Here Shines the Sun (28 page)

“My Liege,” hissed one of the soldiers. Brandrir turned around and he could see the men through the doorway, though none dared to step from it. “It’s past our time. We must head back.”

Brandrir turned and looked at that menacing gateway that led into some unknown abyss. He could almost hear his name being whispered. There was something there; something that he had to see. He looked back to his men. “Just a little further.”

Brandrir slipped between the stalactites and set foot upon the first step and peered down into the glowing, green abyss they led to. He was about to take another step when one of the soldiers called his name.

Brandrir spun. The toothy opening closed, the dripping spires and pillars of mineralized stone coming together to create something of a barred gate. Beyond them he could see his men. “Brandrir!” one of them cried, running up to it.

Brandrir drew Raze from its sheath and ignited it. The blade thrummed in a blur of silver metal. There was nothing his sonic sword could not cut through, but part of him did not want his men to come with him. He looked through the narrow openings and said, “Go back. Tell the others I’ll meet them shortly.”

“But, my Liege,” began one of the soldiers. Brandrir ignored him and moved down the steps.

The stairs led down and down for what seemed an eternity. From every crack and seam where the steps met the edges of the cavern walls seeped that eerie, green light. It was soft and haunting and full of that empty, desolate coldness. From it he thought he could hear whispers, like ghosts upon a wind. They were distant, incoherent, and he wasn’t even sure if they were real or just a trick of his mind. The odor of swamp mud and death became stronger too and harder to ignore. But Brandrir pressed on and at length the steps ended upon a tall, arching corridor made of some type of black stone.

Brandrir reached out with his flesh hand and stroked the wall. Even through his gauntlet he could feel that it was rough and brittle, warm to the touch. It was like some sort of ancient stone that had been baked in the primordial fires of creation and had yet to cool. Ahead, at the end of the corridor, stood a door made of that same stone. Upon it were markings that he had never seen, etched right into the charred surface. They were like runes or some type of ancient writing and they were at once both beautiful and frightening.

Brandrir moved ahead, his sword thrumming in his hand. He pushed the door and the runes began to glow as if they flowed with magma. He felt his entire body heat up and withdrew his hand. The runes went out like smoldering ash. Brandrir licked his lips and steeled himself. He pushed upon the door again, and once again the runes lit with fiery light and his body began to burn. He pushed harder, and just when he thought he couldn’t take the terrible sensation any longer, it opened with an ancient, stone-on-stone scraping.

More of that foul odor washed over him, but it was now mixed with something else; something like charred earth and brimstone. He shielded his mouth and nose with his hand as he stepped into an enormous cathedral of black stone where that haunting green light seeped out from every corner of every brick. There were pillars of black stone many dozens of feet high and from each burned a lantern whose flame was something more than fire. The light from those lanterns were more intense and seemed to burn with some type of sentient purpose.

From behind he suddenly felt an arctic cold. He spun and a number of Kald flitted down from some unseen hiding place, blocking his escape. He moved back from them as they hissed, their icy breath washing over him. He turned and noticed there were many more Kald here, but these were not the rank and file demons he had so often fought. These were larger and stronger, all of them winged and all of them in black armor covered with rime. A hundred or more glowing, yellow eyes fixed on him. They hissed, baring their needle-sharp teeth. Brandrir flourished Raze, the sword humming through the air as he made ready to fight.

And then they parted like a sea, revealing a long, red carpet that led up to a raised dais of black stone. And there, sitting upon a throne of charred stone that throbbed with heat, sat a hulking, bestial demon. But this was not one of the Kald. This was something else entirely. It was a being of charred flesh through which fiery veins pulsed. Around his head curled a pair of massive horns and through them stared two eyes like hot coals from a furnace. Ash and embers swirled around him the way leaves of autumn haunt their dying tree. He was awash in waves of heat that distorted his form, somehow making him more terrible to behold.

“Ah, Brandrir.” spoke the creature, its voice guttural, powerful, terrifying. “Do you not remember me?” The creature chuckled cruelly, revealing rows of charred teeth that pulsed with heat.

Brandrir glanced around at the Kald. They all held back. He felt he should run, fight his way back through the doorway, but somehow his eyes kept being drawn back to those burning coals that were the beast’s eyes. “Who… who are you?”

The demon chuckled. “I am Bulifer. I gave myself to you when you were just a boy. Do you not remember the day you took my hand and washed away the cold?”

— 10 —

Waking Stars

There was a beautiful, cloudless, blue sky over Caer Gatipa and the western horizon was set ablaze by the evening sun. In this light the smiles of the pale, starved children seemed genuinely bright and warm to Hadraniel as they laughed and chirruped at the sight of all the food. The village was small with only a dirt path winding through some few dozen homes of mud, stone and thatch, and it led up to a makeshift barn. The barn was set apart from the rest of the village and had a roof thatched with leaves and brambles. It was made hastily of felled logs from the surrounding forest and stood slightly lopsided on one side, and its door was opened wide. The children swarmed around Hadraniel as he carried a large crate heavy with fruits and vegetables up to it. Inside, the hundred-or-so villagers had all gathered, emaciated men and women dressed in rags. Some clutched babies to their breasts and others talked among themselves with genuine smiles upon their faces as they watched Gabidar and his men go about hauling the crates and barrels of food down into the barn’s secret cellar. Karinael came behind Hadraniel, passing dried fruits and biscuits to the grasping hands of the children.

Hadraniel set the crate down and it was immediately set upon by the children. They laughed as they grabbed up apples and ears of corn, then scurried away to feast. Gabidar climbed up the ladder from the cellar, followed by his two men. They were from Narbereth and over the years Hadraniel had gotten to know them fairly well. Gabidar worked for a young man named Rook who funded the food shipments, and he delivered them into Jerusa as he traveled the lands for exotic goods to sell back home. Whenever they could, Hadraniel and Karinael would help Gabidar get the shipments into small, outlying caers like this one, and then help distribute the food throughout Jerusa as best they could. Gabidar was still the same man Hadraniel had met with Karinael nearly a decade ago. Though he was older now, in his early forties, his beard was still that same color of autumn straw and he still wore the same old travel-worn leather armor.

“Good to see you,” said Gabidar as he walked up and clasped his hands over Hadraniel’s, shaking it firmly. He had a very nice sword in a leather scabbard at his side. The two burly men with him carried heavy bolt-throwers upon their backs. “We met Saint Adonael a couple days ago further north. He took two of our wagons and said we should come here with the rest. I’m glad we did. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you as well, old friend.” said Hadraniel, though he silently wished they were meeting under better circumstances. The last time he and Karin had met with Gabidar was during the early spring when frost still clung to the ground. They had managed to sneak a dozen wagonfulls of food into a small village further north. That shipment had gone well. This one had the chance of quickly unraveling.

Gabidar knew Hadraniel all too well and immediately detected that something was wrong. “What bothers you?” he asked.

Hadraniel looked at Karinael. “Somehow Gatima knows.” she said. “He sent us here specifically.”

“We’ll be quick about it then.” said Gabidar. “We’re about finished anyway. Just us three with these three wagonfulls this time. We’ve got most of it below. Just those last stacks of crates to bring down. But I’ve got to be off quickly. I’m on my way to Escalapius.”

Karinael nodded her head. “Thank you.” she said. “Me and Hadi will do what we can, but we may have to leave it all here for a while.”

“Too many eyes.” added Hadraniel.

“Aye.” said Gabidar with a grim nod. “Outlying caers like this have become fewer these last few years. Seven months ago Saint Gadrial actually had us bring our wagons to Gatopolis.” Here he paused and his voice took on a more cautious tone. “There were no more Oracles or Sin Eaters there. She said that Gatima had been purging them from some of his cities.”

Hadraniel nodded. “Gatima has been becoming increasingly paranoid. I don’t think he trusts any of his Saints anymore, and by extension, Sanctuary. But he has had a number of new Exalteds and they patrol his lands ceaselessly.”

“How much longer can we keep this up?” asked Gabidar. “I’ve heard of his new Exalteds. There is rumor that one called Titan Mammoth builds an army. As much as I like to help, I have a family of my own back home.”

“We’ll be fine.” said Karinael, but Hadraniel frowned. Her voice was becoming quicker, more rambling. She was nervous. “We just need to start doing a better job of covering our tracks. The Exalteds don’t waste their time at small caers like this. Gatima likes them further east, close to Gatimaria. And besides, the lack of Oracles and Sin Eaters has actually helped our cause. Less prying eyes.”

Gabidar nodded. He placed a hand on Karinael’s shoulder pauldron. “You two be safe. I mean that. Maybe even lie low for a while.”

“You too,” said Hadraniel. “Be safe. Head back for Narbereth and make your way down through Dimethica.”

“Aye.” Gabidar nodded. “Jerusa’s never been a friendly place for a traveler. I don’t like staying in this country any longer than I have to. But I know of a secret port town on the southern edge of this country. Me and my men will take a ship across to Dimethica and head for the Bay of Glorianthor. That’s the fastest and safest route.”

“Just be careful.” said Karinael.

“We will.” said Gabidar. “If you don’t mind, can you two bring the rest down to the hold? I’d like to be off while there’s still some light. I don’t think me and my men should dally if Gatima sent you.”

Karinael leaned in and hugged Gabidar. “We’ll meet again soon.”

Hadraniel clasped his hands over Gabidar’s and said his farewells. Then Gabidar and his two companions strode out of the barn.

“Wonder if Bones made it back home safe and sound.” said Gabidar.

“We sent him after we met up with Adonael. Should be home, I’d think. But are we actually going to Escalapius after this?” asked Barabus, one of the men at Gabidar’s side. He adjusted the bolt-thrower that was strapped over his back. He was a burly man in leather pants and a flannel shirt with a scraggly growth of dark-brown hair on his face.

“Aye.” said Gabidar as they walked quickly down the path toward their three wagons and their horses. They were set before the edge of the thick, old-growth forest that surrounded the caer.

“Why?” asked Kern, the other man who strode beside Gabidar. He was another large man, though slightly younger. He too had a bolt-thrower over his back and wore a rugged outfit of leather traveling clothes. “You said you already know what happened to the kid’s sister. Why string him along?”

“I ain’t got the heart to tell him.” said Gabidar. “And a trip to Escalapius might prove lucrative. We can bring back some exotic fabrics and goods. Escalapian silk sells for a pretty penny back home.”

“What happened to the kid’s sister, anyway?” asked Barabus as they came up to the wagons. “She dead?”

“No. But it’s best not to talk about such things.” said Gabidar. He closed the gate on his wagon and turned around. “There are somethings that are best…”

Gabidar’s voice trailed off as his hand went for his sword. His men spun around but before they could get their bolt-throwers aimed the black-haired Saint flourished his sword and one of the weapons was cut in half. The Saint turned, his sword whirling, and the other weapon was cut in half. The two men backed into the wagon with their hands up. Gabidar stood between them with his own sword raised.

“Look what we have here.” said the Saint. His voice was deep and cold like the depths of the ocean.

“Saint Ovid of the Nine Days, I presume.” said Gabidar.

Ovid chuckled. “Karinael and Hadraniel warned you about me, did they?”

“They’re here.” said Gabidar, brandishing his sword. “I’ll call out.”

Ovid’s lips curled in a wicked smile as he gazed upon the man. “I might enjoy it if you did.” His black eyes fixed on the man’s sword. “You’re not Jerusan.”

“We’re—” began Barabus.

“Don’t tell him anything.” hissed Gabidar.

Ovid chuckled. He pointed the tip of his sword at Barabus’s neck. “How about the first person to tell me what I want to know gets to live.”

“We’re from Narbereth.” said Barabus. He swallowed hard, his eyes peering down at the black, star-metal blade at his neck.

“Ah, that’s more like it.” said Ovid. “What’s your name?”

“Barabus.” he said. “That’s Kern and he’s Gabidar.”

Ovid kept his sword pointed at the man’s throat. He looked at Gabidar. “You’re their leader?” Gabidar didn’t answer. Ovid’s eyes scanned down to his sword, looking at it curiously. The blade was silvery metallic with bands and striations of darker and lighter color through it. “That’s a nice sword.”

“Let my men go.” said Gabidar. “I am their leader. I’m the one you want.”

“Is that so?” said Ovid, lowering his sword from Barabus’s neck. “Are you the ones bringing shipments of food into Jerusa?”

“Yes.” said Barabus, rubbing his neck. “We’re paid to—”

Gabidar kicked his leg. “Don’t say anything.”

Ovid chuckled. “You want to live, don’t you, Barabus?”

Barabus’s head bobbed. “Yes. I have a wife. Kids.”

Ovid flourished his sword and Kern’s head fell from his body, spraying Barabus and Gabidar with blood. Barabus started blubbering but before Gabidar could call out Ovid had his sword to the man’s neck. “I’ll tell you what, Barabus. If you kill your leader here, I’ll let you live.”

Barabus looked at Gabidar. Gabidar shook his head. “Don’t do it. He tricks people into doing his—”

Barabus turned and grabbed at Gabidar’s wrist, trying to wrench the sword from his hands as Ovid backed up, chuckling cruelly. Ovid watched as the two men struggled for control of the blade, their feet sliding in Kern’s blood. Barabus twisted Gabidar’s wrist and the sword slowly changed hands. Gabidar kicked up with his boot and the sword fell from Barabus’s grasp, landing in front of Ovid. Barabus growled and rushed in on Gabidar and the two fell upon the dirt.

As Barabus landed punch after punch upon Gabidar’s face, Ovid looked down at the blade. It shined brilliantly in the dying, evening sun. He had never seen such a metal as it was made from, with a grain like the finest wood. Then an emblem stamped into the center of its hilt caught his eye. It was a raven with its wings outspread, and clutched in its talons was a hand. A strange hand. Its long fingers were almost curled into a fist. In Ovid’s mind a memory stirred. It was a hand he had seen some ten years ago. Then it hit him. What that raven gripped in its claws was a Golothic.

Ovid looked up at the struggling men. Gabidar’s face was bloodied to the point of being unrecognizable. He held his arms up in a limp gesture of defense as Barabus clutched his two fists together above his head. He was about to bring them down upon Gabidar’s face in a final
coup de grâce
when Ovid dashed forward, his sword spinning. Barabus’s hands fell from the wrists, exposing bloody stumps. And then his head flew across the field and landed somewhere in the brambles nearby.

Barabus’s mutilated body fell to the side with a thump. Gabidar looked up, his eyes swollen and half closed.

Ovid grabbed him around the collar and pulled him to his feet. “Where did you get that sword?” he growled. He shook Gabidar. “Where did you get it!”

Gabidar spit, his blood and phlegm sticking to Ovid’s cheek.

Ovid smashed him against the back of the wagon, causing the horse to whinny its discontent. “Where did you get that sword!”

“Go to Hell.” croaked Gabidar.

Ovid’s black eyes narrowed, his lips furled in a rage. His head turned and he looked at the lopsided barn that stood some fifty yards down the dirt path. “How many women and children are there? Fifty? A hundred?” Ovid grabbed a handful of Gabidar’s hair and began dragging him down the path. “You’re going to watch as I torture and kill every last one of them.”

Gabidar choked and spit blood from his mouth. “No, wait.”

“I’ll start with the little boys.” said Ovid. “Have you ever heard a child scream as his eyes are pushed into his skull? Maybe I’ll burn a few alive and make the parents watch. And the little girls, I’ll cut them up piece by piece so that you can relish every scream.”

“No, please,” said Gabidar.

Ovid turned and yanked him up to his feet. “Where did you get that sword? I won’t ask again.”

“There is a young man.” said Gabidar. “He has been paying me for years to bring food into Jerusa. And he pays me to search for his sister. He gave me the sword as payment this time.”

“The emblem on the sword.” said Ovid. “Have you ever seen him with an object that looks like that? Like the hand?”

Gabidar didn’t immediately answer. He swallowed hard.

“Tell me or I swear to you I will make every last child in that barn suffer for hours before I kill them.”

Gabidar turned his eyes down and nodded, blood dripping from his forehead and pattering upon the dirt. “I… I saw it once or twice. He carries it in his pocket, always. I see him hold it sometimes when he asks me to find his sister.”

“What is his name? Where does he live?”

Gabidar licked his lips.

Ovid shook him. “His name!”

“Rook.” said Gabidar. “Rook Gatimarian. He lives in a city called Bellus, just outside of Narberia.”