Here Shines the Sun (11 page)

On one hand, Hadraniel was thankful for Karin becoming a Saints Caliber. She was kind and sweet, warm and caring. She had shown him that this world did not have to be the dismal place that it was. However, on the other hand, he cursed it. Not because he did not like being her partner—quite the opposite—but because he knew that her safety rested entirely on his shoulders. And he wasn’t exactly the most powerful Saint either. If something were to ever happen to her, he didn’t know if he could bear it. Over the last several years her Caliber had very much become a part of his, and the thought of losing that warmth terrified him. Her warmth had replaced the Evanescence he used to take. He didn’t know if he could go back to his old life, the one before she came along, where he tormented the people of Jerusa and was happy to do so, so long as the Ev flowed freely.

“You don’t have to be so cruel.” said Karinael, and Hadraniel cringed. In this hall where every inch of every wall was hung with ornate tapestries, paintings or set with shelves of vases and other fine art, her voice seemed dangerously loud.

Ovid did not answer. He just led them down the hall.

“There are other ways, you know.” she persisted.

“Karin…” warned Hadraniel into her ear, but she simply walked faster away from him.

“You can help, you know.” she said. “You can help people.”

Ovid stopped in his tracks. He turned to face her, his black eyes cold. He looked down at his feet. A puddle came up from the marble floor, surrounding him. He looked back at her. “We’ll see how helpful you remain when Leviathan Hydra is watching you.” He turned and continued down the hall, leaving wet boot-prints as he went.

Hadraniel saw Karinael’s nose crinkle and he himself almost recoiled as a pungent odor began to assault him. At first it was faint, just playing at his nose, but as they approached the enormous golden doors ahead it began to hang thick in the air. It almost had an atmosphere to it; a tangible substance. Hadraniel had been near pig farms, but those were nothing to this. No matter how many times he had come before Gatima, he could never prepare himself for the odor. It was like a stinking, sweaty corpse left to rot in the sun. It was an oily odor and it clung to everything. He swore he could even see it fogging up the glassy black surface of their Star-Armor. He turned his head and buried his nose and mouth in his shoulder as he walked, but it was a useless gesture. There was no escaping it. Hadraniel thought to breathe through his mouth but then he was certain he could taste it.

Ovid chuckled. “You never get used to it.”

Ahead, the enormous golden doors stood before them. Hadraniel knew they were not just painted gold, or even iron plated in gold. These monstrosities were pure, solid gold, two-feet thick. Each was no less than fifty-feet tall and nearly as wide. Upon the pair was engraved the crest of Jerusa, a great, raging bull. Its eyes were set with rubies, giving it a terrible, angry demeanor. Trimming the door were geometric patterns of diamonds, emeralds, rubies and other precious gems, each the size of a fist. They all sparkled in the light of an enormous, golden chandelier that radiated with a hundred or more gaslights. They were marvelous and spectacular in the most hideously gaudy way imaginable.

Standing before each door was a Saint in his white bodysuit and black Star-Armor. The one on the left with eyes and hair like magnificent rubies and a rare axe of star-metal upon his back was Saint Savitar of the Pits. Savitar had earned his honorific providing sacrifices to the Womb of the World. Hadraniel had never been there, but it was said that it was a forbidden place; a bottomless pit that reached to the very roots of Apollyon’s Hell. For as long as any could remember, King Gatima had it mined for precious gems, and Saint Savitar had made sure it blessed Gatima with its riches. Savitar was said to have thrown countless men, women and children into its depths as offerings to whatever abominable thing might lurk in its belly.

The Saint on the right with eyes and hair like polished sapphires was Saint Ithuriel of the Violet Fires. Nobody, except maybe King Gatima, knew what his honorific meant. In fact, nobody really knew what Saint Ithuriel did other than guard the doors to Gatima’s throne room. He was said to have once belonged to Saint Mephistasis of the Red Path, the only Saint to ever be Exalted by his King. Mephistasis and Ithuriel were said to have purged Penatallia of all blasphemous Saints. But here in Jerusa, for as long as anybody could remember, Saint Ithuriel stood sentinel before these doors, his two eight-foot pikes of star-metal always in his hands.

Saint Ovid came to a stop before the doors and bowed his head slightly to each, “Saint Savitar of the Pits. Saint Ithuriel of the Violet Fires.”

Hadraniel and Karinael did the same. Hadraniel couldn’t help but notice the way Ithuriel’s sapphire eyes were focused on him and Karinael, and something about that gaze filled him with dread.

Upon each door was a giant, golden rung and in unison Savitar and Ithuriel pulled the doors open. Hadraniel could see their Caliber light shining brightly as they struggled at first to move the titanic doors, though they made very little sound as they opened. Billows of foul air poured forth as the doors spread and Hadraniel coughed and his eyes teared up as the sticky, hot warmth washed over him and Karinael. Ovid chuckled and strode forth into the throne room.

Beyond the doors was the single largest room Hadraniel had ever seen. The chamber’s ceiling was hundreds of feet high, but brightly illuminated by countless chandeliers of gold. The marble walls were hung with enormous tapestries and paintings, as well as plush curtains. Upon the back wall was a single, round window of stained glass at least one-hundred feet in diameter depicting the raging bull of Jerusa. And seated before it, on a raised, golden throne so immense that Hadraniel’s mind failed to hazard a guess at its size, sat King Gatima. Hadraniel and Karinael had to crane their necks up just to see his full stature. There was no man or beast so large as he. Hadraniel had seen the titan known as Behemoth Kraken, a ten-foot tall monstrosity of a man who cracked the stones he stepped on. But even that infernal creature was but a dwarf to Gatima.

He was grotesque. Fat beyond words. Hideous in exorbitance. A mountain of flesh fifty-feet tall. Red and green gowns embellished with gems and baubles blanketed him like snow might a mountain. His face must have been four-feet around and it sagged beneath the weight of his own cheeks and chins. His hair was dark and curly and upon it rested a crown as engorged and bloated as the man who wore it. Its golden spires, each many feet high, were burdened by gems so large that the entire thing looked as if it threatened to sink into the fat of his scalp. His arms—impossible to gauge their size beneath the billowing, draping gowns—sat high upon his sides, dozens of feet apart. His hands were like hams, each finger a sausage heavy with rings of gold half-swallowed by rolls of fat. In his right hand he held a golden scepter so laden with gems that any beauty it might contain was lost in its terrible excess. His dark eyes looked down upon them with lazy arrogance.

The blankets of his gown rolled down his bulk and off the throne, dozens of feet to its base where a council of twelve pale, skeletal men sat before a golden table fifty-feet long. The councilmen all wore robes of their own, the backs of them sewn into the ends of the King’s so that they were as one; as if they were his toes poking from his robe. Despite the size and heft of the table the council sat before, it was so laden with food that it seemed it might collapse. Whole turkeys and hams gently steamed upon jewel-encrusted platters; There were wheels of cheese and plates of crackers; Golden decanters of wine were set here and there; Baskets of breads and fruits where everywhere; Jars of butters and jellies added spots of bright color amid the flickering candles. But no amount of food could deter the terrible odors that emanated from the creature upon that throne.

Before each councilman was a plate stacked with food. They ate ravenously, but yet they were skeletal. Wisps of gray hair lay flat upon their liver-spotted scalps and their dark, sunken eyes stared down at their plates. They gripped golden forks and knives in their bony hands as they shoveled food past thin lips with such fervent hunger that the attending staff, all dressed in fine robes, had to constantly carve more meat or cheese or refill their glasses as they ate.

Hadraniel’s lips turned up in disgust as he watched them consume their food. And then his belly burned as a terrible horror struck him. With every feverish mouthful they gulped, a subtle but distinct undulation moved from their robes and up Gatima’s, all the way to his belly where it quivered ever so slightly beneath his gowns. His eyes fixed on the terrible sight, hoping his fear would not be confirmed. But it was unmistakable. What they ate somehow fed into Gatima. What abominable horror chained them to Gatima the robes thankfully hid, but Hadraniel’s mind was flooded with horrific ideas.

Nausea hit him hard. He felt as if he might vomit and his Caliber desperately sought Karinael’s. But all he could feel from her was her own fear and disgust and it was all he could do to turn to the side and lose his lunch. No sooner than it had splattered upon the floor, along came a hasty maid servant. She was as starved and skeletal as the councilmen beneath her gown and apron, and she used her bony hands to scoop the vomit into a small bucket. Hadraniel watched in horror as she brought it to the table and set it on the floor beneath it. From beneath Gatima’s robes came a pack of starved dogs who ravenously growled and fought for ownership of it.

“WASTE NOT,” the King sucked in a huge breath, “WANT NOT.” King Gatima’s voice was rich and full in a most unnatural way and it consumed the entire chamber with its sluggish indolence. He chuckled a lazy, arrogant chuckle, and his entire bulk bounced. Hadraniel swore he could feel the very room shudder. The council at the table did not pause in their eating.

Ovid bowed and then stepped to the side. Hadraniel stepped forward, Karinael at his side, and they both bowed deeply. “Most Exalted King Gatima,” said Hadraniel softly. “We have received your summons and are here to serve.”

“GOOD. GOOD.” said Gatima, his voice huge and slow. His council continued to eat beneath him as the servants went about restocking their plates. He sucked in a huge breath. “LOYALTY IS A VIRTUE ABOVE ALL OTHERS.” He chuckled lazily.

“How may we be of service to you, my King?” asked Karinael.

Gatima paused and began smacking his enormous, fat lips. An engorged, pink tongue slithered out and licked at the sides of his mouth. A couple servants ran up the steep flight of golden steps at either side of his throne and stood upon small platforms next to his head. One carried a large pitcher in his hands and the other a plush towel. Next to Gatima’s face, the servants looked like midgets. The servant with the pitcher began to pour the contents into Gatima’s mouth as the other gently dabbed at his chins with the towel. When they had finished they both scampered down the steps and went back to attending the councilmen.

“WHY DO MY PEOPLE NOT HEED MY WORDS?” Gatima’s voice filled the room with a terrible heaviness. “LOOK. LOOK.” his enormous hands flapped, trying to gesture at the table beneath him. “DO THEY NOT SEE THE BOUNTY I PROVIDE?” he sucked in a huge breath. “WHY, MY CASTLE BURSTS WITH THE BOUNTY OF MY LANDS. IT BURSTS. IT BURSTS.”

Hadraniel cast his silver eyes down. He could see Karinael chewing on her lip. He really hoped she wouldn’t say what he knew she wanted to.

“WHY DO THEY NOT HEED MY WORDS? WHY? WHY?”

“I… I do not know, my King.” said Karinael.

“HADRANIEL, MY SAINT. WHY DO THEY NOT HEED MY WORDS? WHY?”

“I do not know,” said Hadraniel softly. “But I know they love you and adore you, my King.”

“AS THEY SHOULD. AS THEY SHOULD. I AM THE GREAT PROVIDER. LOOK AT THE BOUNTY. LOOK. LOOK.”

Hadraniel swallowed hard and made a show of looking about the room. Somehow, his eyes were still drawn to the councilmen at the table and their constant eating; and that ever-so-subtle undulation that followed up Gatima’s robes every time they swallowed.

“BOUNTY. SUCH BOUNTY.”

Karinael licked her lips. “My King, what service might we provide you?”

“MY CITY OF GATIPA.” said Gatima. He sucked in a huge breath. “THEY SETTLE TOO FAR FROM ME. MUCH TOO FAR.”

“Two-hundred-and-three-miles.” said one of the councilmen at the table so quickly and abruptly that Hadraniel was scarcely sure he caught a glimpse of the one who said it before he resumed shoveling food into his mouth.

“TWO HUNDRED AND THREE.” said Gatima. “TOO FAR. MUCH, MUCH TOO FAR. THEY MUST BE CLOSER. MUST BE CLOSER TO ME. THINGS MUST BE CLOSE TO MY HANDS.” Gatima paused and began smacking his lips again. His attendants ran up to him once more, pouring more liquid down his massive throat and dabbing at his rolling chins. “BUT THERE IS MORE. MUCH MORE.”

“Food-shipments.-Stealing.” blurted one of the councilmen, hardly even pausing his eating.

“THEY STEAL.” said Gatima. “THEY STEAL MY BOUNTY. WHY? WHY DO THEY STEAL FROM ME? WHY WHEN I PROVIDE SUCH BOUNTY MUST THEY STEAL?”

“I don’t know, my King.” said Hadraniel. He could detect an anger brewing deep within Gatima’s voice. It was an undertone in the very atmosphere that was at once terrible and frightening. It made the air thicker, heavier, harder to bear.

“MINE. IT’S MINE. MY BOUNTY. MINE. IT’S MINE.” Gatima’s voice was still sluggish but was becoming more and more terrible and more and more consuming of the room.

“Yes, my King.” said Hadraniel. “Of course, my King.”

“YET THERE IS MORE. MUCH MORE.”

“Someone-is-helping-them.” blurted a councilman. “Helping-them-get-shipments-of-food.”

“HELP. WHAT HELP BUT MINE DO THEY NEED? I PROVIDE. I AM THE PROVIDER! I PROVIDE AND THEY ARE TAKING IT. IT’S MINE! MINE! IT IS ALL MINE!” the chamber began to rattle beneath the weight of Gatima’s voice. “WHO’S TAKING?! WHO IS TAKING?! MINE! MY BOUNTY!
IT’S MINE! HOW DARE THEY? HOW DARE THEY TAKE AND TAKE FROM ME? HOW DARE THEY? TELL ME! TELL ME! WHO IS HELPING?! WHO IS HELPING?!
”

Hadraniel swallowed hard as Gatima’s attendants ran up the stairs and began toweling his face. The King’s breaths were loud and seemed to consume all the air in the room. Hadraniel himself found he was having a hard time breathing, though he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t panic. He and Karinael were the ones helping. Did Gatima know? Did his council know? He swallowed hard again.