Here Shines the Sun Read online

  At his feet laid a giant, blue wolf with amethyst stripes. It looked up at him with aquamarine eyes and yawned.

  Etheil tapped his pen upon the table. “I don’t know what we’ll do come winter. And if the Kald attack us in force, we’re done.”

  Solastron stood up and shook himself off. He sat beside Etheil’s chair, his head nearly to Etheil’s own. “The hour is late.” the wolf rumbled. “Perhaps in the morning you can speak sense to Brandrir.”

  “It’s certainly worth another shot. Damn that stubborn pride of his.” said Etheil. He sighed. “Maybe I just tell Aries she’s down to a handful of artillery shells. She won’t let Brandrir off so easily and he can never say no to her.” He clucked his tongue as he thought.

  Solastron’s ears perked up. His head tilted to the side, his giant, black nostrils flaring. He padded to the closed door and put his snout to the crack at the floor, sucking in huge breaths through his nose. Obsidian claws raked at the stone floor.

  Etheil stood up. “What is it?”

  The wolf turned to him, his lips flaring to show great fangs. “Iron and rust. Death.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  The cold halls of the Grimwatch were dark this night, but darker still was the portal that opened in the shadows between two gaslamps on the wall. Their faint, yellow-green flames cast hazy orbs of light upon the gray stone of the walls and floor, and played upon the tall figure that stepped as silently as a breath from its otherworldly gateway.

  The Ghost was a thin and rigid being draped in a flowing cloak of lithe, iron chains as delicate as those used for necklaces. It was black, diseased with rust, and stank of damp iron. Yet, for all its weight and metal, the robe flowed upon the Ghost’s form like the silent waters of a forgotten pool, stirred by things beneath. Its face was hidden behind a mask of red-black iron—a veil of primordial slag that had hardened when it was still rippled and dripping—and it had the dull, smooth sheen of melted wax. Its eyes and mouth were but dark slits, and across its face was painted a thin, crimson shockwave.

  The Ghost’s waist bent forward at an eerie angle and it moved quickly down the corridor on soft, black boots, gliding like a snake upon water. At the end of the hallway was a steel door guarded by a pair of the Grimwatch’s soldiers. They wore plate armor, black and lacquered, and swords hung in scabbards at their sides. One had a crude leg of steel bars, greasy pistons and exposed gears. The other’s breastplate had an exposed left side where a brass mechanism was implanted into the man’s flesh. It purred softly with every breath he took, and the polished tank on his back hissed with puffs of steam.

  The Ghost came upon them like a panther from the shadows. The first guard got his sword out but hardly made a yelp before the Ghost’s dagger cut deeply across his throat. The knife was a long and gruesome looking thing, hewn from blackest obsidian. The rough, jagged blade bit right to the bone, and the man’s head fell against his back with a rush of crimson.

  The second guard drew his sword, his breaths wheezing in mechanical rhythm. The Ghost spun with ethereal grace, the wet blade flinging blood as it slashed back and forth, up and down with uncanny speed. The guard’s sword sparked off the dagger twice, but the Ghost twisted and turned with every strike, moving as if his body contained no bones. The guard spun, whipping his sword around. The Ghost ducked and, for all its height, slunk like a cat between the guard’s legs, coming up behind him. The guard nimbly tumbled forward, twisting on the floor as he rolled to come up facing his assailant. He shot forward, his sword sweeping up. The Ghost moved like black water, flowing away from the blade and into the guard’s space. Before the guard could even bring his sword back around, the long, obsidian blade sunk into his eyesocket.

  The Ghost ripped the blade out and the man fell to the floor. The Ghost straightened, once again standing tall and rigid. It padded to the door and plunged its gloved hand through the steel as if it were water. It felt the lock on the other side and twisted its wrist, and the door clanked opened. It removed its arm from the door and slid into the vault beyond. It was a steel chamber whose shelves were meant to hold sacks of coins and bars of gold and silver. But they were empty, long bereft of any treasure. Upon the floor were a couple limp sacks, both empty of all but a few copper coins.

  The Ghost stood silently for a moment. Then it waved its hand and a dark portal opened. It stepped through and emerged within another hall of cold, ancient stone. This one was higher up within the Grimwatch’s keep. The gaslamps glowed more brightly here, and upon the south-facing wall was a barred window where icy wind blew through and let the moonlight cast a puddle upon the floor.

  “You! Halt!”

  The Ghost’s head turned around, followed by the rest of its body. Six of the Grimwatch’s more elite soldiers rushed down the corridor with swords raised, their capes waving behind them. Each had some level of mechanical build, whether it be a hand or arm, leg or jaw. Like a cobra ready to strike, the Ghost stood its ground.

  Brass tanks hissed with steam and hydraulics whirred as the soldiers struck at the Ghost. The Ghost’s body twisted and weaved even as it stood, flowing around and between every sword as its own dagger menaced the air, slashing through armor and carving up flesh. Armor clanked as soldiers fell, and after a moment, the corridor was silent.

  The Ghost padded forward, its boots leaving bloody tracks as it came upon the thick, oaken door of the King’s private chamber. The wooden door seemed to pose a slight problem for the Ghost, and rather than open it from within, it stepped through a black portal and walked through to the other side.

  Upon the far wall was a window whose edges were painted with frost. Silver moonlight came through it, illuminating a large bed where a lone man slept. Brandrir Thorodin, King of the Grims, lay upon his stomach, a red blanket over his waist and legs. Where his long, auburn hair did not cover his muscular back, ancient marks and scars traced the outline of the brass tank he wore day in and day out since he was a boy. His head lay upon his right arm as he slept, but his left arm was a mechanical thing, and it hung limp and lifeless off the edge of the mattress.

  The Ghost flowed forward, its obsidian dagger catching in the moonlight. Its tall, rigid form now loomed over the sleeping King. It raised its dagger, but then paused. It recoiled, as if there were a dire warning scrawled across the man’s naked back. But then it seemed to resolve upon its course, and lifted its dagger again.

  Perhaps it was the stench of iron upon the Ghost’s body that gave it away, or maybe it was the sense a predator has when an intruder invades its territory. Whatever it was, Brandrir rolled from his bed just as the glassy blade sank into the mattress. He came up beside the Ghost, his mechanical arm useless at his side. He kicked and swung a punch, but the Ghost flowed away as if blown by the wind. Brandrir dove past it, tumbling across the floor to his dresser where he snatched his sword, Raze. With a swipe of his thumb over the activation rune, the Crystallic weapon hummed to life, its blade a smear of resonating steel.

  The Ghost moved in on him, its dagger slashing in an array of gleaming obsidian. Brandrir stepped back and to the side, his thrumming sword too slow to make contact with his assailant’s weapon. The Ghost snaked its way into his space and Brandrir ducked a slash at his neck and then tumbled forward, the black blade grazing across his back. He came up a few feet away and turned, bringing his sword up. The Ghost had to slither back, unable to plunge its dagger into Brandrir’s chest.

  Brandrir stood only feet from the being, both of them trying to gauge when to strike. Before either of them could make their move, the chamber door was torn from its hinges and savaged by a giant, blue wolf. Timbers flew as they crumbled within its snarling maw. A figure shrouded in black with long, blonde hair leapt over the wolf and into the room. It was Lord Etheil, Brandrir’s Dark Star Knight and Captain of the Grimwatch. Etheil’s blue eyes fixed on the tall being before Brandrir and his sword roared to life in brilliant
fire, lighting up the chamber.

  Around Etheil’s waist debris from the ruined door swirled up into a disc, taking with it furniture and objects from the room. Etheil spun in on the being, his sword a blazing flurry. The figure turned and stepped through a dark portal just before Etheil’s sword could make purchase. The portal closed and the being was gone.

  — 4 —

  Gatima

  The late afternoon sun of summer had the blue sky awash in its radiance, casting the billowy tops of the great clouds above in warm golds and oranges. But this was not a pleasant sun. This was a Jerusan sun and its warm rays could do little to lift the spirits of its broken people. The dark bellies of the cloud drifts swept over the city of Gatimaria, their shadows as perceptible as the pall upon the people who lived, literally, within the clutches of Castle Gatima.

  Like the arms of a monstrous, stone giant, the walls of the castle enveloped the perimeter of Jerusa’s largest city. Gatimaria was built in an enormous valley at the foot of the mountains and the greedy arms of the wall grasped at the land, holding it and hoarding it all to itself. They stood no less than a hundred-feet high and at either end were massive fortresses that could be the thing’s very fists. And miles away, where these arms emanated, stood the titan’s head: Castle Gatima. Its enormity blocked the very mountains it was set against and it looked contemptuously out upon its people. Its towers were like the spires of a crown; a single, circular stained glass window more than a hundred-feet around was its cycloptic eye; the iron gates that led up to it were opened in a gaping maw, which from a distance made it look like it had a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth.

  The road that cut through the forest and led up to the edge of the city had long been pillaged of all its stone to build the castle, and the star-metal boots of Saint Karinael and Saint Hadraniel left deep imprints in the dirt. In other kingdoms and other cities a dirt road might show wear from heavy foot-traffic, or the wheel and hoof-prints from merchant caravans. But not in Jerusa. Everything was King Gatima’s, and nothing in Gatimaria left his clutches.

  The two enormous fortress-watchtowers of the wall’s arms stood at least two-hundred yards apart and the road cut between them. Beyond their intimidating shadows Saint Hadraniel could see the sprawl of the city. But it was a lifeless city. As lifeless as all the other cities in Jerusa, only this one much larger. There were no proper houses here. The people lived in dilapidated homes of rotten timbers. Many even lived in dens of debris built from crumbled buildings.

  At one time, perhaps many hundreds of years ago, Gatimaria would have been magnificent with brick-paved streets and avenues winding their way through gothic structures of brick and mortar. Gaslamps would have lit every corner and it would have been bustling with commerce. But in King Gatima’s age the city had been plundered of all value. There were no stones left in the streets; no bricks to make even the foundations of homes. It had all been taken for the glory of the King, to make the most monstrous castle the world had ever known.

  Saint Hadraniel stopped just outside of the wall’s all-consuming shadow, the tops of the fortress towers looking down on him from many hundreds of feet above. He felt the gentle weight of Saint Karinael’s hand rest upon his star-metal pauldron and he turned to meet her brilliant, amber eyes.

  Like all members of the Order of the Saints Caliber, Karinael wore a white leather bodysuit beneath her black Star-Armor. The rays of the sun from beyond one of the billowy clouds above reflected off the facets of her angled breastplate, casting her long, amber locks of hair in a warm light that Saint Hadraniel found thoroughly seductive. Her shoulder pauldrons were similarly angled, like cut diamonds, and they matched the bracers on her forearms and the armor that covered her upper and lower legs, including her star-metal boots. Upon her waist hung a pair of faceted plates that protected her hips and front.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.” said Karinael with a smile. She leaned in to give Hadraniel a peck on the lips.

  Hadraniel flinched away from her. “Not here, Karin.” he hissed. “Somebody will see.”

  Karinael looked Hadraniel in his molten, silver eyes. “So? Who’s going to say anything?”

  Hadraniel flicked his eyes up at the towers. “What if Nuriel is here?” he whispered, as if the very name might summon her.

  Karinael rolled her eyes. In the sun they looked like crystalline honey. “She’ll get over it.” She reached her hand up and mussed his short, chrome hair and then gave him a peck on the lips.

  Hadraniel recoiled and swatted her away. “I’m serious, Karin! Not here!”

  Karinael took Hadraniel’s hand in her own. He gazed upon the soft features of her face as she rubbed her thumb over the top of the smooth, star-metal plate that armored the back of his hand, tracing his stellaglyph that was painted there in red. All Saints were given a unique stellaglyph. It was their star name, an unpronounceable symbol, and it was scarred into the back of their necks and painted on their armor. Hadraniel’s was a five-pointed star, crowned with three spires and an elongated ray upon the left. It was much different than Karinael’s more symmetrical eight-pointed star, which was painted upon the fingerless gloves of her white bodysuit. Like their stellaglyphs, Hadraniel’s Star-Armor was the polar opposite of Karinael’s. Where her’s was faceted and cut in pleasing angles, Hadraniel’s was rounded and smooth. His breastplate was almost spherical, enhancing the glassy-blackness of the star-metal. His pauldrons were similarly round upon his shoulders, and the armor upon his upper arms and the bracers on his forearms were all rounded and smooth, almost cylindrical, to match the armor on his legs. Upon Hadraniel’s waist hung scales of circular star-metal armor.

  “I can handle Nuriel.” said Karinael at last. She turned those large, gem-like eyes of hers up to Hadraniel’s and he had to fight off his urge to wrap her in an embrace. “And stop worrying so much.” She smiled and brushed her soft fingers down his cheek.

  Hadraniel tried to hide his frown. Karinael’s enduring optimism was one of her more seductive qualities and it had charmed him from the moment he met her, some eight years ago. At times like this, however, he secretly wished she’d be a little more realistic. There were too many secrets they shared and Hadraniel could feel a tension building among all the Saints Caliber. Things were in motion—dangerous things that he and Karinael were deeply involved in—and he had sensed a knowing and disapproval from Nuriel the last time they had seen her, which was a few months back. Karinael and Nuriel had been the best of friends growing up at Sanctuary—Hadraniel knew that and understood that—but Karinael didn’t seem to want to come to terms with the fact that Nuriel was not the same Nuriel she had grown up with. She still believed that the old Nuriel lay buried somewhere, and that somehow she might bring her back. But Hadraniel knew better. Nuriel was lost. In fact, Nuriel frightened him, more than he would ever let Karinael know.

  “Hadi, what’s wrong?” asked Karinael, still holding his hand.

  Hadraniel puffed out a breath, blowing his silver hair from his eyes. “You’re not the least bit concerned about what Gatima wants with us? Or if Nuriel is here?”

  Karinael smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Not really, no.”

  Hadraniel exhaled deeply and shook his head. Times like this made him long for the days when he took Evanescence. It was a drug most Saints out in the field used. Hadraniel had certainly used his fair share of it. Karinael, however, would have nothing to do with it and refused to let him use it. Hadraniel supposed he was thankful for her having gotten him off the stuff. Still, at times like this it would certainly take the edge off things. He sighed.

  “All right, out with it.” said Karinael. “What’s eating at you?”

  He sighed again. “There’s something wrong,” he said, chancing a glance up at the towers. He could not immediately see any watching eyes from the darkened, barred windows, but somehow he knew they were there. “I can feel it. Gatima has not summoned us to the
castle in over a year, and the last time we met with him I saw a knowing in his eyes. They’re all on to us, I think. And I think Nuriel even knows. We haven’t been careful enough. They all know what we’ve been doing. I just have a bad feeling about this.”

  “We’ll get through this, don’t worry.” said Karinael. “And if they knew, Sanctuary would have dealt with Erygion first. And I haven’t heard any rumors of anything going on back home. Gatima just likes to keep tabs on his people. It’s nothing. Besides, we have our Sanguinastrums.”

  “We should leave.” said Hadraniel, grabbing her gently before she could turn. He placed his hand upon the back of her neck, tracing the scar tissue of her stellaglyph with his finger. Upon receiving their Call to Guard, all Saints were bound to their Star-Armor in a special ritual performed by the Oracles and Sin Eaters. The Oracles would draw their stellaglyph in silver ink upon the back of their neck, and during the ritual a small amount of blood would be collected as the ink was permanently scarred into their flesh. The collected blood was placed into a small, crystal orb known as a Sanguinastrum, or Blood Star, and a breastplate of star-metal was merged to their body.

  Once bound to their Star-Armor, the breastplate became a permanent fixture. Only the elite chosen for the Order of the Saints Caliber underwent this ritual, and if the Saint were to die in battle he or she would be consumed into their armor. The same fate awaited any Saints Caliber who ran afoul of Sanctuary. That Saint would be recalled; their Sanguinastrum broken. Upon breaking of the Sanguinastrum, the Saint would be immediately consumed into their armor. It was a gruesome fate that Hadraniel had witnessed a couple times when somebody fell in battle.