocolate brown color, seemed to be turning to fire thanks to the golden threads that speared through his eyes, which were, in his concentration, more visible than ever. This was one of the many games he played with Máki, since he had few friends and plenty of free time.

His searching eyes finally focused on something, the swirling end of a greenish tail. Spirit’s body tensed and coiled like a panther preparing to spring. Then he leaped and dove into the pond he had been seated in front of only a moment before. Once in the water, he streaked after Máki. He didn’t worry about drowning because he could breathe in the water as easily as in air. The only thing he focused on was catching her. Now he could see the blue-grey form of her body swimming ahead of him. He sped up, following her every move as she twisted and turned through the water. Finally he drew in close, and reached out and slapped her haunch. Then the two of them swam for the surface, bursting out of the water in fits of laughter. They began to splash each other until someone called, “Spiirriit.” It was Sî. Máki quickly dove underwater to avoid being seen as Spirit turned to swim for shore where Sî stood waiting. Sî was a small, bay colt with a funny blaze that almost covered his entire face. He wasn’t very popular because he had a roman nose and was ewe necked, but he and Spirit were best friends.

“Hey Spirit,” Sî said to him as he climbed out of the water, “what were ya doing?”

“Just swimming,” Sprit replied. He then proceeded to vigorously shake his coat free of moisture. Sî, laughing, put up his hands to try to defend himself against Spirit’s onslaught of water.

“Spirit, you are the only one I know who can turn a simple shake into a monsoon,” he sputtered once Spirit had finished drenching him.

“It’s a gift,” Spirit chuckled as he stretched out his wing to make sure he had gotten all of the moisture out of his feathers.

“Well if you’re done,” Sî told him, “we need to start heading over to Swordsmanship class anyway.”

Together they turned and began making their way over to the tunnels on the other side of the valley. Spirit looked around himself and breathed a slight contented sigh. He really loved his home. It was a splendid valley, lying in the crater of a long-extinct volcano. The valley it’s self was nearly nine miles long from the northern Canyon Maze entrance, to the southern wall. And just over a mile wide from the western River Wall to the eastern Wall of Passages. Inside the walls of the mountain and beyond were miles of twisting passages leading to various rooms. Starting near the north end of The Wall of Passages at the Canyon Maze entrance was a tree belt that stretched a crossed that wall and down the River Wall. A waterfall fell over the southern wall into Maki’s pond and a small river ran out of it, half way down the River Wall and turned inside the mountain, eventually running through the forges. His people called it Caledonia, the Promised Land. Right now it was displaying its full summer splendor, trees in full leaf, wild flowers blooming, and birds singing. It was a wonderful place, just right for a half-grown colt to learn and grow.

As they walked together a crossed the valley, they passed a small group of fillies their own age. One of them started flirting her mane, and casting flirtatious glances in Sî’s direction. “Hey Sî, you’ve got a girlfriend,” Spirit told him, laughing.

“Well she is nice,” Sî replied.

“And her looks don’t hurt either,” Spirit countered, shouldering him companionably, “face it Sî, she loooves you.”

“Ok, she likes me, and I admit I like her to, I’m surprised that it’s me she likes and not you.”

“Me! I look like an over grown stork with stilts who’s always tripping over his own hooves, why would any girl like me?”

“Yah, an over grown stork with stilts who can already out run fully grown stallions twice, even three times his own age,” Sî countered.

“I look like I’m part spider or part snake. The only thing small about me is my head. I know they say I got it from my mom, but I’ve even heard some of the elders say that such a fine head is wasted on such a lanky colt.”

“That shows how much they know.”

“Maybe, but I don’t like any of these girls.”

“Come on, there’s got to be at least one girl you like.”

“Well, there’re my two younger sisters, but I don’t think they count.”

“Well maybe you just haven’t found the right girl yet.”

“Maybe…,” Spirit said thoughtfully. Then he looked mischievous. “Well, at least I’m not afraid of them.”

“I am not!” Sî retorted.

“Are too!”

“I’m going to get you for that!”

“You’ve got to catch me first!”

With a laugh, Spirit lunged into a fast canter with Sî close behind. Even though they nearly started together, Spirit quickly put distance between himself and Sî. He slowed enough so Sî would not loose him, but not enough for him to catch up. It wasn’t a proper race anyway, just chasing each other for fun. The two of them zigg zagged a crossed the valley in a wild chase. Spirit relaxed, running was like laughing gas, it made all his troubles go away, if only for a little while.

Suddenly, a big stallion stepped into their path. Spirit quickly slid to a stop, with Sî nearly running into him. It was Spirit’s uncle, Signár, a big, burly paint with an orange splotch pattern on his coat. His head was a big jug head with small, beady black eyes. Overall, it gave him a very sly, manipulating, evil look. “Aren’t you two supposed to be heading for your classes about now,” he angrily growled at them.

“Yes, uncle as a matter of fact that’s where we were heading now,” Spirit practically snarled in return. He turned and stalked angrily past Signár, keeping one glairing eye on him until he was well past. Si looked from one to the other and walked nervously past Signár.

Once they were out of his hearing range inside the tunnels Si shuddered. “Boy your uncle is creepy,” he said nervously.

“Tell me about it,” Spirit replied, still cross.

“I wonder why he doesn’t like you.”

“I don’t know, because I exist I guess, I haven’t done any thing that I can think of. Come on let’s just get to class. Who are you supposed to spar with today?”

Sî could tell that Spirit was trying to change the subject, but he understood why so he answered, “Uhh…Barion I think, who do you have?”

“Tyarøn.”

“Oohh, have fun getting beat up. Why do you always seem to get him?”

“My own rotten luck,” Spirit said, already dreading it. Tyarøn was a good looking red roan colt who had been one of Spirit’s lifelong tormentors. Now that they were actually old enough to spar in pairs, Tyarøn was showing that he was the best swordsman of the half-growns. Since Spirit was only an average swordsman, Tyarøn was always beating him, and he enjoyed it! Skïron, their swordsmanship teacher felt that Spirit could become an expert; he just needed to find his style of fighting. He was always telling Spirit this. But Spirit knew that he needed more than that, he needed a balanced sword. None of the practice swords felt right. They all had problems like there was too much weight in the handle or the blade was too long. With Tyarøn as his sparring partner, Spirit knew it was going to be a long class.

* * *

“Grab a practice sword and get with your partners to wait for my signal to start,” Skïron called to the group of half-grown colts that he was teaching. Spirit raced over to the racks where the practice swords were kept. They were not allowed to have a sword of their own until they were 3 years old, so they had to use the practice blades. He had learned long ago that if you snoozed, you’d loose. So it was get over there for the one you wanted or wait and get stuck with a bad blade. He went straight to the sword he normally used, a broadsword about three feet long with a silver handle and a leather grip. It was at least the right length but it had too much weight in its handle to feel comfortable. He snagged it off the racks, and fastened the sheath around his middle with its belt.

The fillies had already been taken to another room by their teacher, Scillaria. She was one of the best female warriors in the herd so she was given the task of teaching swordsmanship to the fillies. All young foals, male or female, were taught how to use a sword because, in a battle, every warrior counted.

“All right, everyone get into ready position,” Skïron called out. He was an aging steel-grey stallion who, in his prime, had been one of the best warriors of all time. Even though he was getting on in years, he could still spar with colts many times younger that he. Not one, not even Tyarøn, could withstand his lightning fast thrusts and nimble maneuvers.
Spirit took his position a crossed from Tyarøn. The other colt slyly smiled at him, “Are you ready to get creamed, Stork,” he sneered. Spirit chose not to respond. If he responded he was just going to get even madder and then he’d never be able to concentrate. His earlier encounter with his uncle had not helped his mood.

“Colts, you know the rules,” Skïron’s voice rumbled through the room like thunder. “Use the sheathing spell on your swords at all times, no intentional maiming, the first one to get their sword into kill position against your opponent’s throat wins.”

All the colts started running their forefinger and thumb along the edge of their blades, reciting the spell in a whisper. While in training, all students were required to use the spell to avoid serious injury.

“Stand ready,” Skïron thundered, “ready… set… FIGHT!”

The room rang with the sound of metal on metal. Spirit and Tyarøn’s swords clanged together, each one fighting for an opening. Then they broke apart and began to circle each other. “You can’t beat me,” Tyarøn shouted, “we both know you haven’t got it in you. You know I’m better than you could ever be.”

Then they were together again, striking, dodging, and blocking, their swords ringing with each impact. Tyarøn soon had Spirit on the defensive, trying to prevent his sword from striking home. In an instant, it was all over, Tyarøn pulled the disarming maneuver and Spirit’s sword went flying. Before Spirit could move, he felt the tip of Tyarøn’s sword tickle against his throat, bringing the fight to an end. They held this position for a minuet, then Tyarøn lowered his sword with a smug smile. They continued to stand there, panting, until Skïron called for a break.

All of the colts ran to the pool of water at one end of the cavern. Some splashed water on their faces; others drank long, deep draughts of water. Spirit cupped a small amount of water in his hands and splashed it on his face and neck, then took a small drink if water.

Suddenly he felt cold, as if all the heat had been sucked out of him. Shivering, he decided to sit near the fire to try to warm up. Lying near the fire, Spirit could be alone, because all of the others were so hot, they chose to sit as far away from the fire as they could get. As he was laying there, Spirit’s rook familiar, Ishtar, sailed in with a flurry of black wings and landed on his usual spot, atop the crest of Spirit’s neck. He was a wise-cracking young bird who had been Spirit’s constant companion ever since Spirit had found him as a chick, the only survivor of a predator’s attack on his nest. He looked like a crow or raven but much larger, with a white V on his chest and markings on his head. “So how’s class going so far,” he asked.

“Tyarøn beat me again,” Spirit replied

“Ouch.”

“I know, did you find many new plants.” Spirit was always interested in medicinal plants but with his class schedule he had little time to look for some. So Ishtar would often look for the plants for him and during breaks would tell him were to find them.

“Well I found a couple,” Ishtar said thoughtfully, “found some crystala blooms over by were the creek reenters the River Wall, a new patch of rosemary near the rowan tree, and a new plant next to the twisted pine.”
“Really,” Spirit said, intrigued, “what did it look like?”

“It had a milk-white flower and a black bulb.”

“That’s moly! It’s poisonous! We should pull them up before someone eats them by mistake!”

“Fine, but right now you should be more concerned with resting up for your next bought with Tyaron.”

“All right Ishtar, you don’t have to be my mother. Sheeshhh!”

He then let his head rest on the ground and drifted off to sleep. What happened next went unnoticed by everyone, including Spirit and Ishtar. A bit of fire leaned towards him and slowly swept its’ self a crossed his flank. “Come on colts,” Skïron suddenly cried, “get back into your pairs for another round.”

At Skïron’s call to arms, Spirit quickly got to his feet. “You can hang around if you want Ishtar,” he told him, picking up his sword.

“And watch you get creamed,” Ishtar asked, “I don’t know why I’d want to see that, but whatever.”

“Suit your self,” Spirit responded. He was excited for some reason. He didn’t know why but he felt as if he had been shot with a bolt of energy. He trotted into the ring ready for just about anything.

“I don’t know why every time I beat you, you keep coming back for more,” Tyarøn taunted, “but at least it means I get to beat you again.”

Spirit ignored him. Somehow he felt that this time the fight would be different. Somehow he knew that he would make Tyarøn eat those words. He knew he was ready.

“Stand ready,” Skïron thundered, “ready… set… FIGHT!”

This time when Tyarøn charged him, Spirit calmly waited until the last moment and nimbly leapt aside. He smacked Tyarøn on the hip with the flat of his sword as the other colt thundered past. Tyarøn skidded to a stop and looked around, slightly confused, to try and figure out were his opponent was. Finally spotting Spirit, he whirled around and charged him again, only to be evaded in the same fashion. By his third charge, Tyarøn was becoming a bit winded, and very cross that he was loosing what should be a very easy duel. When he charged again, he stayed at a slower pace so he could maneuver better if Spirit should leap aside. This time however, Spirit met his charge. Their swords clanged sharply as Spirit easily deflected Tyarøn’s thrust. Spirit could hardly believe how well he was fighting. Now, he could see openings and anticipate his opponent’s moves. No matter what Tyarøn did, he couldn’t even touch Spirit with his blade.

The sword’s grip was becoming a bowling ball, pulling on his hands. Spirit knew it would only a matter of time until Tyarøn overpowered him, he’d have to do something, and fast! He decided to pull the disarming maneuver. Their swords twisted around each other and Spirit put all his strength into the thrust. Tyarøn’s sword went flying and Spirit found the tip of his sword resting against Tyarøn’s throat. They held this position for several moments, panting. Spirit thought could see in Tyarøn’s eyes surprise, shock, and… a look of grudging respect. He slowly lowered his sword as the two of them stood staring at each other.

“Spirit.”

They turned their heads towards the voice and realized that all of the other colts had stopped their sparing and were standing around staring at them in shock.

“Spirit, how did you do that,” Skïron asked, still a bit shocked.

“I…I don’t know,” Spirit answered truthfully.

“Can you do that again?”

Spirit didn’t know if he could. The maniac burst of energy had left him. He felt run down, worn out, as if he’d just crashed from a sugar high. He didn’t want to but Skïron insisted so they swung into action again. This time it was no contest. As soon as their swords met Tyarøn disarmed him and had his sword against Spirit’s throat. For a moment no one spoke, and then someone called out, “Beginner’s luck.”

“Maybe,” Skïron mused, “but I wonder what Spirit could do with a balanced sword?”

* * *

That night, Spirit lay in the Sleeping Chamber, a huge cavern inside the walls of the valley, listening to Skïron talk to his father, Chester. Skïron had requested a privet audience with Chester after Spirit’s swordsmanship class and Spirit wanted to hear what he had to say. It wasn’t easy, because his two younger sisters, Mhyra and Sara, kept giggling loudly and chasing each other in circles around their mother. He sighed, slowly shaking his head, then turned and focused on his father’s conversation with Skïron. Fortunately the shape of the Sleeping Chamber made it possible for him to hear the slightest whisper. It was a place for the herd to sleep with nests of swirled grasses, blankets, and torches on the walls to provide light. There were three central hearths where fires were made to provide warmth. Spirit enjoyed spending time there each night with his family. He could hear Chester and Sciron discussing the way Spirit had fought in class that day. His father was so busy with his duties as King that this was the only time he was able to meet with Sciron.

Yes, Chester was the King of his people, but he didn’t need a crown to show his power. He was a big, buff stallion about halfway through his life. He had great muscles that rippled beneath his dark caramel brown coat. His mane and tail seamed to be made out of spun gold. His bright, gryphon-like, green eyes showed his deep wisdom and intelligence. He was the kind of person who “wore power like a cloak”. So that, along with his reputation for giving just, wise judgments, made him one of the most widely respected kings in history. His familiar, a wise golden eagle named Kaki, sat on his fist.

“I thought that it was unusual for him to show magic in such a way,” Skïron was saying, “because of his……unusual lack of it.”

Spirit softly sighed to himself; his “lack of magic” had always been an embarrassment for himself, and for his father. Like all of the other colts he’d been born with the magic in his horn, but unlike them, he was born without his own “signature” magic. “Signature” magic was a magic that varied between all of them, never being the exact same mix of powers twice. The different powers could be split into groups but no two peoples’ magic was exactly the same, like a fingerprint. Everyone had expected him to have tremendous powers because of how powerful his parents were. Chester had Stone Magic, and a lot of it. He could create stones, cause them to move, even make them explode! If provoked, he could even turn things into stone! His mother, Samantha, had some Plant Magic mixed with Weaving Magic. She could make plants grow as fast as she wished, make flowers bloom, and make plants grow in certain designs, make a loom weave fabric by its self, or make fabric for bandages that magically healed wounds faster.

The most depressing part of this whole problem was that since Spirit was Chester’s first born child, he would become King when his father stepped down in only a couple of years. And he couldn’t pass the job to one of his sisters because by law the heir has to be 4 years old (4 years old is considered an adult) by the time, or before the current King steps down. He was born in the deadline year and so his sisters wouldn’t be old enough in time. Pale, moon-colored Mhyra was only a yearling and dark little Sara had been born only a few months ago.

Just then he was violently jolted out of his thoughts by a vicious yank on his tail. He whipped around to catch the culprit in time to see Mhyra and Sara race behind their mother, laughing. “What was that for,” he snarled at them as they peeked mischievously over Samantha’s back. They only responded with more giggles. He growled at them crossly, making them duck back behind their mother. “Spirit,” Samantha told him calmly, “they’re just having fun.”

“Fun, shmun, just tell them to quit pullin’ my tail!”

Sprit lay his head back down, still growling. How could his mother stand those two sometimes? They were his sisters and he did love them, but sometimes they did things that drove him up a wall! His mother had to be the calmest, most understanding mare he knew to put up with them. She was a beautiful middle-aged mare with a sandy- colored coat. She had four white stockings on her delicate legs and a slim white blaze down her face. When the light hit her white mane just right, it looked as if she had a halo around her head. Her large purple eyes were wide-set in her slim Arabian head.

“Sprit, try to get some sleep,” Samantha told him soothingly, “tomorrow we’re going to the river, remember?”

“Yah, I remember,” Spirit tried to close his eyes. The herd only went to the river outside the valley walls once every year so it was a big deal. Ishtar came sailing in and landed on his neck, stretched a bit, and tucked his head beneath his wing to sleep. Spirit’s last thought before he fell asleep was that he hoped that tomorrow would be better than today had been…

…If only I knew then how wrong I was going to be…