Here Shines the Sun (73 page)

“In the fighting pits of Narberia I have seen lions and bears and all manner of beasts held by the hands of men.” said Grandon. From the doorways of the second and third-floor rooms came armored men with bolt-throwers. Fifty or more barrels trained down on the Saints. Grandon fixed Asteroth with his steel eyes. “As I understand it, that slave-boy Rook even managed to kill one of your own. And if he can kill one, imagine what a man such as I could do? It’s become apparent that Saints aren’t the all-powerful beings some would believe.” He looked up at his soldiers. “Now, I don’t believe you Saints are immune to bolt-throwers, are you? If you are, by all means, take off my head.”

Faster than a lightning strike Asteroth, Sodiel, Raziel and Hadraniel all drew their weapons, encompassed by the glow of their Calibers. In that same instant Sodiel whirled his star-metal bo-staff around, coming in front of the group as Hadraniel and Raziel took up the sides around Asteroth. Cabiel and Loganiel, whose Calibers were not linked with the others’, were slower to the draw. They reached for their weapons as Asteroth swept both his axes in a scissoring strike at Grandon’s neck. But the short man was quick for a human and he ducked the Saint’s blades. Grandon came up at Asteroth’s side with his dagger’s tip right to Loganiel’s throat.

“I believe this is checkmate.” said Grandon, his cigar dangling from the edge of his smirking lips.

“Bolt-throwers aren’t accurate.” said Asteroth. “They fire on us and you’ll be hit as well.”

Grandon chuckled as he kept the blade pressed to Loganiel’s neck. He kicked at the bar and his boot made a clanking sound.“Steel reinforced wall. All I got to do is duck. Besides, those are sniping rifles. One highly accurate shot from all fifty barrels. I believe each of your heads have at least ten rifles pointed at them.”

Asteroth lowered his axes.

“Now.” said Grandon, spitting his cigar. “I believe we have a matter of allegiance to settle.”

Asteroth turned from Grandon. “I’ve already told you,” said Asteroth. “We are the Saints of the Final Star, and we bow to no man.”

As one unit, Asteroth, Raziel, Sodiel and Hadraniel exploded their Calibers. Grandon was knocked back into the barrels behind the bar, the wood cracking and spilling their contents onto him as he fell. Above, all the soldiers were thrown back into the rooms they had come from.

“I will spare your life tonight for the sake of the peace this city has enjoyed.” said Asteroth as a red-faced and dripping-wet Grandon stood up behind the bar. “But should you cross my path again, I will take your head from its neck.”

“Where do you think you’re going!” barked Grandon as the Saints strode from the room.

“Back to
our
church.” said Asteroth.

“You’ll regret this! You have no idea what I can do!”

— 35 —

Haunted

The failing sun of a summer night had the western skies awash in blues and purples, and in the east the moon could already be seen. Its silver orb looked down through the domed glass ceiling of the council room, gaslamps on the wall filling the chamber with their soft light. It was quiet in the room but for Rennic Finn’s giggling. Rankin eyed the vampiric man with contempt as he clacked the beads of his abacus, trying to drown out the incessant laughter. If any of the other Councilmen heard it, Rankin thought they were doing a good job of ignoring it.

The Councilmen all sat quietly at their seats as King Dagrir Thorodin’s dark eyes scanned over a document. Dagrir sat at the head of the long table in his kingly, black armor with a red cape over his shoulders. Upon his head was the crown of Duroton, a lithe weave of silver and gold braids that formed geometric patterns around its circumference. Rankin Parvailes sat at the opposite end of the table, slouched in his seat with his red robes over his gaunt form. He watched the King’s scowl deepen the further down the parchment he read.

Behind the King stood Lord Egret in his black shroud. The Dark Star Knight was the King’s personal guardian and his eyes were cast down, surreptitiously reading along with the King, his lips turned up in disgust.

Rankin wiped his hand down his face. He couldn’t take Rennic’s giggling anymore. He was about to stand up and shout some expletives when Dagrir began shaking his head. “No.” said the King. He tossed the parchment to the table. “This goes too far.”

Rankin didn’t let his pleasure betray the scowl he always wore in the council room, but he did stop flicking the beads on his abacus. Rennic also stopped giggling.

“How so?” asked a displeased Jord. The rotund man slapped his hand on the table.

Dagrir turned his eyes to the man. “I’ll not see children working brothels.”

“Your Grace,” said Gefjon, “we of the Exalted Council believe—”

“No.” said Dagrir. “My veto not withstanding, this document is missing the signature of Rankin Parvailes. Without it, this
‘Exalted Council’
should not have even placed this wretched paper before me.”

“Might I remind you, my Liege, that Councilman Parvailes has renounced his title of Exalted.” said Balin. “The document stands.”

Rennic hopped up from his seat beside Balin and jumped up onto the table. “But the money!” he said, doing a little spin. Rankin glowered at the lanky man all in tight, black leather as he danced up to the King, giggling and laughing about all the gold and money that could be made. He watched with some satisfaction as Lord Egret caught the freak and pulled him off the table.

“But Liege,” persisted Rennic, slipping like an oiled snake from Egret’s grasp. He hopped around the King’s seat, red lips smiling ear to ear as he raked a pale hand over Dagrir’s shoulders. “Think about the love of the people. The people will love you for this!” Rennic leaned into Dagrir’s ear. “They’ll come to the brothels for the young ones, and praise the name of their King! There will be praise for you. So much praise! Praise praise praise praise praise!”

Dagrir rubbed his eyes and wiped a hand down his thin beard. He looked at the document.

Rennic giggled and placed a quill pen into the King’s hand. “Sign it and all the praise will be yours. Can’t you hear the people singing your name? Listen! Listen with me! You can hear them singing your name even now!”

Dagrir reached for the paper but Lord Egret slammed his fist down on top of it. “Your Grace, come to your senses!”

Dagrir started. He looked around the room as if he had been lost in a dream.

“Don’t sign this!” boomed Egret. “This Council should be ashamed of itself!”

“No. No, I won’t sign this.” said Dagrir. He grabbed the parchment and tore it in half, much to Rankin’s satisfaction. Rankin watched as Rennic’s disgusting smile faded into a sneer.

Rennic turned his eyes to Lord Egret. “Lord Egret, you mustn’t speak for the King.” Rennic pranced his way over to the man and did a twirl. “Lord Egret you speak too much. Lord Egret must be silent in Council. Lord Egret, wouldn’t it be nice to be silent with your own thoughts? Wouldn’t you—”

Lord Egret drew his arm back and whipped the back of his hand across Rennic’s face, sending the lanky man stumbling and falling to the floor. “Speak not to me, you disgusting demon! Your words are poison!”

The Councilmen all stood up. Hymnar, Aldur, and Baldir all began barking at Lord Egret. “This is an outrage!” roared Jord. “Your Grace, Lord Egret has struck an honored guest of the Council,” said Gefjon. “This is a crime! A crime!”

“Enough!” yelled Dagrir, slamming his hand on the table. “I’m adjourning this Council for the evening.”

“But your Grace,” protested Balin. “You must at least hear our case. You cannot veto without first—”

“I am the King.” said Dagrir coldly. “I can do as I please. This Council is adjourned and I will hear no more of this…” he waved a hand over the torn paper, “this
filth!
”

“There is one last matter before we adjourn.” croaked Rankin. He sat up in his seat and placed his thin-framed glasses to his old eyes and then took up his stack of papers. “Lord Egret is on the agenda.”

The Councilmen all turned to Egret with muddled looks. Balin snatched the agenda from Rankin’s hand. Rennic Finn skulked in the corner behind Balin, his black eyes full of venom and locked on Egret. Balin’s lips screwed up in displeasure. “When was this added? It was not on the agenda this morning.”

“The agenda was amended this afternoon.” said Rankin. “Lord Egret asked me if he might address the Council with a question of his own.”

Balin crumpled the paper and tossed it to the table. He turned his eyes to Egret. “Well, what is it then?”

“I would like to ask the Council what the Dark Holds are, and where they are located.” said Egret.

Rankin lifted an eyebrow. The Councilmen all went silent. Even King Dagrir seemed taken aback by the question.

Balin smirked and reclined in his seat. “You know very well what and where the Black Cells are. In my opinion, your little outburst just now should land you inside of one for a day or two.”

Egret fixed Balin with his icy eyes. “What and where are the
Dark Holds
?”

“No such thing.” said Balin, his eyes flicking to Dagrir.

The King seemed suddenly uncomfortable in his chair but remained silent.

Egret looked down at him. “My Liege,” he said. “Is there a such place as the Dark Holds?”

“No.” said Dagrir, shaking his head but not returning Egret’s gaze. He instead looked out upon the Council. “There is no such place that I, nor any on this Council, know of.” Now he looked up at his knight. “Why do you ask?”

“I came across a document from this very Council that referenced them.” said Egret. “It piqued my curiosity.”

“A mistranslation.” said Gefjon, waving his hand dismissively. “Dark Holds, Black Cells. Same difference.”

“Is that all, Lord Egret?” asked Balin.

Lord Egret nodded.

“Very well.” said Balin. “I believe our King has adjourned this Council.”

Dagrir stood from his seat. “Lands took witness.” he said, waving a hand at the domed ceiling where the moon looked down upon them all. Lord Egret opened the door and escorted Dagrir out.

Rankin jotted some final notes in his ledger and then gathered up his papers under one arm and his abacus under another. “Good evening, gentlemen.” he said, a satisfied smile on his face. “May the Lands take witness of the rest of your dealings.”

“Councilman Parvailes,” said Balin as Rankin shuffled his way toward the door. “I’m sure it goes without saying, but the Dark Holds are secret knowledge. It would be treason to speak of them to any but those in this room or the King.”

Rankin nodded. “I am aware. Beneath the Duroton sky, I would not betray the oaths of my station.”

“Very good.” said Balin. “Shut the door on your way out, please.”

Rankin nodded. He hobbled out the door and used his foot to close it behind him.

After Rankin was gone the Councilmen began arguing among themselves. “I told you Dagrir would never go for it.” said Balin.

“He almost did!” said Jord. “If not for Lord Egret, he would have signed it!”

“He will sign.” said Rennic, coming up to the table. He seemed to stand taller than usual. “He will sign. He will sign whatever I want him to sign. Let me bring more women, more children. He will sign, and there will be money.”

There was a knock upon the door and the Councilmen all went silent. “Come in.” said Balin.

They all watched as the door opened and a messenger stepped in with a rolled parchment in his hand. “An urgent message for the King.”

“Council was adjourned.” said Balin. “King Dagrir just took his leave.”

“Thank you, Exalted Lord Balin.” said the young man with a bow. As he turned to leave Rennic leaned into Balin’s ear, whispering.

“One moment.” said Balin, just before the man slipped from the door.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“I shall deliver that to Dagrir.” said Balin. “Leave it with me, please.”

“I’m sorry, my Lord.” said the man. “I have instruction to place this in the King’s hand directly.”

Balin raised an eyebrow. “Who is it from?”

“I don’t know.” said the man. “I was just told to deliver it to King Dagrir and nobody else. I am sorry, my Lord.”

Rennic pranced over to the man, giggling. “But we could deliver it for you.” sang Rennic as he skipped circles around him. “Your job will be so much easier. Think about how easy it is just to leave it with us. You could leave and do what you want. How great it would be to just do as you want right now.”

The man nodded. He handed Rennic the paper. “Thank you, my Lord.” He bowed and then took his leave. Rennic skipped over to Balin and set the scroll before him, spinning it on the table.

Balin scooped it up. It was from Hammer’s Hill and the wax seal bore the stamp of Lord Samrildar, its guardian. Balin popped the seal off with his finger and unrolled it. His eyes flicked back and forth as he read, and his lips slowly curled into a smile.

“Well?” asked Jord. “What is it?”

Balin looked up from the paper. “It seems Lord Etheil sends dire word about Dagrir’s brother, Brandrir. Etheil is seeking a private meeting with our King.”

“What type of dire word?” asked Baldir.

“Doesn’t say.” said Balin. “But Etheil awaits our King out on Hammer’s Hill tomorrow morning.”

The Councilmen all looked at each other. “Etheil was named an enemy of Duroton by our late King.” said Gefjon. “Brandrir is a traitor to the Lands and Etheil is his captain. He is a criminal! Dagrir cannot speak with him, especially not alone.”

Balin nodded. He tossed the paper to Gefjon. “See to it that this burns.” He looked to the others. “What say we go meet Etheil ourselves?”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Rankin strode the lonely hall of the castle toward his chambers, carrying his ledgers and his abacus beneath his arms. There was a coldness, he noticed, and it made his joints ache. The arched corridor was well lit by gaslamps, yet the shadows between doorways and adjoining halls seemed darker than was normal. Rankin slowed his pace, his footfalls silent on the red carpeting that lined the hall. His thin lips pursed. There was something familiar about this coldness. And then that smell of wet rust hit his nose.

He stopped. His old eyes focused down the hall. From between a pair of gaslamps stepped a figure shrouded in iron, its face a mask of rusty slag painted with a red shockwave. He had seen this creature before. It was with Tarquin at the Dragon Forge. But Rankin had seen creatures like this long before then. He knew what this thing was. His papers fell from his arm, drifting and scattering in the hall. His abacus slipped from his other and cracked as it hit the floor.

The figure stepped forward, coming into the light of a gaslamp. With a gloved hand, it pulled a cruel, obsidian dagger from its waist.

Trembling, Rankin’s hand fumbled in the pocket of his robe. He pulled out a long sliver of silver steel. It was jagged and sharp, like a fragment of broken glass. He held it up before him. “B-Back!” he said, his old voice cracking with fear.

The figure began striding forward.

Rankin walked backward, still holding the shard of metal out. “Back!” he said. But the creature did not stop. “Help! Help!”

Rankin turned, his foot slipping on one of his fallen papers, and he fell. The smell of wet rust filled his nose. He turned to see the figure bearing down on him. “No!” he cried, and he thrust out the shard, touching it to the thing’s chest. There was a sizzle and some smoke, and the thing shrieked and recoiled. Rankin scrambled to his feet. “Back! Back!” he cried, brandishing the shard.

The thing stood in the hall, regarding the metal fragment curiously.

“This is a shard of the blessed Valclarinax!” said Rankin, backing away. The figure’s head tilted, not understanding. “Be gone!”

The figure swam forward, its black dagger whipping back and forth. Rankin screamed and threw the metal shard. It hit the figure in its mask and it shrieked, clutching at its face with its hands. Metal sizzled and smoked, and the shard fell to the floor and the figure stumbled back.