Here Shines the Sun (86 page)

“The poison in Ertrael’s blood is an exotic one.” he croaked, setting the cup and potion on the nightstand. “If he were not a Saint, he’d have died last night.”

Kierza sniffed and stood up, wrapping her arms around her body. She didn’t look up at him or Ertrael. She couldn’t bring herself to. She wanted to ask if he would survive, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that either.

“He may yet survive.” said Diotus, his bony hand shaking and rattling the vial against the cup as he poured a few drops into the water. He set the vial down and from his robe pocket he pulled out a long, slender, leather tube. “Hold his head up, please.”

Kierza stepped over to him. She looked down at Ertrael and wiped the tears from her eyes. Then she brushed the ruby hair from his face and tilted his head up. As Diotus began slowly pushing the tube down his throat, Kierza turned her head away and began to sob.

“You must speak to him.” said Diotus. Kierza could hear the liquid trickling down through the tube in Ertrael’s throat. “He is in this body yet, and you must get him to realize that as well.” Kierza’s eyes clenched hot tears away. She wanted Diotus to stop speaking. She didn’t want to have to hear any of this. She wanted things to be like they were last night, before Rook had left. Why didn’t he stay home like he had promised? Why did he have to go? In her mind she cursed fat, stupid Ralf. She cursed Blake. She cursed that Saint Adonael who had come to the gate. She cursed Rook for breaking his promise. “Speak to him. Squeeze his hands. Touch his cheeks. He may yet live.”

Kierza felt the tube slip from Ertrael’s throat and she gently laid his head back down on the pillow. She turned from Diotus and cupped her hands over her face. Then she felt his hand upon her shoulder.

“You buried Rook’s sword, but not his body. Remember that.” said Diotus. “Even if you had, the spirit cannot be buried; the memories cannot be buried.”

Kierza nodded even as she began to cry again. She fell onto the floor, weeping into her hands as Diotus stood by her side, his hand upon her shoulder. And that’s when the sound of bolt-thrower fire began. It was like a soft thunder outside the walls of the house, drifting up the hill from the city. Kierza looked up just as the bedroom door swung open.

“Diotus,” said Blake. He was accompanied by Dontis and a small number of soldiers. “Grandon and his men are sweeping the city. Lucus and Tamus from the First Council have sided with him. Many of my own men have left to follow Tamus’s lead. I can’t find Sir Rivenal, and don’t know if his knights fight with us or Grandon.”

Diotus pursed his lips into a frown and nodded. “Any word about the Saints who were at the church? What of Hadraniel who got left behind?”

Blake shook his head. “Nobody knows. Nobody’s been able to get near the church to find out.”

The name of Hadraniel made Kierza cringe. Ertrael had dropped him before they could all get away. Ertrael had looked as if he were going to go back for him, but she had yelled to him to just keep moving. Perhaps if she had let Ertrael get Hadraniel, they could have healed each other. Perhaps Ertrael would be awake and better already. She had been selfish, but at the time all she could picture in her mind were the charred bodies beside Rook’s sword, and a bolt going through Ertrael’s head.

Blake stepped up to Diotus and leaned into his ear and Kierza heard him whisper, “What do we do now? We don’t have any Saints, we don’t have Roo—” he choked on his words and then composed himself. “We don’t know how many men will still fight with us. What do we do?”

“I don’t know.” said Diotus. “I don’t know.”

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It was late, the small hours of the night, and the Dragon Forge was at once eerily quiet and deafeningly loud. Only a token number of workers still toiled, mostly repairing heavy equipment, and the chime and clunk of their tools echoed off the high duct work, stone walls, and the bony surface of the monstrous forge. The dragon seemed asleep, the molten light from its lower jaw filling the chamber with a calmer, more peaceful glow. Nearby, Commander Tarquin’s master blacksmiths—Hamir Hothbrook and Tabar Torstein—lay upon the ground, their heads propped up against a mine cart as they dozed. The two had long given up on Rook asking for any assistance, but had not retired to their quarters in case he should change his mind.

But that was doubtful. Hamir and Tabar had only slowed him down with their constant questions and curious inquiries. And he didn’t need their help anyway. He somehow knew what he was doing. The techniques he used to make Everlight translated remarkably well to the star-metal and he was hopeful he’d have something even by the morning. The quicker he could get Tarquin what he wanted, the quicker he could get back home. The quicker he could get an army to crush Gatima; to crush any Saints or Exalteds who might think they could usurp what he and the people of Free Narbereth had taken. An army to thwart Sanctuary and its Kings.

Rook threw the lever down on the Heavy Hammer, and after a short succession of thunderous pounds, turned the machine off. He looked at the short length of star-metal that lay before him. It was a dagger, like the one he had given Chazod; the one Tarquin had taken. The one that was now a part of this. Despite the star-metal’s adulteration with Everlight, it still shown glassy and black, as if it had swallowed it up. The edges of the blade still held a fiery light, like a molten sun shining against the blackness of space. With a hand covered by a heavy, leather glove, Rook reached into the Heavy Hammer and wrapped his fingers around the handle. He lifted up, and remarkably, the dagger was raised.

It was too heavy. Too heavy to be a proper dagger, but not too heavy to attach to a mechanical arm, he wagered. He had failed to make a true weapon for the battlefield, yet still, he had accomplished something. He was the first man to lift a weapon of star-metal. Rook pursed his lips, not quite as pleased as he should be with himself. He set it back onto the table of the Heavy Hammer and pulled a small hammer from his apron.

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“Ah Rook, your guilt rings like church bells.” Bulifer laughed. Charred embers swirled around Rook.

“I thought your domain was anger.” said Rook.

“That’s just one of many names I know.” spoke the demon in its guttural voice. “There is no pain, no agony, that I am not. My domain is the damned, and I feel your guilt drawing me closer to the center of your heart.”

“What guilt?” spat Rook, still not facing the demon.

“You weren’t sorry to have been taken here.” spoke the demon. “You open your arms to me now, boy.”

“What choice did I have in the matter?”

Bulifer chuckled. “Take my hand and I’ll lead you out of here. There are no chains on your ankles. The guards doze. You are free to go. I will lead you all the way back home to Kierza, if you wish. Just take my hand. But somehow, I feel it is your hand that now extends to me.”

Rook turned around and fixed the demon’s burning, ember eyes with his own. Bulifer was a hulking thing. Charred horns curled around his bestial face and veins of fire throbbed beneath the cracked surface of his flesh. Pulses of heat radiated from him, swirling ash in all directions.

The demon laughed. “You wish to stay, yet you know it is my doing that brought you here. You know in your heart you should flee, yet you want so badly to stay. Selfish, selfish, selfish,” tisked the demon. “So much hope and desire in Duroton, is there not?”

“Is this it?” asked Rook, gesturing at the star-metal dagger he had made. “Is this the weapon you want? Take it. Take it then, and be gone.”

Bulifer smiled wickedly. “I see it, boy. You are now eager to fulfill our covenant. You see power in the grasp of your hand. You can taste it. You want it to be yours. And when the time comes, you already know you’re going to take all you can get and more.” He chuckled.

Rook scowled. “Power for good. The power to make things better. To make a better world.”

Bulifer’s eyes burned white-hot. “You are starting to see through my eyes. Take what is yours for what you will. From Hell come all things black and bright.”

Rook turned from the demon. He picked his hammer back up and began pounding upon the blade’s edge, trying to hone it as keenly as he could. “Is my sister safe?”
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“Quite safe.” said the demon. “Quite happy; quite content.”

Rook pursed his lips but continued pounding. “Were you once a man?”

The demon didn’t answer immediately. “I was a Saint during Aeoria’s age upon the earth.”

Rook paused his pounding for only a moment. “Tell me how you fell from her grace.”
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“I did not fall, boy. I rose up.”

“Hell lies beneath the earth, last I checked.”
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“So too do the roots of trees and mountains. So too comes the water from well springs and the buds of flowers.” spoke the demon. “Tell me what comes from the Heavens?”

Rook picked the dagger up and inspected the edge. “Rain, I suppose.” The demon chuckled as he set the dagger back down and continued hammering upon the opposite side. “Why did you betray Aeoria?”

Bulifer’s voice now took on a bitter edge. “She is the one who betrayed me. Her constant wars and battles. Sending we Saints to die in her name for her righteousness so that the meek and timid might inherit what they themselves refused to fight for.”

“And what did they refuse to fight for?”
Clink
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… Rook felt waves of heat wash over his back as the demon came behind him. He stopped his pounding but did not turn.

“A better world.” growled the demon into his ear. It waved its hand over Rook’s shoulder, and to his surprise the star-metal he had been working on began to pulse with heat.

“You didn’t want a better world?” asked Rook.

“Not for them.”

Rook began pounding again upon the freshly heated metal, casting purple sparks into the air. “So, a better world for yourself?”

“And for all those who would join me.” spoke the demon with all the pleasure of a dear memory. “I rose up armies! I rose up the strong! I could have made pleasure the whole of the law!” Now the demon’s voice lowered. “The weak have had their turn. Look to your world, boy. The meek inherited it. With the power you seek to do good, will you rise against all the Kings and all of Sanctuary only to give it back to them? Back to the meek?”

Rook stopped his hammering. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Tell me your tale. Tell me what happened.”

Bulifer chuckled cruelly. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Rook nodded. He returned to his work and lost himself in the demon’s story as his hammer pounded down upon star-metal.

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M. David White
lives just outside of Chicago. He has been writing stories ever since he was a little boy when his mom would help him write the words down. He is an avid writer of fantasy and fiction and has published a number of projects over the years. He lives with his wonderful wife, three kids, and an indoor zoo which consists of four cats, a dog, a rabbit and a fox. When he’s not writing, he’s thinking about writing. When he’s not thinking about writing, he’s wondering which one of the animals is plotting against him. He also fancies himself an outdoor chef and enjoys grilling and BBQ, even if it’s raining. He fears the eventual rise of robot overlords and has a stash of tinfoil hats...just in case.