Here Shines the Sun (71 page)

Chazod opened his eyes. The water was red, the offal of Jaquin’s body floating beneath him. There was debris everywhere, and people clung to it or paddled among it. All eyes turned up to him. He saw Padraic and Maddox dog-paddling beneath him. Maddox looked up at him and gave him a big, smiling, thumbs-up.

“You fucking crazy bastard!” cried one of the goons from their bobbing rowboat. The four all began laughing.

“Gah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” cackled Banden as he clung to the scaffolding beside Chazod. He smacked Chazod on the back. “We did it! We win!”

The stadium was empty but for a few hundred people scattered throughout. Still, their cheers echoed loudly. Chazod turned his eyes to the King’s box and waved.

Balin stood up from his seat and looked at Raygar. “I don’t recall the history books saying anything about Lord Cailith’s ship being sunk.” He turned back to the arena. “But that blood sure is red and beautiful.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

“And you were like this!” roared Banden, contorting his scarred face into the dopiest look he could muster as he flailed his arms and sank to the floor. He pointed at Jorund. “Gah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Banden’s roar echoed through the dank, interior chamber of the arena as Jorund and his men sulked in their corner, drying themselves with towels. Banden continued stalking them, laughing and taunting and mimicking the surprised faces they made when they plunged into the water. “Gah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

At the center of the large room was a blazing fire in a steel pit that cast its flickering light on all the stone walls and portcullises. There, Padraic and Maddox were hard at work instilling the legend of how they and Chazod fought off sharks swimming beneath the ship and of how they defended Chazod against biting gears, breaths of steam, and crackling energy bolts so that he could disable the abominable machine. Chazod listened to all this with some amusement as he dried himself off. Men came up to slap him on the back, promising him their loyalty in the arena or boasting that he had surely won favor with Lord Balin.

As Chazod squeezed the water from the ends of the shorts he was wearing, the portcullis at the far end of the chamber rattled its way up into the ceiling. Chazod looked over his shoulder to see a number of soldiers part to let Lord Raygar and Exalted Lord Balin through. As they entered the chamber the idle chatter died off and even Banden’s laughter was cut short. Chazod saw Raygar point his direction and whisper something into Balin’s ear. He stood up and watched as the two approached.

“Chazod Fausts,” said Balin with a smile. He removed his gloves and extended a hand. Chazod just looked at it. Balin’s smile faded. “Ah, yes. Now I remember. You’re the one who called me an asshole.”

“To be fair, I called everybody an asshole.” Behind Balin, Chazod could see Raygar shaking his head in warning. The Dark Star Knight had been amiable and fair to him and the others during these last couple weeks of training, not taking offense to the jokes he poked at him. But Chazod knew the man had his limits, and one of those was insulting his Exalted Lord. Chazod decided to tone it down a notch. For Raygar’s sake.

He took Balin by the hand and shook. “Sorry, where I come from slaves aren’t allowed to shake their master’s hand. We might break the dainty thing, you know.”

“You have knowledge in combat and wit in conversation, but you’re sorely lacking the wisdom to go with either.” said Balin, unamused. “Impressive use of mechanical knowledge, taking apart that ship. However, a little wisdom might have told you your master wouldn’t be pleased with the cost of repairing it.”

“Trust me, I thought of that too. Just didn’t care.”

“I see.” said Balin. “In that case, let me share with you this: I can make your life a living hell or a pleasurable experience. Either way, I don’t care. What I do care about, however, are the victories my gladiators win in the arena. Victories mean money, and I love my money.”

“In that case you’d do well to make my life and my friends’ lives a pleasurable experience.” said Chazod. “Because we can make opening your purse a pleasure or a living hell.”

Balin smirked. “You play a good game, Chazod. I respect that. However, one win at a trial does not turn a Woodsword into an Ironsword, much less a Steelclad Champion. So, let’s not let this little victory go to your head. Who else do I owe the honor of my visit to?”

Padraic, Maddox, Banden and the four goons all came over and Chazod introduced them as such, much to the chagrin of the goons.

“You’re missing a man.” said Balin after congratulating them. “Who was the one that bloodied the waters?”

“Jaquin.” said Maddox. “He also shit and pissed in it.”

Balin turned to Chazod. “Was he weak? Did you expect him to die?”

Chazod hiked his shoulders. “He wanted to hang with us so I treated him like one of us. He didn’t make the cut.”

Balin seemed to brighten at that. “Willing to let others in but not willing to let them tag along for the ride. I like that. Maybe you are a leader. Maybe you are my next champion.” Balin’s eyes raked over him, appraising him. His eyes lingered for a moment at Chazod’s waist, and Chazod remembered that he had his dagger hidden there. Odd, he thought, for somebody to take notice of it. Nobody ever took notice of it. Balin turned to Raygar. “Get these men some whores and ale for their well-deserved victory.”

The goons hooted. Banden looked at Balin and fell into his roaring cackle, slapping the noble on his ass. Maddox and Padraic smacked each others’ hands and then roughed Chazod on the shoulders.

“There will be much more should you all continue down this path.” said Balin. “I want the audience to cheer for you. I want Steelclad Champions. I want victories.” Now he turned his eyes back to Chazod alone. “But there is one last thing. Why do you have a dagger in your waist?” He turned to Raygar. “That’s not one of ours. How was one of my Woodswords able to smuggle a weapon into the arena?”

“I’m sorry, Exalted Lord Balin.” spoke Raygar. “I must have accidentally given it to him when I was going through their ancillaries on arrival.”

Balin looked back to Chazod and held out his hand.

Chazod felt his heart sink.
Why the hell is this guy taking notice?
All those years with Grandon and the man never once seemed to even see it; Rennic and Garrot had just thrown it in with all the other junk from their captives; Raygar had given it back to him as if it were nothing but a toy. Chazod cursed himself for having been careless with it.

“Give it here.” said Balin.

Chazod frowned and took it from his waist. With a sigh, he placed it in Balin’s hand.

Balin looked as if he were about to hand it over to Raygar, but then he stopped. He regarded it for a moment, his face betraying more and more awe. Finally, he looked back at Chazod. “Where did this come from?”

“He had it with him when he arrived.” said Raygar. “I apologize for not—”

Balin disregarded the knight with a wave of his hand. “You were a blacksmith as well as a fighter back in Narbereth, were you not?”

“I was.” said Chazod.

“Did you make this?”

Chazod licked his lips. He thought about that question. It was loaded, he knew. If he said ‘yes’, what would that mean? Would he be sent to labor away with a blacksmith? It would likely be a less hazardous life, but he hated smithing. He hated the heat of the forge; hated hammering metal day in and day out. He much preferred the arena. Besides, he didn’t know how to make Everlight anyway. But if he said ‘no’, what, exactly, would that mean? Why was Balin so taken with that simple dagger? It was magically light, sure, but it wasn’t like it was made of gold. What was so special about that dagger to the man, and why had he, of all people, taken notice of it? Chazod knew that question was going to eat at him for the rest of his days. After a sigh, he looked at Balin. “No. I didn’t make it.”

“How did you come by this?”

“It was given to me. Can I have it back?”

“Given to you by whom?”

“My dear, dead father.” said Chazod. “Can I have it back? It’s all I have to remember him by.”

Balin nodded. “Of course.” He thrust the dagger to Chazod’s throat. “Tell me another lie and you will certainly get this back, just not in a way I think you’d want it.”

Chazod swallowed, feeling the apple of his throat bob against the dagger’s wicked-sharp tip. He felt Raygar grab him from behind, holding his arms. “Just tell him.” whispered Maddox.

Chazod tilted his eyes to Balin. “Back in Narbereth, in Bellus where I came from, there’s a guy who makes weapons out of that stuff. He calls it Everlight.”

“What is his name?”

“Rook Gatimarian.” said Chazod. “A slave to the Venzi’s, Callad and Sierla.”

“Thank you.” said Balin. Raygar released Chazod and Balin handed the dagger over to his Dark Star Knight. “Send this with our fastest quick-hound to Lord Tarquin at once. With it, send a letter detailing everything Chazod knows about this Rook Gatimarian. I want it all in Tarquin’s hands before the sun sets today.”

Raygar bowed. “Beneath the Duroton sky, it shall be done.”

“If you’re going after Rook, don’t take my sister.” said Chazod. “My sister, Kierza, might be with him. Promise you won’t take her. She has it good where she is.”

“Ah, a teachable moment in wisdom.” said Balin. “When you have the upper hand, never take off your glove, no matter how much it itches. It gives your opponent all he needs to take his position back. Kierza. I’ll keep that name in mind. Now, win me some victories.” He turned to Raygar. “Send that quick-hound to Lord Tarquin at once. Then get these men their whores and ale as I promised.”

Chazod chewed his lip as he stared at the stone floor. He suddenly didn’t feel like whores or ale anymore.

— 33 —

Thrones

The evening sun streamed through the tall, stained glass windows of the Holy Cathedra, bringing the depictions of the Sleeping Goddess and her youthful savior, Saint Admael, to fiery life. The light cast colorful puddles upon the white, marble walls and floor and danced around the tall, polished columns. Six imposing statues of the Bishops formed a path along the crimson carpet which led up to a dais, which was made of concentric, circular platforms which doubled as steps. At the top was a magnificent, golden throne, sculpted so that a pair of angels created a lap to sit upon. Seated there was Holy Father Admael in his white robes, and the beautiful faces of the angels leaned in on him, as if to whisper their thoughts into his ears. Their golden wings were spread behind him, as if he himself were uplifted by them.

Admael did not seem a frail old man upon that seat, and there was a hardness about him, whether imparted from the chamber or of his own countenance it was hard to tell. His golden mitre crown was caught in the light of a vast window in the shape of Aeoria’s star upon the far wall. Through it was a spectacular view of Sanctuary and all its marble buildings and avenues of star-metal far below. Above the throne was a high, domed ceiling of black star-metal where the last remaining star in the sky shone like a silver candlelight upon its surface.

An Oracle flanked by four Sin Eaters all in black robes entered the chamber and strode the long, red carpet to the foot of the dais. They stopped before a pair of bronze braziers set upon pedestals. Strings of white smoke rose from them, filling the room with a strange but pleasing incense.

The Oracle bowed deeply to Holy Father. “There is an issue, your Holiness.” spoke the Oracle calmly, looking up to Admael. “There is an uprising in Valdaria.”

“I am aware.” said Holy Father, his voice echoing upon the cold, hard, marble walls of the chamber. “The Holy Few have already informed me.”

The Oracle was silent for a moment. Behind him the Sin Eaters crouched and bobbed, whispering to each other. The Oracle said, “The issue in Bellus has grown worse. And there is rumor that Sanctuary has lost its ability to recall its Saints.”

“Unfortunately the enemies of Sanctuary planted their roots within our very walls.” said Holy Father. “But it is of little concern to me now.” He waved his hand, as if presenting that single star that shone above him. “The word has gone out to all our Saints in Narbereth that they are to stay out of Bellus. I have sent Queen Lustille to seek aid from King Gatima in Jerusa. He and his Exalteds should be more than enough to handle the situation.”

“Your Holiness,” said the Oracle. “Gatima’s Exalteds are not exactly sanctioned by us. I believe it was Saint Nuriel’s actions in Jerusa that first brought it to our attention that Gatima had been Exalting his own nobles without seeking our endorsement. Remember that Behemoth Kraken was created by Gatima, not us. In ten years his Exalteds have grown and they share little loyalty to Sanctuary. In fact, it is well known that Gatima has been forcing us out of his lands for some time. I fear—”

“Again, I am aware.” said Admael. “But Gatima’s loyalty is to Sanctuary. Let Lustille’s appeal to him be a test of that loyalty.”

The Oracle nodded. “What if the number of defecting Saints grows? What if word spreads to the other kingdoms that we have lost the ability to recall our Saints? What if we lose Valdaria next?”

“Saint Nuriel will handle a cleansing of Saints, should issues progress further.”

“Your Holiness,” said the Oracle. “I feel that I must confess to you my doubts in Saint Nuriel’s ability to handle such a momentous task. She failed to handle the manual recall of all the Saints in Bellus already. As I understand it, she only managed to recall Saint Karinael and Saint Paniel.”

“She recalled the one of most importance to me.” said Holy Father. “After that she returned to me for guidance. I will not fault her for that. The other Saints shall follow in due time.”

“Your Holiness, I feel it is my duty to object to—”

“Leave me.” Admael waved his hand, holding his brow with the other. “I am tired.”

“But, your Holiness, already more Saints defect. Saint Nuriel is not…” the Oracle’s voice trailed off as Saint Nuriel stepped from behind the dais. Her star-metal boots chimed like cold, iron bells on the marble floor. “Oh, Saint Nuriel, forgive me, but—”

Nuriel raised her hand, grabbing the Oracle within the unseen clutches of her Caliber. The Oracle grasped at its throat, choking, as Nuriel raised him off his feet. The Sin Eaters backed away, hissing. Nuriel’s golden eyes fixed on her helpless victim. Her lips furled into a snarl. She closed her fist, and the Oracle’s body was like a bundle of twigs being twisted and snapped. She released her grip and the Oracle fell to the floor, its mirror-mask cracking on the marble. Nuriel stepped forward, and the Sin Eaters shrunk back, bobbing and hissing with fear.

“Let the word go forth,” said Admael from his throne. “That to speak against Nuriel is to speak against me.”

Like specters materializing from another world the six Bishops stepped from their respective statues. They bowed to Admael and silently glided down the carpet, out of the chamber.

Admael fixed the Sin Eaters with his silver eyes. “Find out where Mephistasis of the Red Path is. Tell him that a final cleansing is at hand.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The golden doors to Gatima’s massive throne room opened and Queen Lustille, accompanied by her Exalteds, Lord and Lordess Virago, walked in. The Viragos could be brother and sister, both fair of face with tall, slender builds. They both wore full armor sculpted with dull feathers, the steel all enameled in browns and tans, giving the two the appearance of hawkish warriors. Rather than swords, they each carried a cat-o-nine-tails whose ends raked the floor as they walked. The handles were wound with brown leather, polished and shiny, but the chains and barbs were all rusty iron with bits of dried flesh still clung to them.

Queen Lustille was a tall and voluptuous woman, full of breast and lips, with nails painted like wet blood. Her blonde hair was long, silken and flowing. It draped over her slender shoulders and down her back. Upon her head was a crown of white-gold that shined with hundreds of diamonds and it complimented the lacy, ivory gown she wore. It was intricately dazzled with yellow diamonds in a large, flowing eagle all up and down its front and back.

Though her Exalteds were larger than the Saints who attended the doors, the Queen was larger still. But, before Gatima, all were dwarfed. Lustille bowed politely as she stepped before the council table which was all laden with food. The emaciated men in their robes feasted as Gatima towered over them. The aromas of hams and turkeys, vegetables and fruits all mingled with the stench of the King, filling the chamber with a sickly sweet odor. Off to the side stood an Oracle in a black robe, its mirror-mask gleaming in the gaslight.

“QUEEN LUSTILLE OF NARBERETH, WELCOME, WELCOME.” said Gatima in his consuming, sluggish voice. His tiny arms flapped at his sides.

The Oracle bowed. “Thank you for coming, Queen Lustille.” He turned to her Exalteds. “It is always a pleasure, most Exalted Lord and Lordess, Virago.”

The enormous golden doors closed with a rumble like thunder.

“Thank you all for taking the time to meet with me.” said the Oracle, addressing Lustille as well as Gatima. “This is a very informal meeting, so feel free to make yourselves comfortable.”

All at once Lustille and her Exalteds shed their forms. The Viragos’ armor seemed to become part of their bodies, the feathers all oily and matted with grime. Their faces took on a jaundiced cast, making them more fiendish. Their noses became long and curled. Their wrists and hands, ankles and feet had a more yellow tone to them, the flesh course and dry. Their fingers and toes became the talons of vultures, with dull, black nails. They stood hunched and menacing, greasy wings folded up on their backs. Harpies, the both of them.

Lustille’s figure remained beautiful, but her flesh paled until it was nearly as white as snow. Her eyes were dark, hollow sockets and her gown was a tattered, wispy shroud that waved as if stirred by winds. When she spoke, her voice was a sad and haunting song; as alluring and chilling as a grieving maiden’s cries before throwing herself from an ocean’s cliff.
“There is descent in my kingdom. My husband and daughters slain by the very Saints sworn to protect them. And yet, Sanctuary does nothing!”

“YET THERE IS MORE. MUCH MORE. MY SAINTS FLEE. MY SAINTS DECEIVE. WHAT’S TO BE DONE? WHAT IS TO BE DONE?”

“Holy Father Admael is well aware of the situation and has sent me to ensure you both that all will be rectified.” said the Oracle. “Holy Father personally sends his apologies and he promises that amends shall be made. You shall each have first choice of any new Saints Caliber in the coming weeks.”

“NOT ENOUGH. NOT ENOUGH.” Gatima’s huge head wagged slowly. “SO MUCH DECEIT. WHY DO MY SAINTS LEAVE? THEY ARE MINE. ALL MINE.”

“King Gatima,” said the Oracle. “Sanctuary understands your frustration and promises—”

“Indeed it is not enough!”
cried Lustille as the Virago harpies hissed at the Oracle.
“My King is dead! My daughters murdered! And it is because Sanctuary sits idle!”

The Oracle began to say something, but Gatima’s voice filled the room. “THERE MUST BE MORE. MUCH MORE. IT SHOULD ALL BE MINE. I WANT IT. IT IS MINE.”

The Oracle looked up at Gatima. “I’m sorry, King Gatima. But I don’t quite underst—”

“SO MUCH SHOULD BE MINE. ALL THE SAINTS SHOULD BE MINE.”

“Then what of me!”
Lustille’s voice became shrill and terrible and the councilmen gave brief pause in their feasting when a handful of their glass pitchers and platters shattered from her voice.
“Not all is for you, Gatima!”

“Most Exalted King Gatima,” began the Oracle. As he spoke, a titanic shadow crept from around Gatima’s throne. “Sanctuary has long had an understanding with you and the other Kings that—”

Thunder shook the entire chamber as a gargantuan mallet, whose head was the very log of some prehistoric tree, came down upon the Oracle. Huge, meaty hands with blocky knuckles tanned by dirt gripped the handle.

Titan Mammoth stood to his full height, almost reaching to the top of Gatima’s mountainous bulk. But for all his height he looked wide and squat with a musculature that seemed built from the foundation stones of a fortress. He was a living monolith; a wall both impassable and impenetrable. He was covered in armor cut from the largest of trees, bark and moss still clinging to it. His face was masked by a helmet built from felled logs in the form of a mammoth’s head, with great, wooden shields for ears and long, yellowed tusks protruding from the cheeks. An iron trunk, spiked with barbs, draped from the center of his face, reddened by rust from each rivet that held its many segments together. From behind the mask stared dull, brown eyes. They were devoid of any emotion; of any spark of benevolence or even intellect.

Titan Mammoth lifted his hammer. The Oracle’s robe was flattened in a puddle of offal, its bones and mirror-mask all pulverized to dust. Blood dripped from the mallet as Titan Mammoth hoisted it up upon his shoulder.

Lustille shrunk back. Her Exalteds, hissed and screeched.

“BUT THERE IS MORE. MUCH MORE. IT MUST ALL BE MINE. ALL THE KINGDOMS SHOULD BE MINE.”

From around the other side of Gatima’s throne came another terrible being. Goliath Minotaur was not quite as large as Titan Mammoth, but was every bit as imposing. His body of flesh was clothed in fur boots and a loincloth, his chest crossed by leather straps. His head, however, was that of some nightmarish, black bull and it looked too large even for his titanic body. Atop his head were long horns, banded in gold and jewels. From his wet, black nose hot breath billowed like smoke, and he fixed Lustille and her Exalteds with eyes as red as blood.

The Virago harpies screeched and rushed forward, flapping up into the air. From his back Goliath Minotaur took down the most frightening axe that had ever been made. It was an enormous, iron thing, red with rust and blood. The harpies flailed their cat-o-nine-tails and the flesh flayed from Goliath Minotaur’s chest and shoulders. But the giant creature did not so much as flinch. With a single swing of his axe, both the Viragos fell in pieces at his feet.

Lustille backed away. Red and orange light began to play upon the back of her ghostly robe, and the ends began to quiver as scorching hot air filled the room. Slowly, Lustille turned around. She started to shriek, but her voice was cut short as two giant hands covered in leathery, red scales tore her in half. The vertical pupils of Colossus Dragon’s golden eyes narrowed. He turned his head to Gatima. When he spoke, smoke and fire billowed out from rows of white fangs. His voice was like the wrath of a volcano and it shook the roots of the castle. “
What is thy bidding, Master
?”

“IT SHOULD ALL BE MINE. IT MUST ALL BE MINE. MAKE IT SO. TAKE NARBERETH NOW AND THEN THE REST. IT SHOULD ALL BE MINE.”