Here Shines the Sun (12 page)

He chanced a glance at Karinael. She stood silently at his side, her eyes cast down as well. Then he felt her foot gently tap his. He looked at her and she softly gestured with her head to the side. He looked. A thin layer of water began trickling across the floor from around the King’s throne. It raced across the marble and began to pool at Ovid’s star-metal boots. Then it spread out, flowing across the floor in a sheet, swirling around their own feet, and Hadraniel and Karinael both stepped back. Water from nowhere was the herald of Leviathan Hydra.

From around Gatima’s throne came seven unnaturally tall women. There was a strange light about them, as if yellow-green gaslight was cast upon them through a thick fog across an unseen sea. There was a sickly, yellow cast to their flesh, and their long, blonde hair seemed tinged with the same green that colored their serpentine eyes. They walked with a slight hunch, their hands limp before them, their fingers hung with yellowed claws. There was a wetness about them; a dampness that matted their hair and made their yellow-green gowns cling to their tall, slinky forms. It beaded on their skin, and dripped from their nails. Their bare feet padded across the floor, lost in the puddles of water beneath them. Their seven sets of terrible eyes found Karinael and Hadraniel and their vertical pupils narrowed into angry slits. Their lips—blue like a corpse’s found floating in a lake—furled, revealing mouthfuls of needle-sharp teeth, like one might find on a barracuda.

“Treachery, treachery, treachery,”
they hissed, their voices in an eerie, haunting unison that seemed to come from everywhere. Together, their voices were like a ghost whispering upon a stormy sea.
“Such treachery is afoot.”

Hadraniel and Karinael squirmed on their feet as the seven women approached them, their wet gowns dragging in the dark, abyssal waters at their feet, and it followed them as they came. Hadraniel could see the water rising and sloshing over his and Karinael’s star-metal boots as they neared. Where once the waters ran clear, they were now dark, as if they had come from the bottom of some angry ocean. Though only a couple inches deep, Hadraniel’s heart raced, feeling as if he might sink into some unimaginable depth.

Like a singular snake, the seven moved forward, circling them. Their claws were dripping with water, and past their needle-like teeth Hadraniel was certain he could see forked tongues.
“What’s this? What have we? What are they?”

Hadraniel shifted on his feet. The women were all a good two-feet taller than he, even with their hunched gait.

“Send them. Send them, our King. Send these for your bidding.”

“YES. YES.” the King’s voice was as deep as the depths from wherever Leviathan Hydra’s waters came. “GO TO GATIPA. TAKE BACK WHAT IS MINE. TAKE IT. BRING IT TO ME. BRING ME WHAT IS MINE. I WANT IT. I SHALL HAVE IT. BRING IT TO ME.”

Hadraniel and Karinael each made a slight bow. “Yes, my King.” said Hadraniel. “Your will shall be done.”

“DO NOT FAIL. NEVER FAIL. IT SHOULD ALL BE MINE. NEVER FORGET. NEVER FORGET!”

“Yes, my King.” said Hadraniel. He made another slight bow. He and Karinael both turned to leave, the waters stirring at their feet.

“WAIT. THERE IS MORE. MUCH MORE.”

Karinael and Hadraniel both stopped but did not turn back around.

“KILL THEM. KILL THEM ALL. KILL THE THIEVES. LIFE AND DEATH BELONG TO ME. KILL THEM AND MAKE THEIR DEATHS MINE.”

“Yes, my King.” said Hadraniel. He and Karinael strode forth, their boots rippling the waters beneath their feet until the puddles ended and they were out the doors.

“THERE IS MORE. MUCH MORE.” said Gatima once the two had gone. “THERE IS TREACHERY. TREACHERY AMONG MY NUMBERS.”

“Much treachery. Treachery everywhere. We saw it. The shadows crept over your throne.”

“I shall follow them.” said Ovid. His black eyes turned up to look upon Gatima. “I shall root out the treachery.”

“GOOD. GOOD.” said the King. “FOLLOW THEM, MY OVID. FOLLOW THEM AND WATCH THEM. MAKE TREACHERY PUNISHABLE BY DEATH.”

Ovid’s lips curled into a wicked smile. He bowed, then turned and took his leave.

As the golden doors of the throne room closed with a thunderous rumble behind Ovid, Gatima’s eyes turned into dark beads. He cast them down upon the seven women. “YET THERE IS MORE. MUCH MORE.”

— 5 —

The Dragon Forge

Mount Yotun was the tallest and most imposing peak in the entire Yotun mountain range. It sat lonesomely at the southeastern edge of Duroton, surrounded by vast tracts of pine forests. It was a stony, craggy, arthritic looking thing that had not aged as gracefully as the lands that surrounded it. Its sharp peak was lost among the clouds and the snows tried to blanket its body but could not cover all the oddly angled precipices, giving it a restless demeanor. For ages it had been mined of gems and rare metals, and thousands of tunnels ran like veins throughout it. Many parts were still rich and mining operations never ceased.

But Lord Tarquin commanded the mountain’s underworld where few knew what was taking place. Tarquin’s domain was accessed by the largest and oldest of all the mountain’s tunnels. It began as a gaping maw at the foot of Mount Yotun, an opening two-hundred feet in height and more than that in width. For hundreds of years miners had toiled in never-ending shifts to rob this richest of veins of all its metals, and the throaty tunnel never narrowed, only lengthened. It descended two-miles into the earth where the mountain’s very belly had been emptied. It was in this vast chamber, hundreds of yards in width and height, where the greatest artifact ever found had been hidden away, and Lord Tarquin considered it all his own.

The skull of the fire dragon was something terrifying to behold. No man, not even Dagrir Thorodin, the King of Duroton, had ever gazed upon it without equal amounts of fear and awe. It was giant without comparison. Before it, men stood like ants against stony fangs that rose a hundred feet high. It was set against the chamber’s farthest wall, in something of a pit that had been dug to keep the lower jaw-bone flush with the rocky floor. High above, the upper jaw protruded outward, its enormous fangs curling down like stalactites born in the most primordial age. From this yawning cavern of bone and teeth was breathed a fiery light like those birthed in the heart of a volcano. It lit the entire chamber in flickering oranges and yellows. Within the lower jaw was a sea of molten slag that flowed without cooling, filling the chamber with sulfurous fumes. It erupted in plumes deep within the throat, tossing magma so high that it clung to the upper jaw before raining down in fiery chunks, or oozing off the high fangs like glowing blood.

The heat and fumes which exuded from this titanic skull made the entire chamber a sweltering, hellish place to work. The ceiling, some six-hundred feet above, was a catwalk of rusty ductwork fed by enormous fans that struggled to keep up with the job. They ran without end, their constant rattle and chugging echoing throughout, but often lost among the screeching gears and thunderous banging of beastly machines used to smelt and refine ore of every type. Ramps and tunnels and steel tracks created a maze of paths which all led to and from this frightening, iron equipment where laborers toiled. And it was all bathed in the unrelenting heat and light exuded from the skull’s maw.

But for all its light and fire, the skull’s eye sockets were dark chambers lit only by pinholes of fiery red. It gave it a malicious gaze; a hateful stare; a look of contempt over what it had become. And Lord Tarquin’s throne was little more than an insulting crown atop its head; an abject jewel that could not satisfy the creature’s terrible magnificence. It was a plain but menacing seat that had been cast in solid iron, and the cold thing’s surface was all pitted and pocked. It had a dull red about it, but not from rust or paint, and it sat within the deep recess between the skull’s eye sockets.

From this high perch Tarquin could gaze as contemptuously as the skull itself upon all those who toiled for him here, or look down and glimpse the very fires of Hell through a pair of openings near the foot of his throne. Even now Tarquin sneered as he watched a great, iron crane swing into position over a number of muscular men whose naked torsos were wet with sweat and streaked with oil and grime. The crane was a simple and rugged looking thing, powered by steam that billowed from tall pipes on its back. It was built upon the outside of one of the skull’s large, frontal fangs and a rickety network of steel scaffolding led up to it. There was another crane upon the opposite fang as well, but that one had broken down again yesterday. So close to the heat of the skull’s mouth it was impossible to keep paint on the rusty things and the continual baking wreaked havoc on the internal gears and hydraulics.

A set of oxidized tracks ran up to the front of the skull and a pair of horses—muscular, Icelandic Great-Hoofs—struggled to pull a steel, flatbed cart along them. Behind the cart, two of Tarquin’s soldiers helped push, heaving with all their might. These soldiers were once Dark Star Knights like Tarquin himself, but had now become known as Guardians of the Dragon Forge, a more elite order of Dark Star Knights under Tarquin’s command. Instead of the black armor and shrouds worn by Dark Star Knights, the Guardians’ armor was stylized to give them a dragonesque visage. It was all enameled in a dull, metallic orange and they wore crimson capes whose edges were cut like the ragged fingers of fire. Their helmets were sculpted like the head of a dragon; their bodies, arms and legs all had sculpted scales and fin-like flourishes. Tarquin’s own armor was very similar, although his enjoyed a more regal paint, colored in reds with yellow and orange highlights. His cape was black and upon it in red was the emblem of the Order of the Dragon Forge, a symbol like flames and fangs.

The Guardians of the Dragon Forge still carried the same crystallic swords upon their sides as when they were Dark Star Knights, and they still painted the arms of their armor in the power they associated themselves with. For Tarquin, his arms were painted with gray spirals to match the gray crystal of his sword, Whisper. For the two soldiers below, it was flames that were painted in brilliant reds and yellows up their arms. They still, of course, possessed their Dark Star Knight powers, and dust from the stone floor swirled in a disc around their waists as they used this power to lower the gravity around them. Even still, they struggled to push the cart along the tracks as the horses tugged the chains taught.

For all their efforts, the only thing upon the steel bed of the cart was a single ingot of star-metal. The glassy-black bar was about two-feet long and no more than an inch thick, yet still it was impossibly heavy. This bar had once been part of a Saint’s Star-Armor. Who that Saint had been was anybody’s guess. It had been acquired with the skull, brought by Celacia before Tarquin disposed of her. Tarquin reveled in the fact that Celacia was already just a memory. In time, she would be just as forgotten as the Saint whose armor provided the star-metal ingot.

At last Tarquin watched his men get the cart beneath the pincer-arm of the crane. Tarquin’s newest blacksmith, a man named Tabar Torstein, came over to inspect it. Tabar was a giant of a man, a good hand taller than any other in the chamber. He was muscular of build and wore heavy, leather armor and a thick apron to protect him from the heat. Upon his face was a leather mask with dark, tinted goggles, beneath which his gray beard hung in tight plaits. Tabar had come highly recommended from Lord Kanen of Graystone. There, Tabar was a master armorer but here he had yet to be successful in working with star-metal.

The Dragon Forge—the skull of the fire dragon—was the only thing in the world capable of melting star-metal. The hope was that Tarquin would be successful in forging it into a metal light enough to be worn by soldiers or used by the Jinn, yet still maintain its indestructible properties. After having gone through nearly thirty of Duroton’s best blacksmiths, all Tarquin had accomplished was the successful melting and forming of it. No matter what any smith had tried, they could not get star-metal to accept any other metal or element. Tarquin was no closer to achieving the goal of light star-metal than when he started, and he had long ago lost his patience.

Still, he had some hope for Tabar. In Graystone he was renowned for his incredibly light and durable armor and had even made a number of suits for Dark Star Knights. Last week Tabar had formulated a bluish, metallic compound of rare metals and elements and today he hoped to fold it into the star-metal, making it lighter. They had already tried melting the metals together, but molten star-metal was nearly impossible to work with and it always rejected foreign metals once hardened. Tabar was convinced that folding and pounding the metals together held the best chance for success.

As Tabar inspected the star-metal ingot, a number of laborers signaled to the crane operator and helped to guide its pincer-arm down to the cart. Tarquin’s mechanical left arm whirred as he pulled himself forward in his throne, watching expectantly as Tabar secured the crane’s pincer to the ingot. Tarquin had lost the arm ten years ago to Celacia, and the left side of his face still bore patches of sickly gray and yellow skin which made his long, blonde hair seem even more tarnished. With his other hand he stroked his beard, which fell in two thick braids from his chin.

“This is it,” muttered Tarquin as Tabar whirled his hand around, motioning for the operator to raise the crane. Tarquin turned his smokey, blue eyes to the tall, rigid figure that stood beside his throne. “This is it.”

The Ghost leaned forward ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

The thick, iron chains of the crane creaked as they went taught. Gears moaned and clouds of steam screamed from the pipes as the ingot slowly rose. Gazing out the length of the skull’s snout, Tarquin could peer through the nostril holes and watch as the star-metal was swung around until it was just outside the fiery mouth. The iron pincers didn’t take long to become red-hot even just hanging outside the skull. From the side of the pincers a steel rod pressed against the end of the star-metal ingot, slowly pushing it so that it alone moved within the mouth. After a few moments the edges of the star-metal began to glow red and then orange, and after a moment longer, the entire ingot was yellow. Then the edges began to glow a soft violet color. At this crucial moment before total melting, the crane operator quickly swung the arm away from the mouth and began lowering the ingot to the machine known as the Heavy Hammer.

The Heavy Hammer was a monstrous contraption of huge, steel beams flaking with rust, exposed gears large enough to grind horses into slurry, and shiny, steel pistons. Like most of the equipment here, it had been made by the Jinn and was fueled by power crystals. It sat just far enough beyond the skull’s mouth that the heat was bearable. The work surface was a rotating iron plate where different anvil surfaces could be selected. Currently there was a rounded surface, but Tabar threw a lever and the disc clanked around until a flat, smooth, surface was before him. Tabar quickly squirted oil on the anvil surface and ducked away just as the glowing ingot came down with a tremendous thud. As the crane arm swung out of his way, Tabar laid a small bar of his specially formulated element on the yellow-hot star-metal.

Above the work surface were a number of different hammer heads, all upon massive, hydraulic arms. Each head was a good four-feet in diameter and weighed far more than any man could hope to lift. Working quickly, Tabar clanked a lever down and over, selecting the largest, flattest hammer the contraption offered. Gears clattered and the hammer arm moved into position. He held down a brass button and the hammer came down upon his ingots in rapid succession, each blow creating a thunderous echo in the immense chamber.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Blue sparks erupted with every pound, showering Tabar in them and lighting up his goggles. He released the button and leaned in, inspecting the metal.

Quickly, Tabar threw another lever. A steel rod slid over the work surface, on top of the flattened ingots. Then, from the front of the machine, a steel bar pushed forward, folding the metals over the rod. The bar slid back and the rod pulled out. Tabar hit the brass button and the machine roared to life, pounding down on the metal a few more times. He released the button and the hammering stopped.

By this time the star-metal was no longer brilliant with heat and Tabar leaned in, inspecting his work and brushing at it with a gloved hand. From his perch Tarquin could almost see Tabar’s disappointment. Tarquin watched as Tabar threw off his leather mask, shaking his head in frustration.

Tarquin spat a curse and stood from his throne. There was a steel staircase that led up to the top of the skull, and Tarquin hopped up them and strode toward the back of the skull where a small cavern led into the mountain where Tarquin’s private quarters and other rooms were. This hall wound around the very back of the skull and out to its side, where another steel staircase led down into the forge’s primary chamber. The Ghost followed silently behind Tarquin. It moved rapidly, its waist bent forward at an eerie angle. The shroud of lithe, iron chains flowed like smoke around it as it moved, concealing its arms and legs and making it look as if it were floating. Tarquin made his way toward Tabar, his own cape fluttering behind him. “What happened? What went wrong this time?” he barked.

Tabar shook his head and held his hands up. “I don’t know, my Lord.” Tabar looked down at the Heavy Hammer’s work surface, scratching his gray hair. The star-metal was flattened and folded but the blue metal from his element bar was simply sandwiched in it, like meat between bread. Tabar tugged at the blue metal and it began to slide out as a separate entity from the star-metal. He broke off a piece of the brittle metal and shook his head. “I can’t get anything to fuse. I can’t even get anything to fold into it. Star-metal is a confounding metal, my Lord.”