Tarquin started to speak, but Rankin’s ragged voice interrupted. “Tell me, Lord Tarquin, who is that?” The old man was staring at the Ghost who stood a rigid specter off to the side.
“I call him the Ghost. One of my three assassins. They’re my insurance against Isley and his rabid minions.” said Tarquin, as if the Saint’s name were poison in his mouth. “I’m ready to put an end to his prodding. Not a week goes by that we don’t catch one of his Wolves poking around the mines.”
“Isley won’t stop until he finds Celacia.” said Balin. “He haunts the Council as well. He knows that we know where she is. He knows we all had something to do with her disappearance, and he’s hoping to find something that will lead him to her. He’s quite the thorn in all our sides. Believe me, we’ve tried to have Isley removed. The Dark Star Knights hate him, but unfortunately the people of Durtania love him. Not to worry, though. He’ll never find her, not even with Egret’s help.”
Tarquin spat at the name ‘Egret’.
Balin smirked. “Egret and Isley. Weeds, the both of them.”
Tarquin frowned. Weeds indeed. The two of them had made a mess of everything. Lord Egret had foiled his plans at every turn, starting with the arrival of Isley ten-years ago when Celacia brought the dragon skull to Duroton.
Celacia was something of an enigma. When she first showed up in Duroton the Jinn had thought she was a Saint. However, it quickly became apparent that she was something more. Her very touch was death; wherever she walked her path would wither and die. She had come to Duroton seeking the Mard Grander, the legendary hammer that had been broken six-hundred years ago during the Age of the Great Falling when King Tharick used it to strike down Apollyon. For hundreds of years the broken hammer had remained a sacred artifact within Durtania, but there had been no way to reforge it and reclaim its lost powers. But Celacia changed all that. With the promise of allowing her to reforge the hammer, Celacia brought the ancient skull of the fire dragon to Duroton. The deal was that in exchange for use of the hammer, Celacia would give Duroton their first Saints and that Duroton would one day use the hammer to awaken the sleeping Goddess.
Tarquin himself was to head the elite order known as the Saints Alliance; an order that would have been above the Dark Star Knights. But those plans all went south almost immediately. In the first of a string of many insults, Lord Egret had kept Saint Isley for his own. Then, when Tarquin led the other Saints against the Icelanders, Saint Nuriel went berserk. She turned on him and killed the other Saints. After that the Council agreed that having Saints in Duroton was not a good idea, but here too Egret worked his will and was allowed to keep Saint Isley as his lieutenant.
But things did seem to have a bright side, for it was also determined that Celacia was too dangerous to have around. Not only that, but the Jinn speculated her true intention in obtaining the Mard Grander was to call the ancient, black dragon of destruction, Darkendrog. They believed that she was the herald of the final age; an age of great destruction prophesied to befall the earth once the final star fell from the sky. As such, there was no way they were going to allow her to get her hands on the Mard Grander. To this end, Tarquin himself volunteered to bring Celacia down. In exchange, he would be given command of the Dragon Forge and be placed above the command of any but King and Council. He would use the forge to seek a way to make star-metal armor for Duroton’s armies and use it to reforge the Mard Grander. With all that power, Duroton could march against the corrupt kingdoms of the south and be the herald of the new age.
With that promise, Tarquin had done the deed of disposing of Celacia, trapping her in a dungeon of star-metal from which not even she could escape. Tarquin had suffered grievously—he had lost his left arm and his face was still disfigured from where her aura had touched him. But that had been a small price to pay to get command over the Dragon Forge. But here was where Egret and Isley levied their final and most egregious insult against him. They had been placed in charge of the hammer’s safe keeping, but when it came time to give it to Tarquin, they were unable to produce it. They had given it to Brandrir, the King’s displaced son, when he was made King of the Grims.
Since that day Isley had haunted him, being on a never-ending quest to find out what happened to Celacia. Tarquin too had his own quest, but getting the Mard Grander back from Brandrir was proving to be more difficult than Tarquin ever anticipated.
“While we’re on the subject of thorns in our sides,” said Balin, “Might I ask where you are in regard to getting the Mard Grander back? King Dagrir not withstanding, the Council would sleep much better knowing that the hammer is out of the hands of Brandrir, the traitorous, false king.”
“I’ve had my men infiltrate the Grimwatch.” said Tarquin. “It’s not in the vaults. We can’t find it.”
Balin sighed. “Yes, he moved it shortly after your failed coup attempt with Lord Ardur. That was nine-years ago.”
Tarquin scowled. “We’ve looked elsewhere. Not long ago we learned of a secret vault within the Grimwatch, but it wasn’t there either. Not a single piece of it.”
“Make the Mard Grander a priority.” said Balin, putting his riding gloves back on. “And when next we speak, I expect to have some progress on that star-metal.”
“I can’t make any progress with the imbeciles I’ve been given.” said Tarquin.
“In ten years a man could make much progress upon any number of endeavors.” said Rankin, accusation in his grating voice. His gray eyes turned to the chain around Tarquin’s neck. “Tell me, Commander, what endeavors have you truly been setting yourself upon?”
Tarquin tried to conceal his scowl with a smile. “Like I said, I’ve gotten men inside the Grimwatch. I’ve called upon the greatest blacksmiths in Duroton. Get Isley out of my hair and a blacksmith who knows what he’s doing and maybe things can move forward. And need I remind you both that the Council is to blame for the Mard Grander, not me.”
“On that subject I take responsibility. Still, I expect some progress on the star-metal.” said Balin. Near the skull a Crusher came to life, rumbling the floor of the chamber as it pounded ore from rock. “We’ll try our best to find a more knowledgeable smith.” said Balin over the tumult. “In the meantime, work with what you have.” He turned to Rankin. “We can still make the bridge at Blue Point by nightfall if we leave now.”
Rankin nodded, but his eyes were still on Tarquin’s chain. “Yes, let us leave. My old eyes have seen enough.” He fixed Tarquin with his gaze. “It’s loud enough to wake the dead in here.”
Tarquin huffed as the old man turned and followed Balin, escorted across the chamber by the four Guardians. After they were gone, Tarquin turned, his cape fluttering. He walked back to the steps leading to his throne with the Ghost following silently behind him.
Tarquin sat upon the cold, iron seat, brooding over Balin’s words. This was the first time the Council had ever threatened him. He could chalk it up to the fact that Balin had been disgruntled over having to come all the way here, but Tarquin knew the underlying threat was real. What the Council had given him, they could take away. He knew their games, but he had already given an arm to those, and he wasn’t about to give another. He reigned upon the Dragon Throne and he’d be damned if he was going to give it up. Perhaps it was time to clean house, Tarquin thought. Perhaps he had been too idle in letting his enemies get the better of him. But the Council was right about the Mard Grander. That had to become a priority. With that in his hands, it would be impossible to unseat him from this throne. In fact, the throne of Duroton could even be made his own.
“Brandrir, Brandrir, Brandrir, where would you hide it?” Tarquin said to himself, reclining upon his throne. He gazed through the opening in the skull near the foot of his seat, staring into the molten slag below. He was alone with his thoughts for some time, the rhythmic clanking and pounding of the equipment below ticking away the hours. At last he was disturbed by armored foo
tfalls coming down the steps to his throne.
“Commander Tarquin,” a pair of Guardians in their orange, serpentine armor bowed to him. In their hands they each held a captive by the arm. One was obviously a miner from some forlorn part of the mountain. He was a muscular but dirty man whose leather clothing was black with soot. The other was cleaner but far more troubling to Tarquin, and the sight of the man’s white and black robes cemented a scowl upon his face. “We caught these two sneaking around the receiving yard. There were twelve Wolves and a handful of miners with them. They were trying to hide in the mine carts. These are the only two we took alive.”
Tarquin’s jaw tightened. His right hand balled into a fist as his mechanical left flipped around into a long, steel dagger. He stood from his throne and approached the stone-faced Wolf of Aeoria who muttered prayers to the Goddess even as he held Tarquin’s gaze. With his right hand Tarquin grabbed the man’s long, blonde hair and dragged him to the fiery opening. Without a word, Tarquin kicked the man and he tumbled into the hole. He screamed, his robes igniting in a flash even before his body splashed into the molten sea below.
Tarquin turned to the trembling miner. He placed his dagger-hand to the man’s throat. “Why? Why do you test me? Why do you people continue to aid the Wolves?”
The man began stuttering, the apple of his throat bobbing against the blade which gleamed in the light of molten metal.
“Is it because you adore Saint Isley?” asked Tarquin. “Do you really think he speaks on behalf of the Goddess?” Tarquin pressed the blade upon the man’s neck.
“M-m-m-my Lord, I—”
“Do you really think some Saint is a sign of the Goddess, just because he walks our lands?” Tarquin’s voice was growing angrier. “Do you really think some paradise awaits you because you had the foolishness to help the Wolves?”
“I-I-I’m sorry, my Lord!”
“I too can do the work of the Goddess.” growled Tarquin. “Let me cleanse you of your sins!” Tarquin’s dagger-hand flipped back around to a steel hand and he grabbed the man by the collar and lifted him up.
“No! No! Please, my Lord! Have mercy!” cried the man as Tarquin held him above the fiery pit. Tarquin released his grip and the man’s screams were swallowed by flames.
Tarquin turned to the two Guardians. “Whose mine was that man from?”
“I believe he came from the Dives.” said the first of the Guardians. “The jewel mines of Lord Fragrir.”
Tarquin turned from them. In the corner, near his throne, stood the Ghost as still and rigid as a statue. Tarquin stood silently for a moment. He pulled the necklace of fingernails cast in iron from his breastplate. The morbid things clacked as he flicked at them with his thumb.
“Commander, what are your orders?” asked one of the Guardians.
Tarquin looked up, but did not turn around. “Tell me, Lord Kassius, would it be against your vows to bring me Lord Fragrir’s head?”
“He is a noble, my Lord.” replied the Guardian. “Such an order would have to come from the King or Council.”
Tarquin rubbed at a pair of the iron fingernails with his thumb. “I see.” He turned around. Behind the two Guardians a pair of dark portals opened. From them stepped tall figures, much like the Ghost. Neither made a sound. Both were dressed in inky-black robes of thin, iron chains; both wore faceless masks of iron that looked like dripping, melted slag. The one on the right had a red X painted across the mask, the other a red hand, like a bloody print, upon it. They were the ones Tarquin respectively called the Shade and the Specter.
“Commander, your orders?” asked Lord Kassius.
“To die.” said Tarquin.
Before Tarquin’s words could even register with the Guardians, the Shade and the Specter came upon them from behind. Obsidian blades flashed across both throats simultaneously, and the Guardians fell to their knees, clutching at their throats and choking. Crimson gushed from between their fingers. One went for his sword, but before he could get it from its sheath, he collapsed upon the bone floor.
Tarquin looked at the Shade and Specter. “Bring me Lord Fragrir’s head.” he growled. “And let the word go forth to all the Lords of the Mines that if any of their men are caught aiding the Wolves or poking around my domain that their heads will be next!”
The two figures bowed in unison. Behind them dark portals opened and they stepped backwards into them, disappearing as the portals vanished.
Tarquin turned to the Ghost. “And you bring me Saint Isley’s head.”
The rigid figure bent slightly in a bow. A dark portal opened before it and the Ghost stepped through.
Tarquin was silent with his thoughts as he stared out upon the chamber and all his laborers. His gaze fell upon a group of his Guardians as they inspected carts of gold ore being brought in. Then he stepped over to the corpses of the Guardians and knelt. He took off their gauntlets and cast them into the fires below. His left hand flipped around to the dagger and he used it to pry a fingernail from each. He stood, clutching the bloody things in his hand. He looked down at his necklace and smiled.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The church of Aeoria in Durtania had a glorious and cavernous nave that was brilliantly lit from every wall by brass gaslamps. Fanciful pillars, spiraled with sculptured stars, lined the outer walls, stretching up a hundred feet to a domed ceiling of stained glass where depictions of angels looked down upon the hundreds of people seated in the wooden pews. Between each pillar was an enormous, arched pane of stained glass depicting some scene of the Goddess, Aeoria, and they glowed with the light of evening’s sun. At the head of the chamber stood a raised pulpit with a beautiful altar; a crystal coffin filled with red roses. It was here, before a podium upon which sat a hefty tome—the Holy Book of Aeoria—that Saint Isley stood, preaching out to the people. He wore his Star-Armor, the breastplate cut with sharp corners to match his diamond-shaped pauldrons. His bracers and greaves were similarly sculpted, and the glassy-black armor sparkled brilliantly in the gaslight. He was silhouetted against a towering mural of glass that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. It was a stunning depiction of the Sleeping Goddess. She was young and beautiful and garbed in flowing white robes. Amethyst hair fell down like rivers over her shoulders and in her hands she clasped a brilliant, white, four-pointed star over her chest. Hanging down from either side of the mural were black curtains, speckled with white dots; the constellations that once adorned the night skies.
“My children of Aeoria, I say to you again that you should harbor no fear when you look upon the nightly heavens. The final star heralds not the end times, but the salvation of us all!” Isley’s silver eyes shown bright and wide as he called out to the people. His long, chrome hair was something of a mess from his animated speech. “I tell you the truth: Keep faith in the Goddess’s love and place it not upon these lands that you all hold so dear, for it will be by Her grace that we are uplifted. And when you are uplifted by Her, all else around you will be uplifted!”
Isley picked up the bible and flipped a few pages as he walked around to the front of the podium. “Let me read you a passage so that your hearts may be eased and so that your faith in our coming salvation might be strengthened. This is from Galaliel, 3:15.” Isley held the book up to his face and read out as loudly as he could. “Woe to you of soil and stardust, for the Devil seeks you out because he knows his time is short. Fall you not into his temptations, for it shall be in the hour before the Age’s end, when one star yet shines brightly, that death shall walk the earth to smite the wicked. Those who have understanding will fear no darkness, for they know that night’s reign is brief. And come the dawn, there yet shines the sun.”
Isley closed the book and stood for a moment, reflecting on the words he had just read. There was silence among the hundreds of parishioners. At last he looked upon them. “There yet shines the sun.” he said softly. “The
Goddess is telling us never to fear. She promises that even when the night grows dark, the sun will always shine again for Her people. And I think that is a good promise. I think that is something we should all hold on to.”
There was a loud “It is so!” that coursed through the pews. People applauded as they began standing from their seats. A number of men and women dressed in black and white gowns stepped up to the altar, swinging censers that perfumed the air. They were Isley’s Wolves—the Wolves of Aeoria—and they had a crimson patch of Isley’s stellaglyph upon their breast and they also had it tattooed in red upon the back of their necks.
Father Bellarifon, dressed in his white robes emblazoned with the star of Aeoria, took a stand at the podium. “Tonight Saint Isley shall administer blessings of health from the Goddess to all those in need. One and all are welcomed.”
Isley came up to Father Bellarifon and spoke with him as the Wolves of Aeoria put down their censers and brought out a plain, wooden chair and placed it before the altar. Isley took a seat in it as a number of men and women, some with small children, formed up a line at the foot of the pulpit. One-by-one, the Wolves brought the people before Isley. Some were ill, others injured. For each, Isley placed his hand, glowing white with Caliber energy, upon their bodies and took away their pain and suffering as he said a short prayer and reminded them that they were loved by the Goddess.
More than an hour passed this way until at last there was but one person left. It was a young girl, no more than twelve. She was fair of hair and her skin paler than it should be. At first her mother and father were reluctant to bring her forward, but with some coaxing by one of the Wolves, they relented. The girl walked limply and frailly, and her mother and father had to help carry her up the steps to Isley.
Isley smiled warmly as they approached. He was exhausted. His Caliber energy all but spent. He took the girl by the hand and the father helped set her upon his lap. “Blessings to you,” said Isley.
Here Shines the Sun Page 12