Here Shines the Sun (38 page)

“Where are they.”
growled Nuriel. Her blade on his throat was as cold as the river’s mud and its forgotten corpses.
“This is the last time I ask.”

Erygion chuckled. “Like I said, Nuriel, go to Hell.”

Nuriel looked up. The river flowed from the bank like a cold, black serpent rising into the air. Her eyes went wide as a tremendous tidal wave swept forward. Erygion grabbed his sword into his hand just as the dark wave crested over him. Nuriel screamed as she was knocked backward, swept away with the waters that roared and spat like a wild, rabid animal tearing its way across the land. Erygion struggled to his feet as the last of the water broke over him. Beside him, the river seethed and drummed, spitting and foaming as its contents rolled back together in an explosive waterspout.

Holding his injured arm close, Erygion ran down the riverbank. It was now more important than ever to get back to Karinael and Hadraniel. He took a last glance over his shoulder to see Nuriel swept off into the treeline. She struggled against the consuming, white currents. Trees swayed and cracked as the raging waters bulled their way into the forest. She clutched for a tree, dragging herself out of the torrent. He saw her fiery, golden eyes focus on him. She screamed her anger and rage.

And then something wrapped itself around Erygion’s leg. He looked down to see a black, oily tentacle winding up his thigh. He screamed out as it yanked him into the river in a single, powerful motion. His breath bubbled as cold waters overtook him. He felt the currents rushing against him as he was dragged at incredible speed through the river. Past the murky water he could see light playing upon the ripples above him. He reached out but there was nothing to grab onto. He stabbed at the tentacle with his sword, but another oily tendril slithered over his wrist. He felt his arm twist and the sword fell from his fingers, sinking through the blackness until he could no longer see it. He felt pressure building upon his body. Darkness began to surround him. He looked up. He could no longer see the light upon the surface of the water. He was being pulled down and down and down. His lungs screamed for air. His limbs began to tingle with numbness. And then, as the cold water that surrounded him dilated into the blackness of unconsciousness, Adonael’s words played through his mind.
Nobody deserves to die like this. Nobody deserves to be dragged into the abyss by Leviathan Hydra. Dragged into the blackness. Darkness all around, unknown depths beneath. Nothing to hold on to. Nobody to comfort them. Cold waters filling their lungs. Forgotten. Never to see the light again.

— 15 —

Starbreaker

The Venzi’s property was nestled upon a hilltop overlooking Bellus. In front of the cottage, parked on Sierla’s well-kept lawn, was the King’s enormous carriage and his retinue of some one-hundred knights. Their plate armor gleamed in the bright summer sun as they stood at attention in small formations with swords and bolt-throwers at the ready while servants and squires milled about. A tall pike had been jammed into the yard and upon it flew the banner of Narbereth. Rook frowned. Sierla would not like the damage they were doing to her yard or the flowers along the road that they had trampled.

Tracing the narrow, flagstone road that lazily wound its way from the cottage down to the city with his eyes, Rook could see people gathered in the streets looking up and wondering what was going on. There was no hustle and bustle, just crowds of on-lookers. The river was choked with boats but none of them were moving. The entire city seemed to be standing still, holding its breath.

Rook’s smithy rested just next door to the cottage, across a cobblestone path lined with wildflowers planted by Sierla. There was a large garden of flowers in full bloom and a small pen with pigs, goats and a couple cows that bawled at their approach.

“Come on,” said Saint Galavriel, pushing Rook on the shoulder. “Show us this Everlight stuff.”

“I will,” said Rook. “You don’t have to push me. What do you have to prove?”

Galavriel grabbed a handful of Rook’s hair, pulling him to a stop and forcing his head back to look into his silver eyes. “I can prove just how little I’m willing to let a slave talk back to me.”

“Let him be.” said Saint Ertrael. “His renown deserves some respect.”

Galavriel let Rook go and pushed him forward. Rook chanced a glance back at Ertrael. His hair was like strands of crystalline ruby and his eyes just as brilliant in the sunlight. Ertrael’s breastplate was slightly more angular than Galavriel’s, as were his bracers and leggings.
Star-Armor,
thought Rook. It was beautiful and menacing all at once. As black as night; as slick as glass. Impossibly heavy. Impenetrable, even to his Everlight.
But to Starbreaker?
Rook wondered.

“You’ve been acting softer than ever since the night that constellation appeared.” said an annoyed Galavriel. “You better get your head in the game or you’ll end up like your predecessor. You know the Sisters are talking about having you replaced?”

Ertrael shrugged his shoulders. He looked at Rook. “Maybe they’ll send me back to Jerusa.”

Rook started.
Jerusa? Was that how the Saint knew he was from Jerusa?
Then his thoughts turned more dire.
Does he suspect I’m the one who has been sending food into the kingdom all these years?

“Not a chance.” laughed Galavriel. “They’ll tear you to ribbons and put your eyes in a box. You know how they like Saint eyes.” He pushed Rook on the shoulder. “Move it.”

The smithy was a building much larger than the cottage Rook and his family lived in, made of cobblestone with a high, thatched roof. He unlocked the heavy, oaken door and pushed it open, revealing the workshop within. It was a cavernous room with high rafters of hefty timbers and a floor of expertly laid brick. There were a number of old tables, each permanently stained with its own unique pattern of oil, grease and soot. Callad’s side of the smithy was in neat order, every table clear and each tool polished and hung in proper fashion on the wall. Rook’s side was in a perpetual state of disarray (at least, according to Callad and Sierla) and his tools were well-used and strewn upon every table. His greasy, sooty, leather apron hung over a chair; his heavy leather gloves lay atop his anvil. Ingots of metal—mostly iron—were stacked next to the stone forge, and it was a giant, beastly furnace to say the least. There were a number of anvils in front of it and an alcove with a ton of coal next to it. Right now the forge lay dormant and cold, but when Rook was working it to make Everlight, it burned with white-hot heat and Callad often wondered how Rook could withstand the sweltering temperatures.

Rook led them inside. Galavriel picked up a hammer from a nearby table and smacked it into his gauntleted hand a couple times, creating a menacing
clink.
“So, where is this Everlight stuff.”

Rook looked at the Saints. He was sure there was no way they would give him any privacy, so with a sigh he walked to the center of the room and pushed a table aside and moved the crates that were beneath it to reveal a steel door set into the stone floor. He fumbled with his keys for a moment, selecting a rather large and intricate one. He inserted it into the keyhole and turned. There was a mechanical
clank
from beneath the floor as gears went into action and the doors rose slightly before sliding apart.

Galavriel pushed Rook aside. Within the large safe were a number of Everlight swords and daggers, as well as some neatly stacked ingots of gold, silver and other metals. A few jars of chemicals were also nicely packed away. Rook hoped they wouldn’t ransack what he had.

Galavriel picked up a sword and held it before his eyes, twisting and turning it. There was a barred window on the wall opposite him and as the sunlight caught the blade it shown brilliantly with its silver grain.

“Light,” said Galavriel, sounding slightly impressed. He tossed the sword to Ertrael and picked up another.

“What’s this?” asked Ertrael, referring to the emblem upon the sword’s hilt.

“That’s my mark.” said Rook. “I put it on everything.”

Galavriel frowned as he looked upon the emblem of the sword he held. “This ugly bird and hand won’t do for the Sisters.”

“It’s a raven. I put it on everything.” said Rook.

Galavriel turned his silver eyes to him. “Not on theirs, you won’t.”

“I will, or I won’t make them.” stated Rook. “My weapons, my mark.”

Galavriel let the sword clatter to the floor. Rook backed away toward the stone wall where a small, unseen alcove lay. Ertrael grabbed Galavriel by the shoulder. “I’m sure he can make an exception,” said Ertrael, trading a glance with Rook.

Just then there was a scream. Rook’s head snapped toward the door. Another scream. It was Kierza. Rook’s heart began to race. Panic started to set in. But then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pushed out his fears, just as Diotus had taught him. Fear and panic could kill. It made you sloppy in battle. If he died here he would never be able to save his loved ones. From his sleeve Rook surreptitiously palmed a small key.

Galavriel laughed. “Looks like the Sisters didn’t take too kindly to those dresses. Not sure why they seemed to fancy you so much. I’ve never seen them eye a slave before.”

Rook’s eyes narrowed as his hand deftly unlocked the hidden door of the alcove. “There is one sword in particular you might find interesting. One that you and the Sisters might find worthy.” Rook grabbed the sword from the alcove. It was a long, curved, double-edged saber; something between a katana and a scimitar. It was made of Everlight—the best Everlight; what he called High Everlight. It had a golden, sun-like hue, unlike the silvery Low Everlight he made for the nobles. It weighed less than a pound but was hard and immutable. In all his practices with Diotus the blade had never so much as taken a dull edge. And when ignited, there was
nothing
it couldn’t cut. Its blade was deceptively long and broad; so elegantly curved and tapered that it was difficult to gauge its true magnitude. At the base of the blade was engraved Rook’s mark, but around it were the words written in ancient Durotonian,
Hic Sollas Lumin
—Here Shines the Sun. The golden hilt was arced and had four dagger-like peaks as if it were casting the rays of the sun, and in its center was a strange rune. The handle was wound with brown leather and was longer than those found on most two-handed swords. Due to the sword’s power and his fighting style Rook needed extra hand room so that he could whirl it around without risk to his limbs. In the round pommel gleamed a black crystal; the sonic crystal that had once belonged to the sword held by the armor in Diotus’s lab.

Another scream.

“This is
Astrafractus.
” said Rook. “Starbreaker.” His thumb swiped over the ignition rune and the sword began to thrum, its blade a smear of resonating, golden Everlight. “Apollyon take those I call my enemy.”

Before Galavriel or Ertrael could draw their own swords Rook was on them. For many years Rook had been trained in secret by Diotus in the Durotonian martial arts used by the Dark Star Knights. Though Rook was adept in many forms, he focused on
Terra Praesidio
, or the Land’s Guard style. It was an ancient and forgotten technique that predated the Dark Star Knights; a style, according to Diotus, that was relegated to the history books when the Durotonian Guard were affectionately known as the whirling warriors; elite guardians whose long, curved sabers had become something of legend. They were trained at a sacred place known as the High Citadels where only the most righteous of men were ever allowed. Even in Duroton today the whirling warriors were remembered fondly, their furious, spinning techniques spoken of in beloved myths.

But
Terra Praesidio
was no myth. Diotus had an ancient book that predated the Age of the Great Falling, it’s crumbling pages detailing every aspect of the fighting style. And Rook had studied and memorized each page, having perfected all the techniques with Diotus over the years. It was a dizzying combat form that leaned heavily on defensive maneuvers that doubled as attacks. It often required the sword to be wielded blade-down—opposite all other combat styles—so that it could be whipped about with quick spins and twirled like a bo-staff, hence Starbreaker’s long handle.

Rook had always known that one day he’d be going against those more powerful than him; Saints who were uncannily fast and armored in star-metal. He’d have to defend well and strike only when the opportunity presented itself.
Terra Praesidio
had given him many tricks and it seemed the day of reckoning for all his training was upon him. He only hoped Starbreaker would hold up against star-metal.

Rook’s sword hummed its deadly tune as he kept the blade horizontal at his chest and spun in on the Saint. Galavriel raised his arms, his body encompassed by Caliber light. Starbreaker cracked upon the Saint’s bracers. Purple and gold sparks rained down as Rook’s momentum took him around. He swept his sword out slightly as he stepped back and it cut across the Saint’s breastplate. More purple and gold sparks exploded and the Saint was thrown back where he landed on an oak table that split apart as his breastplate impacted it.

Apollyon below, Diotus was right. Not even a sonic Everlight weapon can cut Star-Armor.
Still, Starbreaker had a satisfying effect. He might not be able to cut through their armor, but he could throw them back. And their partial armor left plenty of bright, white unarmored bodysuit as targets.

Ertrael now stood before him, a heavy, oaken table between them, but the Saint did not have his weapon out. The ruby-eyed Saint looked as if he were about to say something, but Rook could not risk faltering against such an opponent. He tumbled forward, Starbreaker held in such a way as to make him into a deadly wheel that sheared right through the table as if it weren’t even there, and opening a huge gash in the stone floor as he went. Such moves were risky with a sonic weapon like Starbreaker. The slightest contact with the thrumming blade and Rook could sever his own limbs, or worse. He came up just in front of Ertrael, bringing his sword up defensively. The Saint stumbled back and Rook swept it out as he spun low. Sparks flew as his sword cut across Ertrael’s Star-Armored shins and the Saint fell backwards, landing flat on his back, his breastplate fracturing the stone floor.

Rook leapt into the air, hiking his legs high and flourishing the sword beneath him as he came towards Ertrael’s head. For the first time, Rook noticed that the Saint’s Caliber was unlike his partner’s. Ertrael’s seemed to be glowing unsteadily and wisps of golden-yellow plasma were wafting from his hands and body. The Saint also had a confused look in his eyes, at least until he noticed Rook baring down on him.

Ertrael rolled just before Rook hit the floor, Starbreaker splintering through the bricks and sinking deep. Rook spun to face Ertrael, tearing his sword from the floor while his right hand slipped the dagger from his sleeve. The Saint stumbled to his knees as Rook’s dagger came around. Ertrael narrowly got his arm up in time to block the dagger, but Rook sunk it deep into the Saint’s elbow nonetheless. The Saint howled as Rook swept his left arm over his head, ready to plunge his humming sword into the base of the Saint’s neck. This time, however, Ertrael got his arm up in time and swatted the thrumming blade aside. There was a terrible crack as the sword struck his bracer. Sparks popped in the air and the Saint tumbled away.

Rook turned. Galavriel was back on him now. The Saint swung out his sword and Rook raised his left arm, the one that had the small, silver disc sewn into it. Just as the star-metal blade made contact with the disc, a crackling yellow energy shield burst into brief life. The Saint’s weapon bounced off in an explosion of buzzing electricity, filling the room with the scent of ozone. But the powerful force also tossed Rook backward.